Irina’s POV

I’d been staring at him for too long.

I knew that. I could feel it—the way time had gone weird, the way I should have looked away ten minutes ago and hadn’t. He was still asleep. Face slack, chest rising and falling slow and even. Morning light cut in through the curtains and landed on his jaw, his throat, the dark edge of his hair against the pillow.

He looked almost normal like this.

Almost like someone who hadn’t pinned a man to the floor with his bare hands four days ago.

My heart was going too fast.

I pressed my palm flat against my chest like that would do anything.

The vial.

I kept thinking about the vial.

Not because I had it—I didn’t. I didn’t even know where it was anymore. Somewhere on the floor, maybe. I’d stopped tracking it at some point last night when tracking anything had stopped being an option.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about my fingers.

About what I’d pressed to the side of my neck.

About the gap between what I’d almost done and what I’d actually done, and how thin that gap had been, and how he’d looked at me afterward and said *your scent is different* like he’d already noticed something was wrong.

He was going to figure it out.

That was the thought I couldn’t get away from. Not today. Maybe not this week. But eventually. He was too sharp and too suspicious and too used to trusting that nose of his, and eventually the pieces were going to—

His breathing changed.

I caught it immediately. The small shift in rhythm. The tension that moved through his shoulders without him moving at all.

Not asleep.

I’d been sitting here panicking next to a man who was already awake.

He opened his eyes.

That green. Right there. Already focused, already clear, already looking straight at me like he’d been waiting for me to notice.

I didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. I just—held it. Heart slamming, face completely still.

His hand came up. Warm fingers against my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. Slow. Unhurried.

"You know something," he said. Voice rough from sleep.

I waited.

"Your fear." His thumb paused. "It has a smell." He looked at my face like he was reading it. "Did you know that?"

My throat locked up.

"I—"

"You’re about to explain yourself."

I closed my mouth.

"Don’t." He pulled his hand back. Sat up. Completely unbothered, reaching for his shirt. "You don’t have to."

I sat up too. Pulled the sheet up. Watched him button his shirt, stand, grab his jacket off the chair like this was any morning. Like I wasn’t sitting here with a heart rate that should probably be concerning to someone.

"Your father," he said.

My spine went stiff.

"And Maxim." He picked up the jacket. Turned and looked at me. "They’re in the cells."

The words hit one at a time.

*Cells.*

"After the office," he said. "I had them detained." No expression. No emphasis. Just fact. "They’re not going anywhere."

I stared at him.

I hadn’t let myself think about this. For four days, the question of *what is he doing with them* had been sitting in a locked room in the back of my head and I’d kept the door shut because opening it felt like too much on top of everything else.

"You didn’t send them back," I said.

"No."

"They’ve been here. This whole time."

"Yes."

I sat with that for a second.

Maxim in a cell. In this building. Four days.

Something moved through my chest that I didn’t have a name for.

"I don’t know why you wanted to run," Nicolas said. Still even. Still completely matter-of-fact. "I don’t know what you heard or what you thought was going to happen. But I’m telling you now—you were never going back. That was never on the table."

I looked at him.

"Can I see them?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"I want to see them," I said. "My father. And Maxim."

"Why?"

"Because I have things to say to them."

He studied me. That close, reading expression. "After everything they did."

"Especially after everything they did."

He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his face, quick and controlled.

"Their time here is short," he said.

Clean. Cold. Simple.

I held his gaze. Didn’t look away. "I know."

"You understand what I mean by that."

"Yes," I said. "I understand."

Another silence.

"Fine," he said. "I’ll arrange it."

He put the jacket on. Moved toward the door. Then stopped.

Turned back.

His eyes went to my throat. Just for a second—fast, almost imperceptible—before coming back up to my face.

My pulse jumped.

"Nicolas."

He looked at me.

"I’m staying," I said. "I know you think I’m going to try again. I’m not. I’m staying."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then: "I know."

Not soft. Not reassuring. Just—certain. The certainty of someone who had already decided something and didn’t need it confirmed.

He reached out and brushed his thumb across my cheek. One pass. Then dropped his hand.

"Get dressed. Eat something." He turned toward the door. "Sofia’s probably outside with something cold by now."

"Wait."

He stopped.

I took a breath. "Can I walk around? On my own. Inside the palace."

He turned halfway. "That’s not your real question."

I set my jaw. "Fine. Can I leave the grounds. Walk in the city."

He turned all the way around.

Four steps and he was right in front of me. Close. That particular closeness that wasn’t aggressive but wasn’t comfortable either—the kind that meant *I have your full attention now whether you like it or not.*

Two fingers under my chin. Tilting my face up.

"Inside the palace," he said. "Go wherever you want in here."

"But—"

"But." His eyes were dark now, the green almost gone. "The gates. The city. Whatever’s out there." He held my gaze. "Forget about it."

I stared up at him. "That’s not—"

"Irina."

Just my name. That was it. Said in that flat, absolute way that left no room for anything else.

"Only within the palace walls," he said. "Don’t even think about getting out."