Page 59 of Chain Me

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a wave of frustration. Of course she's fine, back in her world, probably already forgetting about the compound and me.

“You look like shit,” Alexi comments from the corner, where he's apparently been lurking this entire time.

“Thanks for the medical assessment, doctor,” I snap.

Dmitri chuckles, then winces as the movement pulls at his wound. “Igor played us, but we got Natasha back. That's what mattered.”

“Where is she now?”

Dmitri's expression shifts, pain flickering across his features that has nothing to do with the bullet wound. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks away from both Alexi and me.

“She's gone,” he says finally, voice flat. “Back to her place.”

“What do you mean gone?” Alexi leans forward in his chair, abandoning whatever he was doing on his laptop.

Dmitri's laugh comes out bitter. “She doesn't like what we do, what I do. Turns out having your girlfriend rescued from a hostage situation really opens her eyes to the kind of family she's gotten involved with.”

The silence stretches between us. I know that look on my brother's face—it's the same expression he wore when our mother died, like something essential had been carved out of him.

“She wouldn't listen when I tried to explain,” Dmitri continues, his voice getting quieter. “Said she couldn't be with someone who takes women against their will, who uses fear as a business tactic. Can't really argue with that logic, can you?”

“Is that wise?” I ask. “Surely Igor could try and take her again. Use her as leverage.”

Dmitri nods slowly. “I thought of that. She agreed to extra security—our people, watching from a distance. She won't let them get close, but at least I know she's protected.”

“Dmitri—”

“Don't.” He cuts Alexi off sharply. “Just don't. I knew this would happen eventually. Women like Natasha don't stay with men like us. They get smart and run.”

Women like Natasha. Women like Katarina. Smart, independent, with moral compasses that point away from violence and control.

“Maybe she just needs time,” Alexi suggests, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

Dmitri closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. “She looked at me like I was a monster, Erik. Like everything we'd shared meant nothing because of what I am, what we all are.”

The weight of his words settles over the room. I think about Katarina's face during that final night together, the way she'd touched me like she was memorizing every detail. Had she been looking at a monster, too?

The silence stretches between us. I want to ask a dozen questions I have no right to ask. How did she look when she left? Did she say anything about me?

Instead, I check Dmitri's IV line and adjust his pillow.

“Stop fussing,” he grumbles. “I'm fine.”

“Bullet wound says otherwise.”

“It's a flesh wound.”

“Flesh wounds can still get infected if you don't?—”

“Erik.” Dmitri's voice cuts through my rambling. “She made her choice. She went with her father willingly.”

My hands go still on the blanket I've been straightening. “I know.”

But knowing doesn't make it hurt less.

I step back from Dmitri's bed, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from adjusting anything else. Old habits.

“Remember when you used to fuss over scraped knees like this?” Dmitri grins, some of his usual charm returning despite the pallor. “You'd practically perform surgery on a paper cut.”

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