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I feel unsettled. Confused. Like something inside me has shifted, and I can’t figure out how to put it back.

Removing him permanently.

The words echo in my head, over and over, and each time they do, I feel a sick twist in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear.

Why am I not relieved? Why does the idea of Maxim being killed make me feel this way, this hollow, aching thing that I can’t name and don’t want to examine?

He’s my captor. He’s held me here against my will. He’s manipulated me, used me, touched me in ways I should never have allowed.

He also protected me. He risked his life for me. He made me feel things I’ve never felt before. Things I don’t want to feel, things I shouldn’t feel, but things that are real nonetheless.

I put the phone back where I found it and make my way back to my room, moving carefully through the halls, avoiding the guards. When I reach my door, I slip inside and lean against it, closing my eyes.

The certainty I once had about wanting escape is fracturing. The clear lines between right and wrong, between captor and captive, between love and hate—they’re blurring, shifting, becoming something I can’t define.

I should want to leave. I should want Maxim to face justice, whatever form that takes.

When I imagine him dead, the only thing I feel is a grief so sharp it takes my breath away.

I don’t know what that means.

I don’t know if I want to find out.

Chapter Twenty - Maxim

Ivan arrives at seven, as he always does on nights when we need to discuss internal matters without the formality of a full council meeting. He settles into the chair across from me with the easy confidence of a man who has been part of this world long enough to know its rhythms, and he accepts the drink I pour him without comment.

We talk about the usual things first. The growing tension in the northern territories, and the ongoing concerns about Callum Rourke.

I listen to Ivan’s reports, offer my own observations, make decisions where decisions are needed. It’s familiar, almost comfortable, the rhythm of business that I’ve maintained for years. Somewhere in the middle of discussing the northern situation, I realize I’ve lost the thread of the conversation.

“Maxim?”

I blink. Ivan is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“I asked whether you want me to handle the northern situation directly or if you prefer to mediate personally.” He pauses, his glass halfway to his lips. “You’ve been distracted all evening. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. The northern situation. You were saying.”

“You responded with a comment about security protocols that had nothing to do with what we were discussing.” He sets his glass down and leans forward, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to shift in my seat. “This isn’t like you.”

I take a sip of my own drink, buying time. “I have a lot on my mind. Callum’s attack has created complications.”

“We haven’t seen him since that perimeter breach four days ago. You’ve had plenty of time to process the complications.” Ivan’s eyes narrow slightly. “This is about something else. Or someone else.”

I don’t respond. I don’t need to, because Ivan has always been able to read me better than anyone, and my silence is confirmation enough.

“Ah,” he says softly. “The girl.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t point out that you’ve been staring at the door every five minutes since I arrived? Don’t observe that your attention has been divided all evening, which is something I’ve never seen from you since we were kids?”

“I said don’t.”

Ivan raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s an expression I’ve rarely seen on him—genuine amusement rather than the calculated charm he uses in business settings.