Dmitri stood silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. His eyes narrowed at the sight before him: Keira, his wife, swaying precariously around the kitchen island, a bottle of vodka clutched in her hand like a lifeline. This was becoming a painful routine. He had known she enjoyed a drink, but he had been naive to think she had it under control. The chaos of the woman before him belied that assumption. She was a disheveled vision of recklessness, standing on tiptoes to raid the alcohol cabinet, swiping more bottles onto the counter with a disconcerting thunk. He couldn’t relish the sight of her here, on the brink of his home, because everything about it felt wrong. The pajamas she wore had not changed since the day she arrived—two days ago—her hair a chaotic bun that bore more resemblance to a bird’s nest than anything resembling beauty. In his mind, Dmitri had crafted the perfect plan, allowing her the space to settle in, believing silence would usher calm. Once again, he had gravely underestimated her. Clearing his throat, he made his presence known, and she spun to face him, unsteady on her feet. A flush of red blossomed across her cheeks; he couldn’t tell if it was from shame or the loathing grip of intoxication. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leveled a stern gaze at her. “What, exactly, are you doing?” “You have eyes, Russian. You tell me,” she shot back. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she drank deeply, her gaze unwavering, a challenge lodged firmly behind her brilliant green eyes. “Enough,” he commanded, frustration simmering beneath his words. “You’re sober, starting now.” She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed through the room. “Go fuck yourself. If you think I can survive a marriage to you sober, you’re delusional.” His resolve hardened, determination flaring. “You’ll survive, Keira. You don’t have another choice.” He stepped forward, tension crackling in the air. “Put the bottle down.” “Fat chance of that.” Her steps backward put distance between them. The grip she held on the vodka was a fierce anchor, and in a swift motion, he discarded the two remaining bottles, a decision born from necessity more than malice. Pavel would help him rid this house of every drop of alcohol. The men might complain, but Keira’s safety trumped all. “The bottle, Keira. Don’t make me chase you.” “Ah, you’d like that too much,” she sneered, but he saw past the bravado. Fear flickered within her. Beneath the surface of indifference lay a woman absolutely terrified of sobriety. He could hazard several guesses as to why, but reasons mattered little. Alcohol was a dangerous crutch, propping her up with one hand while wielding a weapon with the other. A liability. Dmitri couldn’t allow that. With a quick dash forward, he intended to wrench the vodka from her grasp. However, his sudden movement startled her; her feet tangled, and before he could react, she was tumbling down. Panic surged in him, and he lunged, catching her just before her head met the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she slurred, unusually limp in his hold. Her head lolled against him, struggling to meet his gaze. “Maybe because you’re the enemy, and you pretty much kidnapped me, locking me in your house-slash-tower. If I think about it too much, I might start feeling claustrophobic.” She was utterly and completely drunk. “Keira—” “Shh,” she hushed, placing a delicate finger across his lips, silencing him. “I know I came with you. I don’t need you to remind me of that every time we converse. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and she fell quiet, slipping away into unconsciousness like a candle snuffed out in an instant. Damn it. He adjusted his hold, lifting her effortlessly. Leaving her here alone was a risk he couldn’t take—she could choke on her own vomit or hurt herself in oblivion. He strode briskly from the kitchen and nearly collided with Mikhail, who raised an eyebrow but refrained from comment at the sight of his boss’s wife softly snoring in his arms. Gritting his teeth, Dmitri delivered his orders. “All the alcohol needs to be cleared out of the house—immediately. You and Pavel are responsible for making it happen. If anyone complains, they’re to direct their grievances at me.” Mikhail’s mouth opened, but closed again, perhaps reading the tension that filled the air. “We’ll take care of it.” “Excellent.” Dmitri made his way upstairs, the weight of Keira cradled in his arms. Every part of him screamed to take her to his bedroom, but he knew better. He chose a guest room on the second floor where he had prepared for her. The room bore remnants of her presence: the scent of smoke lingering in the air and sheets crumpled on the floor. Gently, he laid her on her side, positioning himself beside her to prevent her from rolling backward. Though unconscious, she was restless, her brows drawn together, contorted in distress. He caught fragmented murmurs—words that cracked like waves against a shore, each one echoing the name of her deceased brother, and a shudder ran through her. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, smoothing a hand over her forehead. “Shh, moya koroleva. You’re safe now.” It was a lie, the first of many he would tell her. Keira awoke alone in bed, disoriented, the last memory a blur of warmth and argument laced with Dmitri’s imposing presence. The pounding in her head begged for relief as she rolled over, searching for the water she often left within arm’s reach. “You’re awake.” She froze, squinting against the harsh light spilling in from the bathroom doorway. “Dmitri? What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” A quick mental inventory confirmed her clothing was intact. Even in this mess, he wouldn’t touch her like that without permission; still, guilt clawed at her—she hadn’t reacted like the woman she aspired to be. What if she had drunkenly thrown herself at him? Perhaps he had deflected her advances. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, casual yet commanding. “You never answered my question.” “What question?” she muttered, her hangover muddling her thoughts. His steely gray eyes held her gaze without flinching. “When is the last time you spent twenty-four hours sober?” She felt her pulse quicken, the challenge curling in her stomach. “That’s none of your goddamn business.” “A week? A month? A year? Come now, Keira. Try to remember.” Why was he pressing her? She pushed herself upright, willing her world to stop spinning. “What does it matter? I’m here, aren’t I? I married you like you wanted. You win, Romanov. Congratulations.” She offered a slow clap, her sarcasm heavy in the air. “Now get out of my room, and I’ll stay out of your way, until you need a conveniently placated wife.” Does a wife have any other utility? The thought darkened her mind, but she shook it off. Dmitri’s laughter rang out, a sound that cut sharper than any knife. “Do you think I can display you as you are now? You’ve been in my home three days, and I’ve already had to save you from falling down drunk and giving yourself a concussion.” He shook his head, disappointment etched deep in his features. “You’re a mess.” “Go fuck yourself.” “A mess with a limited vocabulary.” He stepped forward, instinctively closing the distance, but stopped when she flinched from him, her reaction driving something akin to sympathy through him. “When I first met you, you dazzled me with your bravery, reckless though it was. You’ve never feared me until now, simply because I threaten to take away alcohol and drugs.” His fingers brushed lightly against her chin, a fleeting contact that sent sparks through her. She wavered between wanting to recoil and deepening the connection. “This cringing version of you is not the woman I chose as my wife.” His barbed words struck home, deeper and more painfully than any dagger. Keira’s spirit felt scorched; she had been so many things, but now lay in ashes. The young woman who had fought with fire and confidence was gone, leaving her a hollow shell. The only time she could grasp onto the fearlessness she had lost was when intoxicated. She swayed slightly, her resolve cracking. “Let me go home, and we can end this. Annul the marriage, and let us move on.” “Nyet.” He shook his head, grounding his voice to a firm edge. “You are mine now.” And round and round they went. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, the burning threatening to spill over into tears. “What do you want from me?” “A number of things.” Dmitri closed the distance slowly, his gaze steady and intent, fingers brushing over her cheekbone to her jawline. He stepped back just before she fully registered the warmth of his touch. “But for now, I will settle for removing any trace of drugs from your system.” Keira snorted, though her stomach churned uneasily. “Good luck. Unless you’re planning on sending me to rehab, that’s not happening.” Aiden had tried to sober her countless times, but she always found a way to escape the grip of sobriety. Functioning was one way to put it. “Right. I’m not sending you to rehab.” He pushed gently on her shoulder, and her feeble stance faltered, sending her tumbling onto her back. Sitting up, she hastily gathered her hair away from her face, only to be confronted with the reality of Dmitri now positioned firmly in the doorway. “I’m bringing rehab to you.” The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock. A prickle of panic rose in her throat. He hadn’t. He couldn’t have. Keira sprang to her feet, frantically seizing her bag from the floor, only to feel its suspicious lightness. Even anticipating it, she flipped it upside down, spilling everything onto the bed. Her backup bottle of vodka was gone, along with her stash of joints. He was serious—he was forcing her to go clean. A hollow emptiness consumed time. The sweats and cravings settled in, magnifying with each passing minute. She lay on her bed in nothing but her underwear and tank top, staring blankly at the ceiling, grappling with the term “addict.” The word tasted foreign and dirty on her tongue. What would Devlin think of her now? The memories surged, reigniting the pain she had buried in alcohol's embrace. Ten-year-old Devlin, wise beyond his years, leading her into the woods behind their home to show her a litter of fluffy rabbits and sharing fun facts about them, beaming with pride. Devlin at fifteen, gifting her an art set their father chastised her for wanting, declaring it grand. Rushing into his room at nineteen, heart racing, breathless as she told him she got into RISD—her personal triumph, one he pushed her to seize. Each moment replayed sharply, only to crash against the stony reality of his absence. And then, all too quickly, the scene darkened. Devlin at twenty, lifeless, resting cold in a casket, a casualty of a war he never wished to join—the echoes of gunfire still ringing tragically in her ears. Words fumbled on her lips, grief twisting in her gut. “What a fucking waste.” Keira clenched her eyes shut as the memories pressed in, her heart tightening. In that moment, tears slipped free, a flood she had long denied herself, breaking through the dam of numbness. “I miss you, Devlin. I miss you so fucking much. The world crumbled without you, and I don’t know how to navigate it anymore.” The warmth of memory contrasted sharply with her chilly reality, leaving her shattered as she delved deeper into the darkness, wishing desperately for his presence. She reached out her hand, mimicking the fall of the first domino, watching as life spiraled out of control. As the shadows danced around her thoughts, they shifted, and a figure emerged at the foot of her bed—there he was, Dmitri, seated at the edge, an unexpected intensity in his gaze, emotion finally breaking through his stoic facade. “Come to gloat?” she asked, voice hollow. He was still, the space around them thick with unspoken words. “You think so little of me.” “Why should I think any better?” Her exhale came out in a huff, the air around them thick with tension. “You would have let my sister die. You would have let them all die.” The weight of past traumas suffocated her as memories tangled in her mind, snaking dark and relentless. “My priorities aren’t your priorities, moya koroleva.” As if it could justify anything. The words hung heavy between them, and Keira turned her gaze away, focusing on the odd wallpaper instead of the man who imprisoned her heart as much as he had her physically. “I’m cold,” she finally murmured. “You’re burning up.” Dmitri’s cool hand brushed against her forehead, the touch unexpectedly tender. “The doctor assured me this is normal,” he continued, smoothing her hair away with a gentleness that took her by surprise, sending a cascade of warmth through her despite the chill of reality. For a fleeting moment, she almost wished it could be different—a normal romance untangled from the shards of their chaotic lives. But life wasn’t fairytale rosy; it was steeped in shadows. Keira had to remind herself of that, repeatedly attempting to shake off the edges of sleep pulling at her. “You promised peace.” “I promised to do everything I could to ensure peace, short of sacrificing myself on the O’Malley altar.” His infuriating manner of distorting her words made it challenging to pinpoint whether he would keep his promise. “Peace.” “It takes more than one to broker peace.” “Then do it.” Each word fought its way out of her throat, tired and torn. Dizziness threatened to drown her, but she pushed through, staring deeply into Dmitri’s eyes, searching for something beneath the surface. “If you haven’t kept your word when I come out of this,” she vowed, fighting to stay coherent through the fog of impending unconsciousness, “I will make you pay, Dmitri. Every single day for the rest of my life.” “I have no doubt about that.” His acknowledgment was chilling, not reassuring, but she didn’t expect it to be. Keira nodded, the world around her fading into blurred edges again. The weight of weariness tugged on her consciousness like an anchor in a storm. “Why are you doing this to me?” The words slipped through, a child lost in a tempest, searching for a safe harbor amidst the chaos. He remained silent, allowing the darkness to sweep her away, the battle a lost cause. Just before she was consumed entirely, she felt his presence linger—a whispering assurance that whispered into the recesses, “For you, moya koroleva. I do this to give you a fighting fucking chance.” And it was from that fragile promise of hope that she would wake again. --- “A week is too long. We can’t wait anymore.” Mikhail’s voice was urgent as Dmitri closed the door to Keira’s room behind him, the weight of the moment heavy as they moved through the dimly lit hallway. “Patience,” he insisted, though doubt crept into his heart, threading through rationality. “Respectfully, boss, it cannot wait.” Mikhail was unwavering, falling in step beside him as they approached the stairs. “Mae was released on bail.” Dmitri stopped dead in his tracks, physically recoiling. “How is that possible? We did everything but gift wrap her for the feds. Even they shouldn’t have managed that.” “Yet, they did.” Mikhail handed over a manila folder, the weight of the news heavy in the air like a funeral shroud. Dmitri flipped through the documents, a sense of defeat crawling up the back of his neck. “My office. Now.” A flash of panic ignited in him. He needed to formulate a plan—one that wouldn’t expose vulnerabilities. Once they entered the office, he spread the papers across his desk, the words threatening to suffocate him when he exhaled. “I should have seen this coming.” The ramifications of Mae’s release were dizzying—a web of past decisions entangled within it. Surviving the chaos meant understanding just how precarious their situation now was. The FBI, Aiden’s fiancée, and a broken family were intertwined. Seated in the shadows, Mae was unpredictable. “What will you do?” Mikhail pressed, guiding him back to the present. “Whatever it takes.” Dmitri’s voice cut through the tension, fueled by necessity. Though he typically stayed two steps ahead, he had dropped the ball, blinded by personal desires and wrapped in turmoil. The daughter of an FBI agent—Alethea—was sharp enough to tread carefully, but Mae was another story. “Aiden knows?” Mikhail probed, concern lacing his tone. “Hard to say.” Dmitri rubbed a hand over his temples, fighting the gnawing frustration. “It went down in New York. Finch likely wouldn’t give him a heads-up.” “Then we’re left without intel.” Mikhail’s brows furrowed. “What happens next? She’ll come for what she wants, and it won’t just be you.” “No,” Dmitri acknowledged, his voice a low growl. “She’d lash out wherever she thought it would hurt the most.” Plans formed in the back of his mind like storm clouds brewing on the horizon. “Act now. Pull our men’s families into the available safe houses in the city. Ensure rotation with our guys. No unnecessary risk.” “A risky move, boss.” “No choice.” It was a necessary measure as Mae proved dangerous, and if she wanted to create chaos, he wouldn’t let her play them like pawns. He picked up the phone to call Aiden, tension swirling. He hadn’t intended to reach out so soon after their last unsatisfactory exchange. “You have a lot of nerve calling me now,” Aiden spat, venom lacing his words. “Put your vengeance on hold for now.” “Fuck that! We’re coming for you, Romanov.” Dmitri clenched his fist, forcing himself to stay calm. “Mae Eldridge is out.” “Excuse me?” “Released on bail this morning. The judge bought her lawyer’s bullshit—something about being entrapped by the FBI.” There was no disguising the turmoil that bubbled beneath his composed demeanor. “And she and Alethea have vanished.” “Mae needs to be stopped.” Aiden’s voice hardened, resolving into something steely. “I agree,” Dmitri replied, considering how to maneuver through this unexpected chaos. Every moving piece had to be accounted for. Alethea would be valuable in this—it might even keep them on a more amicable plane. “I’ll be in touch.” With that finality, he hung up and pivoted to Mikhail, whose stoic presence filled the room. “We have to locate them now. Alethea wouldn’t return home lightly; she’s too sharp for that. But we cannot underestimate Mae.” Bailing her out had shifted the balance, and he couldn’t afford to play recklessly. “Maintain focus. We’ve missed too much already.” As if to punctuate the urgency weaving through every thread of their plans, a pounding on the door announced the arrival of a familiar source of frustration. Mikhail opened it to reveal Dr. Jones, glancing at Dmitri with a scowl that matched her demeanor. The tall redhead had a stubbornness about her that irked him. “She’s come through the worst of it,” she informed him, her voice clipped and no-nonsense. Responding without outward display of emotion, Dmitri leaned against his desk, assessing her. “Anything I should know?” “She’s going to be off-kilter for at least another week. Twisted up in aspects of depression and anxiety. Each person reacts differently, but don’t expect her to bounce back.” Fragile. Despite her fierce demeanor, Keira was fragile at her core. “I’ll keep it in mind.” An appraising look hovered in her gaze. “You should remove or lock away any alcohol and drugs from the premises. She didn’t choose this path, and the chances of a relapse remain high.” “Already planned.” He met her scrutiny head-on. “There’s nothing she can turn to; the rules are set, and she’ll find none of her vices here.” He needed to convince her—finding the reason to be sober was paramount. In this battle, he couldn’t afford to neither fail nor relent. And he would not lose her. Not this time. ---