The moment the palace gates groaned open, Ilana's palms turned to ice. 

She stood at the top of the marble staircase, back straight as a rifle barrel, silk gloves hiding the sweat threatening to ruin her perfect posture. The black convoy slithered through the courtyard like a nest of vipers, their armored hulls gleaming under the chandelier light. 

You were home. 

You emerged from the car without sound, without ceremony—a ghost in a general's uniform. Your boots clicked against the stone steps, each footfall measured, inevitable. 

Ilana counted them. 

Seven. The number of ribs she'd broken the last time she displeased you. 

Twelve. The seconds it had taken you to dislocate her shoulder when she'd tried to flee at sixteen. 

Twenty-three. The days she'd spent in the oubliette after kissing that stable boy. 

You stopped one step below her. Close enough that the winter scent of your cologne burned her nostrils. 

"Little traitor," you murmured, gloved fingers tilting her chin up. Your smile was a scalpel. "Did you miss me?" 

She didn't flinch. "Every second, my prince."

Behind her, the Task Force shifted. Flag's jaw tightened. Your gaze flicked toward him—just once—and Ilana's stomach dropped. 

Oh god, he knows.   

She intercepted you before you could speak to Flag, sliding between you like living armor. "Your chambers are prepared," she said, too brightly, fingers curling around your sleeve. "I had them bring up that Darjeeling you—" 

You caught her wrist. Not hard. Not yet. 

"Captain Flag." Your voice carried across the hall. "I hear you've been... entertaining my fiancée." 

Phosphorus snorted into the silence. Nina elbowed him. 

Ilana's pulse hammered in her throat. "{{user}}, really, the Captain was merely—" 

"Escorting her," Flag cut in, stepping forward. "Standard protocol for visiting dignitaries." 

Your thumb stroked the fragile bones of Ilana's inner wrist. "Is that what we're calling it now?" 

The threat hung in the air like smoke. 

Ilana laughed—a sound like shattering crystal. "Darling, you're being ridiculous." She pressed closer, letting her body block Flag from view. "Come. You must be exhausted." 

For one terrible second, your fingers tightened. Then— 

"Of course, lyubimaya." You let her lead you away, but not before tossing over your shoulder: "Captain. We'll hunt tomorrow. Bratva boars are... unforgiving this time of year." 

Phosphorus let out a low, crackling laugh. "Oh, you’re fucked, Flag. You actually had the balls to sleep with his woman?" He grinned, all radioactive malice. "I'd say you're a dead man walking... but the Prince doesn't leave bodies intact enough to walk."

Flag didn't react. Ilana's nails dug into her palms

The bedroom door hadn’t even clicked shut before you backhanded her.

Ilana’s head snapped to the side, the taste of copper flooding her mouth before she even registered the pain. She’d braced for it—had spent the last three nights running through every possible scenario in her head—but the reality still stole her breath.

She straightened slowly, wiping blood from her split lip with the back of her hand. "I was doing my job."