Page 90 of The King's Pawn
Letting Sasha burn everything down just to protect me is not bravery. It’s not romance. It’s annihilation. Allowing that to happen would make me just as selfish, if not worse. If someone has to be sacrificed to stop this, it should be me.
I lift my chin and head up the long drive toward the gate. High above, in the guard tower, movement catches my eye. Shadows shift, figures straighten. I feel their attention lock onto me like a spotlight. Weapons are raised but not pointed at me. The silent warning is enough to stop me from moving any further.
I tilt my head back and look up at them, forcing myself not to flinch under the weight of their scrutiny.
“What business do you have here?” one of them calls down.
“I’m here to see Nikolai Malyshko,” I answer evenly, though my heart is pounding hard enough that I’m sure they must hear it.
There’s a pause. Then another voice joins in, colder. “And who are you?”
I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself. This is the moment, the name that turns me from nothing into something dangerous.
“Alina Morozova.”
The silence that follows is telling.
“No one is authorized on the premises today,” the first guard says at last.
I run my tongue along the back of my teeth. “If you call him and tell him I’m here, I’m sure he’ll be very interested in letting me in.”
I can’t see their faces beneath the tactical gear, but I don’t need to. I can feel the shift as they turn toward each other, exchanging looks. The weight of my claim hangs between them. One of them steps back and raises a radio to his mouth, turning slightly away as he speaks into it in a low voice, quiet enough that I can hear the cadence but not the words.
The other guard keeps his attention fixed on me. His hands tighten around his assault rifle. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, impatience and anxiety tangling together in my chest. I want this done and over with. Every second I stand here is another second for doubt to creep in and convince me that turning around and running in the opposite direction will be the true fix to all of this.
I can’t imagine a world where the person currently threatening to fracture the Iron Pact shows up unannounced on Nikolai Malyshko’s doorstep and he doesn’t want to see it for himself. It’s like your enemy being delivered to you on a silver platter with no strings attached.
Finally, the guard with the radio returns. He doesn’t even look at his partner as he bypasses him and reaches for a control panel mounted beside their post. There’s a low mechanical groan as the locks disengage and the massive gates begin to part.
“A car is coming down to get you,” he says.
I step forward immediately, shaking my head. “Don’t bother. I’ll walk.”
“Miss—”
“I said, I’ll walk.” My voice is sharp enough that he stops himself. For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but he must think better of it because he simply nods and doesn’t say anything more as the gate opens fully.
I move through without looking back.
Whatever waits for me inside, I’ll face it on my own two feet.
The walk up gives me enough time to feel solidified in my choices. With every step, the panic that chased me here dulls into something colder and steadier. Resolve, maybe. Or resignation.
My boots crunch softly against the snow covered gravel that looks like it’s been meticulously placed. When I finally reach the front doors, guards are already waiting on the steps for me. I don’t bother trying to speak as I’m waved inside.
They pat me down with professional thoroughness, stripping my coat and bag away without ceremony. I barely register the loss of my things as they lead me deeper into the estate, two guards flanking me in silence.
We move through corridor after corridor, each one quieter than the last, the walls thick and insulated in a way that makes the outside world feel impossibly far away. Eventually, we stop in front of a set of double doors that look almost… ordinary. Plain wood. Gold polished handles. Nothing ornate or threatening about them.
One of the guards knocks twice.
A muffled voice answers from the other side.
The door opens inward, revealing a man dressed far more casually than the others with no tactical gear or visible weapons, just sharp eyes that assess me. He looks me over once, then steps aside, waving me in. As soon as I cross the threshold, he slips past me and closes the door behind us with a solid, final click.
The sound echoes in my chest.
Another set of double doors is opened, and I’m guided forward into a study that makes Sasha’s feel almost modest by comparison.
