Page 76 of The King's Pawn
Roman, on the other hand, is much worse.
He isn’t gentle or awkward. He’s a wall. His constant presence is a shadow that shifts when I move, always keeping me within sight even when I’m not consciously trying to avoid him. He watches me like I’m some kind of threat waiting to explode, an equation he’s constantly recalculating.
He speaks only when absolutely necessary, his words clipped and efficient. If I screamed in front of him, I’m fairly certain he’d just blink slowly, maybe adjust his stance, and then resume staring holes into the nearest wall. Roman isn’t cruel, exactly. He’s just… empty in a way that makes me feel more alone than outright hostility ever could.
I need someone human.
Someone warm and imperfect and unguarded. I need proof that before this, before contracts and murders and orders, I had a life. Friends. A future that belonged to me. A world that didn’t revolve around Bratva politics and surveillance and doors that only open when someone else decides they should.
Late one night, the chance materializes.
It happens so suddenly it feels unreal, like fate itself has reached out and tapped on the glass just to see if I’ll notice.
I catch Yelena, Sasha’s sister, storming out of one of the offices in the east wing, her voice sharp and cutting as she finishes an argument on her phone. I flatten myself against the wall instinctively as she passes, her heels clicking across the marble with irritatedclacks.
She disappears down the corridor, still muttering under her breath, and that’s when I notice the office door ajar.
Just slightly enough for warm light to stretch across the floor in front of it like an invitation. My pulse jumps. I know immediately that I should turn around and walk away. This house has taught me what curiosity costs. Despite that, my feet move anyway, my gaze flicking toward the opening as I pass.
Inside, the room is empty. The desk is neat, almost aggressively so. And there, sitting plainly atop it like it belongs to no one and everyone at once, is a landline phone.
A real one.
I don’t think. If I stop and do, I’ll talk myself out of it. Fear will win. The rules will close in again.
So instead, I move.
My steps are quiet, my body already vibrating with adrenaline as I slip through the cracked door and ease it shut behind me. The click is soft, but it echoes in my head like a gunshot. I cross the room in three quick strides and reach for the phone, my fingers hovering over it for a single, suspended heartbeat before I force myself to grab it.
I dial the only number that comes to mind. Muscle memory takes over, my fingers moving before doubt can stop them. The ringing feels endless and painfully slow.
Finally, the other end of the line is picked up. “Hello?”
My knees nearly buckle. I grip the edge of the desk hard enough to crease my palm, using it to keep myself upright as a rush of dizzy relief crashes through me. For a split second, I can’t even breathe.
“Nat,” I whisper.
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. “Alina? Oh, my God… is this you? Where are you? Are you okay? Are you?—”
I choke on a laugh that scrapes my throat raw. God, I missed her. Missed the way she panics first and asks questions later. Missed the sound of her voice and the way it anchors me to pieces that are real. “I’m okay. I’m alive.”
“Oh, my God,” she repeats. “Everyone thought you were dead. Or kidnapped! Or in Witness Protection or something!”
Witness Protection…
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh again
“I’m sorry. I’ve… I’ve had a lot going on. After the bombing, my dad took me out of school.”
Nat exhales shakily. “Yeah. I saw that. He’s been on the news nonstop giving statements. Holding press conferences. He keeps talking about how devastated he is that he almost lost you. He said you were lucky to survive. Called you his greatest treasure. Reporters ate it up.”
Greatest treasure.
I laugh, but it comes out wrong. It sounds just as broken and hollow as I feel. “His greatest treasure. Right.”
“Where are you?”
I wish I could tell her the truth, say I’m trapped in a fortress owned by one of the most powerful men in Moscow, that my life is being negotiated like pieces on a Monopoly board and my freedom is the price tag with a kill order attached to it. But even thinking it feels dangerous.
