Chapter 20: The Hunt and the Hidden Strength
But for now, in this room, with an unexpected ally just departed, they had a ceasefire. The silence after the door clicked shut was different. It wasn’t just quiet; it was approved, sanctioned by a gruff, unseen witness. Mila’s sobs subsided into shaky breaths, her forehead still pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. His hand continued its slow, steady circles on her back, a rhythm that gradually smoothed the jagged edges of her panic.
“I’m getting your shirt wet,” she mumbled, her voice thick.
“It’s fabric. It dries.” His response was practical, unconcerned. He didn’t let go.
She finally leaned back, wiping her cheeks with the heels of her hands. She looked a mess, she knew—eyes swollen, nose red, tangled hair—but his gaze held no judgment. Only a quiet, weary assessment. “What happens tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow, we get up. We put on the uniforms. We play our parts.” He released her and turned to pick up the two glasses from the desk. He handed hers back. “But tonight, we finish this whisky.”
They moved to the worn sofa, a sagging thing upholstered in a scratchy, forest-green fabric. She curled into one corner, tucking her feet beneath her. He sat a careful distance away, close enough to talk softly, far enough to not crowd her. The oil lamp guttered, sending long shadows dancing across the tapestries of outdated Soviet triumphs.
“He knew your grandfather,” Mila said after a while, sipping the smoky liquor.
“A lot of the old guard did. They use his name like a parable. Sometimes a warning, sometimes a challenge.” Alexsi stared into his glass. “He died in a Ministry detention block. Official cause was heart failure. He was forty-eight.”
“What did he protest?”
“A cleansing operation. A village was suspected of harboring partisans. The order was to burn it and salt the fields.” Alexsi’s voice was flat, detached. “He called it a waste of good land and innocent lives. He said there were better ways. They said he was sentimental. A week later, he was dead.”
The words hung between them. A legacy of stubborn, fatal honor. Mila understood the general’s warning perfectly now. This careful secret they kept was the same breed of defiance, just quieter. “Are you sentimental, Alexsi?”
He took a long drink, then turned his head to look at her. The lamplight carved deep shadows under his cheekbones, in the hollow of his throat. “I am pragmatic. Keeping you alive and sane is a tactical objective. Everything else is methodology.”
She knew that was a lie, or at least a half-truth wrapped in military jargon. The methodology involved foot rubs and single malt and sharing his clothes. The methodology involved lying to his father to divert armies. She didn’t call him on it. The lie was part of the armor, for both of them.
“Thank you,” she said again, because it was all she had.
He nodded, once, and looked away.
They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the settling logs in the stove. The complex outside was mostly quiet, the distant sounds of the garrison muffled by thick stone and late hour. It was the first time since her arrival that the quiet didn’t feel like a held breath. It felt, however faintly, like peace.
The summons came three days later, not with a pounding fist but with a crisp, printed card delivered by a stone-faced adjutant. The Minister’s Autumn Chase. Participation is mandatory. It was stamped with the stark, double-headed eagle of the Ministry.
“What is it?” Mila asked, watching Alexsi’s face harden as he read the card. They were in his study, a smaller room off the main quarters, where he pretended to do paperwork and she pretended to read.
“A hunt. At the family dacha. A tradition.” He tossed the card onto the desk. “It’s a display. Power, masculinity, territory. They’ll bring out the hounds and the hawks. Drink too much. Kill things. Tell stories.”
“I have to go.”
“Yes.”
“What’s my role?” She closed her book, marking the page with a finger.
“Decoration. Silent, admiring decoration. They’ll expect you to flinch at the blood. To be squeamish. To cling to my arm.” He ran a hand through his hair, a rare show of agitation. “Some of them… they might try to put a weapon in your hand. For a laugh. To see you jump.”
Mila thought of the forests of her childhood, the sharp, clean smell of birch and pine, the patient lessons from her uncle on tracking hare. She thought of the little peregrine falcon she’d cared for, a broken thing she’d nursed back to health. “What if I don’t flinch?”
Alexsi met her eyes. “Then you become interesting. Interesting is dangerous, Mila. You know this.”
She did. But a stubborn, quiet part of her, the part that had survived the men with rings on their fingers, was tired of performing fragility.
The minister’s dacha was a sprawling, gloomy lodge of dark timber, perched on the edge of a vast, mist-shrouded forest. The clearing outside was a churned mess of mud and boots. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, horse sweat, and the damp wool of hunting jackets. A low, constant growl emanated from a line of leather-faced handlers holding massive, brindled hounds on thick leads. The dogs strained forward, saliva stringing from their jaws, eyes fixed on the tree line.
Mila stood at Alexsi’s side, wearing new, stiff boots and a tailored hunting jacket of forest green that was somehow more constricting than the silver dress. The minister held court by a stone fireplace erected in the clearing, a gutted boar already turning on a spit, its skin crackling. His eyes found her, scanned her up and down with a connoisseur’s cold appraisal, and he smiled.
“Volkov! Bring your bride over! Let her see the tools of the hunt!”
Alexsi’s hand pressed against her back, guiding her forward. The circle of men, flushed with morning vodka and anticipation, parted. They were all leathered and armed, their faces sharp with the cold and a shared, predatory glee.
“A pity she’s too delicate to participate,” the minister boomed, slapping Alexsi on the shoulder. “But perhaps she can inspire the hawks, eh? Beauty calls to the fierce!”
Polite, gruff laughter rippled through the crowd. Mila kept her eyes down, the perfect, timid picture. But her gaze tracked the falconer on the edge of the clearing, a gnarled old man with a face like carved wood. He held a beautiful, hooded goshawk on a thickly gloved fist, its feathers a stunning bar of grey and white.
The hunt began with a blare of horns. The hounds were loosed, their bayes splitting the air as they plunged into the undergrowth. The men mounted up or followed on foot, crashing into the forest after them. Alexsi stayed close to Mila, a deliberate laggard.
“We follow at the back,” he said quietly. “We observe. We stay out of the way.”
For hours, they trailed the noisy, violent procession. Shots echoed through the pines. Cheers went up. They came upon clearings stained with the dark, spreading red of a stag’s death. Mila saw the glazed, lifeless eyes of the animals, the casual way the men posed for pictures with their boots on the carcasses. Her stomach turned, but not from squeamishness. From a profound, weary disgust.
Alexsi watched her, not the hunt. His silence was a question.
They paused at the edge of a sun-dappled hollow where the mist still clung to the ferns. The main party had moved ahead, following the hounds deeper. The falconer was there, alone, the goshawk still on his fist, its head tilting beneath the hood.
“She is beautiful,” Mila said softly, before she could stop herself.
The old man turned, his eyes surprised. Most women from the complex avoided him, afraid of the bird’s sharp, killing grace. “She is,” he said, his voice a dry rustle. “She sees what the dogs cannot. The quick, quiet things.”
Alexsi stood a few paces back, watching, saying nothing.
“May I?” Mila asked. The question was out, reckless and impulsive.
The falconer looked past her to Alexsi, seeking permission from the husband, the officer. Alexsi, after a beat of palpable tension, gave a single, curt nod.
The old man’s hands were gentle as he guided Mila’s untrained hand into the heavy leather gauntlet. The weight of the bird was shocking, a dense, coiled power of muscle and intent. He showed her how to secure the jesses, the thin leather straps around the hawk’s legs. His touch was respectful, instructive, devoid of the leer the other men carried.
“She’ll feel your pulse,” the old man murmured. “Be calm. She knows fear.”
Mila took a deep, steadying breath. She looked at the hooded bird, and something in her stilled. It wasn’t domestication. It was a pact of mutual respect between two captive things. She understood it perfectly.
A commotion erupted ahead—shouts, the hounds baying in a frenzied chorus. A flush of woodcock, startled from a thicket, burst into the open air above the hollow in a panicked whir of wings.
It was pure instinct.
Before the falconer could move, before Alexsi could speak, Mila’s free hand came up and gently swept the hawk’s hood away.
The goshawk blinked, its fierce, dark eyes taking in the world. It saw the fleeing birds. It saw the open sky.
Mila raised her fist, the motion fluid, an unthinking memory of childhood grace.
The hawk launched.
It was not a takeoff; it was an explosion of silent violence. One moment it was on her fist, the next it was a grey streak climbing the sky. The men at the tree line shouted, pointing. The hawk climbed, higher and higher, a speck against the cloud. Then it folded its wings and dropped.
The strike was a soft, distant thump they felt more than heard. A puff of feathers drifted down. The hawk rose again, a limp form clutched in its talons, and returned to the clearing. It landed not on the falconer’s waiting glove, but on a low, mossy branch near Mila. It began to pluck its prize, calm and utterly assured.
The silence was absolute.
Then, the minister’s voice, loud with startled delight. “By all the gods! Volkov, you never said your little wife was a savage!”
The crowd of men erupted, clapping, laughing, a wave of noisy approval. They swarmed into the hollow, surrounding her. She was the sudden, unexpected spectacle. Alexsi was at her side in an instant, his body edging between her and the closest, most exuberant officers.
“A lucky observation,” Alexsi said, his voice cutting through the noise, trying to diminish it. “She’s seen village falconers before.”
“Luck? That was artistry!” The minister pushed forward, his eyes alight with a new, hungry interest. He looked at Mila as if seeing her for the first time. “Such a steady hand. Such a cold eye. Where did you learn this, girl?”
Mila felt the danger, thick and immediate. She dropped her gaze, shrinking back against Alexsi. “I… I just remembered the stories, Minister. From my childhood. It was an accident.”
“Do not be modest! This is a sign!” The minister clapped his gloved hands. “A union blessed by the hunt! Today’s spoils are yours, Volkov! Your wife has won them!” The declaration was made, binding and public.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of relentless, suffocating attention. Mila was no longer background. She was a curiosity, a talking point. Men she didn’t know offered her sips of their brandy, asked her questions about tribal hunting techniques. Their jokes were still crude, but now tinged with a speculative, competitive edge. She was a prize who had revealed unexpected value.
Alexsi was a wall of silent, simmering tension. He deflected, he interrupted, he physically guided her away from the worst of it. His touches were no longer just performative boundaries; they were anchors, holding her steady in a suddenly shifting current.
As the afternoon faded, walking back through a dank copse of spruce, Mila’s foot caught on a gnarled root hidden under fallen needles. She stumbled forward with a gasp.
Alexsi’s arm shot out, catching her around the waist, hauling her back against him before she could hit the ground. The momentum was fierce, his grip iron-tight. For a long, suspended second, he held her there, her back flush against his chest, his breath warm against her ear. The woods around them were quiet, the others far ahead.
She could feel the hammering of his heart through both their layers of clothing. Or maybe it was hers.
“Steady,” he murmured, the word a low vibration against her skin. His hand didn’t immediately release her waist. It stayed, a firm, warm pressure through the thick jacket.
“Sorry,” she whispered, utterly still.
“Don’t be.” He let go, slowly, his hand sliding away as if reluctant. He kept a hold on her elbow instead, helping her regain her footing. “The ground is treacherous here.”
They didn’t speak again until they were back in his quarters at the dacha, a smaller, colder version of his rooms at the complex. The door closed on the world of blood and brandy and knowing looks. Mila sagged against the wall, the adrenaline draining away, leaving her limbs weak and shaking.
Alexsi poured two glasses of water from a porcelain pitcher, handed one to her. His face was grim in the grey evening light filtering through the single window.
“That was a risk,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t angry. It was assessing, calculating the new variables.
“I know.” She drank the water, her throat dry. “I just… I saw the bird. And I forgot. I forgot to be fragile.”
“He won’t forget what he saw. You moved from being my decoration to being an asset. Assets are traded. Discussed. Coveted.” He put his own glass down with a sharp click. “The hunting story will be everywhere by tomorrow. My father will hear. The committee will hear.”
The fear came back, cold and sharp. “What does that mean?”
“It means the performance just got harder.” He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. “It means I might have to be more… publicly possessive. To reinforce my claim. Before others get ideas.”
Mila understood. The hand on her back might need to become a grip. The dismissive orders might need to carry a sharper edge. The charade of dominance would have to deepen to protect the reality beneath. The thought made her feel sick.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small.
“Don’t.” He crossed the room in two strides, stopping before her. He didn’t touch her. “Never apologize for that. What you did… it was the most honest thing I’ve seen in this place in years.” He searched her face, his own conflicted. “It was also the most terrifying.”
A weak, shaky laugh escaped her. “You’re supposed to be the pragmatic one. The tactical objective.”
“The objective just developed complications.” A faint, weary smile touched his lips. “I preferred you as simple, broken decoration. It was easier to guard.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.” He reached out then, not to pull her close, but to brush a stray, damp leaf from her hair. His fingers lingered for a second against her temple, a touch so brief and gentle it felt like a hallucination. “Too late.”
That night, after a tense, silent dinner in the dacha’s great hall where she could feel a dozen eyes on her, they returned to the small room. A fire was lit in the grate, fighting the deepening chill. Mila sat on the rug before it, still in her hunting clothes, too drained to move. Alexsi sat in the room’s lone chair behind her, a ledger open on his knees, though he hadn’t turned a page in an hour.
“I felt powerful today,” she said to the flames, her voice quiet. “For a few seconds, when she flew. It wasn’t about them. It was just the sky and the bird and knowing what to do. I haven’t felt that since… since before.”
The scratch of his pen stopped. “I know.”
“Did you feel it? When you watched?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, a soft confession in the dark. “I felt sick. The entire day, watching them posture and kill for sport, I felt nothing but a cold disgust. But when you released that hawk…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “It was the only thing that felt clean. The only thing that felt real. It was the only moment that didn’t make