Page 94 of The King's Pawn
And if a second life is required to balance the scales, it should be mine.
The problem is convincing Nikolai to see it that way.
I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand over my face as the phone continues to vibrate. The room is dark, the estate eerily quiet at this hour. I don’t check the caller ID before answering.
“Yes,” I say, my voice rough and stripped of any pretense.
“Sasha.” Nikolai’s voice comes smoothly down the other line. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Not because it’s funny, but because the audacity is so perfectlyhim. Not even twenty-four hours since his ultimatum and he’s already calling, circling like a patient animal that knows its prey is limping.
Typical.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice flat, stripped of courtesy.
“I have something of yours.”
I sit up instantly. “Excuse me?”
There’s a soft, brief chuckle on the other end, amused, almost indulgent. “I find it quite concerning that you aren’t aware you’re missing something. Does that mean I get to keep her?”
The world drops out from under me.
Horror detonates in my chest so violently, I nearly double over, breath tearing out of my lungs in a harsh, animalistic sound.
“No,” I rasp, already moving.
I don’t bother ending the call.
I fling the covers off the bed, sheets tangling around my legs as I stumble to my feet. I’m running before my brain fully catches up, bare feet slapping against the cold floor as I tear out of my room and into the hallway.
The distance to her wing feels endless. The estate stretches and warps around me, the corridors narrowing and widening like a nightmare. My pulse roars in my ears. Every step is driven by one singular, screaming thought.
He took her.
I round the corner at full speed, nearly skidding on the marble as I reach her door.
I don’t knock. I throw it open hard enough that it slams against the wall.
“Alina—” The word dies in my throat.
The room is empty.
The bed is untouched. No rumpled sheets, no signs of a hurried departure. The air itself feels wrong, hollow and stripped of her presence like a lung without breath. For a split second, my mind refuses to accept it. I scan the room again desperately, as if she might materialize out of thin air if I look hard enough.
My hand tightens around the phone still in my hand, reminding me of the call. I lift it slowly to my ear, swallowing thickly. “What do you want?”
“You should come see me, Sasha. I think we have quite a bit to discuss,” he says mildly.
My throat feels constricted, like something is wrapped tight around it. “When?”
“Friday evening for dinner,” he replies. Then, after a pause, he says, “Though, I do have one request.”
My jaw tightens. “Name it.”
“Bring Viktor Morozov with you.”
My brows knit together as confusion crashes headlong into the agony already splitting my chest apart.
