Chapter 163
Evelyn's POV
I woke to the sound of rain.
Not the violent, wind-driven assault of a storm, but steady, rhythmic percussion against windows. The kind of rain that settled in for days. My eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, fighting against the weight of exhaustion that still pressed down on every limb.
The room was unfamiliar. High ceilings. Cream-colored walls. Medical equipment humming quietly in the corner—monitors tracking vitals, an IV stand beside the bed. Titan's private medical facility, I realized. The one Julian had mentioned before everything went to hell.
I tried to sit up. My body immediately protested. Cracked ribs screamed. Bruised muscles locked up. My throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to the inside.
"Easy." Julian's voice came from my left. I turned my head—carefully, because even that hurt—to find him sitting in a chair beside the bed. He looked like hell. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble shadowing his jaw. His torso was wrapped in compression bandages visible beneath the open collar of his shirt. But he was upright. Alert. And the smile he gave me was pure relief. "You've been out for almost forty hours. The doctors said your body just—shut down. Combination of physical trauma, blood loss, and shock."
Forty hours. One and a half days.
"What day is it?" My voice came out as a rasp. Julian immediately reached for the water glass on the nightstand, held the straw to my lips. I drank gratefully, feeling the cool liquid soothe my raw throat.
"Thursday," he said. "The wedding was supposed to be yesterday."
The wedding. Our wedding. The thought cut through the fog of pain and medication. I'd missed our wedding day.
"Julian, I'm so sorry—"
"Don't." He set the water glass down. Took my hand in both of his. "Evelyn, you nearly died. Multiple times. The wedding is the least of my concerns right now." His thumb traced gentle circles on my palm. "I postponed it. Told everyone there was a catastrophic storm system that made the Hamptons location unsafe. Which isn't entirely a lie—we did get hit pretty hard. But the real reason is that my bride needed time to heal from being beaten half to death by Russian operatives."
Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. "You have such a way with words."
"One of my many charms." His smile was warm but I could see the strain beneath it. The fear he'd been carrying for one and a half days while I'd been unconscious. "The new date is next Thursday. Same venue, same guest list. Weber's already handling the logistics. All you have to do is focus on healing."
Next Thursday. One week from now. The tension in my chest eased slightly. We hadn't lost it completely. Just—postponed.
"Okay," I said. "Next Thursday."
Julian's smile widened. He leaned forward carefully, pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Next Thursday," he agreed. "And this time, I'm quadrupling security. No one gets within a hundred yards of you without passing through three separate checkpoints and a full background scan."
I wanted to tell him he was overreacting. With Kholod standing down, there was no organization left with both the capability and motivation to threaten us.
The only real threat had been Nikolai. And Nikolai had discovered a day and a half ago that I was his biological daughter.
Father. The word still felt foreign in my mind. Uncomfortable. Like a coat that didn't quite fit right no matter how I tried to adjust it. I didn't know how to process the fact that the person who'd created me as a weapon was also the person who'd created me as a human being.
I didn't know how to face him. Didn't know if I even wanted to try.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Julian's entire demeanor shifted instantly—shoulders squaring, eyes sharpening with tactical assessment. His hand moved toward the weapon I knew he kept concealed even in medical facilities.
"It's me." The voice was familiar. Russian-accented. Carefully neutral.
Nikolai.
My father.
The word still felt foreign. Wrong. Like trying to force two puzzle pieces together that had been cut from different sets.
Julian looked at me. Silent question in his eyes. I nodded. He rose, crossed to the door, opened it just wide enough to confirm identity before stepping back to let Nikolai enter.
The Tsar looked—uncomfortable. It was such an alien expression on that cold, controlled face that it took me a moment to recognize it. He stood just inside the doorway, hands clasped behind his back in a military rest position that probably came as naturally as breathing. But his eyes were uncertain. Almost anxious.
"I wanted to check on you," he said. Still in Russian. The language we'd always used during training. During debriefings. During the five years when he'd been my commander and I'd been his weapon. "The doctors said you were stable but I needed to see for myself that you were—" He stopped. Seemed to struggle for words. "That you were recovering."
I stared at him. This man who'd beaten me unconscious two days ago. Who'd trained me to kill. Who'd just revealed himself as my father and apparently had no idea how to navigate that relationship.
"I'm fine," I said. My voice came out colder than I'd intended. Harsher. "As you can see, I survived. Again."
Nikolai flinched. It was subtle—just a slight tightening around his eyes—but I'd spent five years learning to read his micro-expressions. He'd felt that barb land.
Good, some vicious part of me thought. Let him feel it.
"I brought—" He reached into his jacket. Julian tensed immediately, hand moving toward his weapon. Nikolai froze, then very slowly withdrew his hand to show he was holding only a small wrapped package. "I brought you something. I thought you might want it."
He approached the bed with the careful movements of someone approaching a wounded animal. Set the package on the bedside table. Then retreated to a respectful distance.
I looked at the package. Then at him. Then back at the package.
"Open it," he said quietly. "Please."