Irina’s POV

I looked up.

And the world stopped. Again. For the second time today. Twice in one day, and each time it was worse than the last.

My father.

Mikhail.

He was standing right there. Two feet away. His hands were still on my arms from when he’d caught me—steadied me—and his face was doing something I hadn’t seen it do in a very long time. Something cracked open and raw and absolutely unprepared.

He looked shocked.

So did I.

Neither of us moved.

He was older. That was the first thing my brain registered, stupidly, uselessly. More gray in his hair. Lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, or maybe I just hadn’t been looking. He was wearing the same kind of clothes he always wore—dark, practical, beta’s clothes, nothing that announced itself. He looked like he’d just stepped out of Iron Thorn and walked straight into me.

Which was, apparently, exactly what had happened.

"Irina." His voice came out quiet. Rougher than I expected.

My chest did something complicated.

I pulled back.

His hands dropped. He let me go—immediately, no resistance—and I took one step back, then another, and my heel hit the grass and I nearly went down and caught myself and stood there breathing hard and staring at his face.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.

What I actually felt was the specific, airless panic of someone whose escape route has just been completely destroyed.

"Irina—"

I turned.

A hand closed around my arm.

Not my father’s hand.

Different grip entirely. Harder. Fingers digging in like they had every right to be there, like they’d been there before and knew exactly where to press.

I knew that grip.

I’d know that grip in the dark. In a crowd. At the bottom of the ocean.

Everything in me went cold.

I turned my head.

Maxim.

He was standing just behind my father. How had I not seen him? He’d been right there—he’d been there the whole time, just slightly back, just enough that my father’s body had blocked him, and I’d looked right at my father’s face and never—

He was smiling.

That smile.

I’d seen that smile a thousand times and every single time it meant the same thing. It meant *I have you.* It meant *you thought you had a choice and you were wrong.* It meant *this is exactly where I wanted you and I’ve been patient enough to wait.*

"Well," he said.

Just that. One word. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Let go." My voice came out flat. Not scared. I wasn’t going to sound scared in front of him. I’d made myself that promise a long time ago and I was keeping it even now, even here, even with his hand on my arm and the wall fifteen feet behind me and every escape route I’d planned quietly disintegrating.

"Let go of me."

Maxim tilted his head. That small, considering movement I remembered. Like he was weighing something. Like I was something being weighed.

"You look terrible," he said. Conversational. Almost gentle. "Has he not been feeding you?"

I pulled.

He didn’t budge.

"Irina—" My father’s voice. Somewhere behind Maxim. Careful. Cautious.

"Hey." Maxim said it without looking away from me. "Why don’t you give us a minute."

My father went quiet.

Of course he did.

I pulled again, harder, my whole body twisting into it.

Maxim’s grip tightened.

"The alpha king." He said the title slowly. Like he was tasting it. "I’ve been wondering. What’s it like? Living in his palace?" His eyes moved over my face. Looking for something. "He treat you well?"

I didn’t answer.

"You were running," he said. "That’s interesting, isn’t it. Running away from the alpha king’s palace in the middle of the evening with a bag on your shoulder." His eyes dropped to the canvas bag, then came back up. "Doesn’t sound like someone who’s being treated particularly well."

"Let. Go."

"So he’s not good to you either." His smile didn’t change. "What a shame. All that trouble—marking you in front of everyone, the whole dramatic display—and still, here you are. Running." He clicked his tongue. Like I was a mild disappointment. Like I was something that kept failing to work properly. "You never could sit still. That was always your problem." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

My free hand was shaking.

I made it stop.

"I’m not going back," I said.

"Back where?"

"With you. To Iron Thorn." I looked him in the eye and I didn’t let myself blink. "I’m not going."

Maxim looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said: "You don’t really get a vote on that."

I threw my elbow into his ribs.

He wasn’t expecting it. That was the only reason it landed—he’d had me in that grip for long enough to start relaxing, and I’d been still long enough for him to stop watching my arms. His breath went out. His grip on my arm stuttered.

I wrenched free.

One step. Two.

He caught me.

Both hands this time. He spun me around and his face had changed—the smile was still there but it was different now, thinner, with something ugly underneath it, and I knew that face too. I knew exactly what came after that face.

I didn’t let him get there.

I brought my knee up.

He twisted sideways, took it on the hip instead of where I’d aimed. Swore. His hands tightened and I clawed at them, nails dragging across the back of his hand, and he swore again, louder, and I stomped down hard on his instep.

"Stop—"

I didn’t stop.

I shoved both palms into his chest. He stumbled back. I turned to run and he grabbed the strap of my bag and yanked and I went sideways and down to one knee on the grass and I was up again immediately, up and turning, and I didn’t think about it, I just—

I hit him.

My fist connected with his jaw. Badly. Wrong angle. My knuckles exploded in pain and his head snapped sideways and neither of us was prepared for that—not him, not me, not my father somewhere behind us making a strangled sound.

Maxim turned back to me.

His smile was completely gone.

"Okay." He said it quietly. Like a door closing.

The slap came so fast I didn’t track it.

Just—sound. Impact. My whole head snapping sideways. The sky and the grass and the palace wall swapping places. The ground coming up to meet me before I understood I was falling, my palms hitting the grass, my bag coming down half-across my back.

Ringing. Just ringing, and the cold of the grass against my hands, and the particular taste of something copper in the back of my throat.

I lay there for one second.

Just one.

*Get up.*

I got my hands under me. Started to push.

"Don’t." Maxim’s shoe came down on my bag. Pinning it. Pinning me by extension. "Just—stay there for a second."

I kept pushing.

"Irina." His voice had gone very quiet. Very flat. The voice he used when he was done performing for anyone else and was just talking to me. The voice that used to mean *this is going to hurt.* "I said stay."

My arms were shaking.

I was going to get up. I was going to get up if it was the last—

My father said: "Maxim."

One word.

Maxim didn’t move his foot.

"She’s—"

"She’s fine." Still quiet. Still looking down at me. "She just needs a minute."

I pressed my forehead against the grass. Just for one second. Let the cold of it settle against my skin. Let the ringing start to die down.

*Get up. Get up. Get up.*

"I’m not going back," I said into the grass.

Nobody answered.

I turned my head. Got one elbow under me. Looked up at Maxim’s face from the ground and felt the specific, familiar weight of being down here while he stood up there, and I thought: *not again. Not again. Not ever again.*

"I’m not going—"

"Irina."

My father’s voice. Different this time. Something in it I couldn’t place. He had moved—not between me and Maxim, not doing anything useful, but he’d moved to the side and he was looking at something beyond us, his face gone pale and strange.

"Maxim," he said again.

And then—

From somewhere across the grounds. Not close. But not far either.

A voice.

Roman’s voice.

"There." Sharp. Certain. Carrying in the cold evening air. "I see them. *Over there.*"