Page 28 of The King's Pawn
I have no doubt about that. When Lena wants something, she will stop at nothing to get it, information included. She has always had a way of loosening tongues without ever raising her gun, of making people believe that telling her the truth is their idea. It is what makes her my most effective and most dangerous intelligence gatherer.
Which tells me one thing with absolute certainty.
This situation has already grown far too large to contain.
“If you’re here to ask me why Morozov set the bomb off, I have a few theories. None that I actually care to put energy into exploring.”
“Oh?” Lena’s brow lifts, interest sharpening her features. “What’s the most likely?”
This time, I shrug. “Political gain. He’s been polling poorly for the last two quarters. His approval numbers are hemorrhaging after a series of legislative ‘reforms’ that did little more than strip his constituents of the very protections he campaigned on. People tend to grow restless when they realize the man they voted for was selling them promises he never intended to keep.”
She hums softly, encouraging me to continue.
“He’s been scrambling for months,” I add. “Trying to manufacture relevance. Sympathy. Unity. And what better way to redirect public outrage than with an unforeseeable tragedy? A bombing reframes the narrative. Suddenly, he’s not the corrupt official under investigation. He’s the grieving public servant standing shoulder to shoulder with his people. Fear has a way of smoothing over inconvenient truths quite easily.”
“Interesting,” Lena murmurs, tapping a manicured nail against the armrest. “Though I can’t help but wonder what purpose handing his daughter over to you served.”
It isn’t exactly a question. Not in the way an advisor or an outsider would pose to me, at least. There’s no curiosity laced with uncertainty, no testing of boundaries. Lena already knows—or at least suspects—that Alina’s presence here is not incidental. She understands leverage when she sees it. She understands bargains made in desperation.
And the fact that she hasn’t said Alina’s name yet tells me she’s waiting to see how honest I intend to be.
I concede. “Morozov needed to keep his daughter out of the public eye for a while. The bombing happened at her university. Supposedly, she was supposed to be escorted around campus with bodyguards, however none were found at the scene.”
Lena’s brow shoots up immediately. “None?”
“None,” I confirm. “Which means that if any journalist worth their salt starts pulling on that thread, it becomes a problem very quickly. Why was a bomb able to go off on a campus where a high-ranking politician’s daughter was present? How did something like that slip past her security detail? Why wasn’t she removed immediately once the threat became credible?” Ipause, then add flatly, “He would have no answers. Because the truth is, he’s never actually done a good job protecting her.”
Her expression sharpens, disbelief flickering across her face. “He’s left her unattended since his election?”
“No. But restricting her movements in order to maintain a level of control over her isn’t the same as actually caring about her safety.” I clench my jaw. “He had guards on campus, yes. But they were sitting in a vehicle more than a hundred yards away from the building the bomb went off in. The same buildingshewas inside. I had to?—”
I stop myself abruptly.
Regret pools in my stomach almost instantly, heavy and unwelcome. I shouldn’t have said that much. I shouldn’t have let irritation drag the truth so close to the surface. Especially not in front of Lena who has never once accepted half-answers from me and never will.
This, whatever this is, was never meant to leave the confines of my mind. Ever. It was supposed to remain compartmentalized, buried beneath logistics and contingency plans and the cold calculus of power. I have lived my entire adult life knowing precisely where to draw the line between thought and confession.
And right now, I have just stepped way over it.
Lena leans forward suddenly, elbows braced on her knees, her eyes narrowing on me. They gleam now, not with concern but with something far more dangerous. Interest. The unrestrained delight of someone watching a puzzle finally begin to assemble itself. “You had to what?”
“Nothing,” I reply immediately. “It doesn’t matter.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, the sound sharp and delighted. “Oh, it absolutely matters.” Her lips curve, slow and knowing. “Sasha… what did you do?”
I press my lips together, saying nothing because if I open my mouth now, the rest of it might spill out and once spoken, there will be no pretending this is still just a business arrangement between Morozov and me.
I say nothing, which in Lena’s world is an answer all on its own.
She leans back in her chair slowly, studying me the way a predator studies the terrain before striking its prey. Her amusement softens slowly, giving way to something else. This is the version of my sister the world rarely ever sees.
Not the cosmopolitan socialite gliding through European capitals. Not the sharp-tongued negotiator who dismantles men twice her size with simply a smile and a glass of champagne. Not the woman who wears danger like a second skin and laughs in its face.
This version of her is tender.
Her soft spot for me has always been her underbelly.
It is the one place she never armored properly, no matter how many cities she’s conquered or how many men have learned to fear her smile. She can outmaneuver enemies, dismantle alliances, bleed information from people who swear they have nothing left to give, but with me there has always been a fracture in her defenses, a hairline crack she never bothered to seal.
