The road narrows the deeper we go, the tires crunching over a thin crust of snow as the trees crowd closer on both sides. Tall pines rise like dark sentries, their branches bowed under winter’s weight, letting only slivers of moonlight slip through. For a moment, it feels like we’re driving into nothing but forest and shadows.
Then the trees break.
And there it is.
The lake house sits at the edge of a clearing like something carved straight out of the landscape—dark timber walls, clean lines, and wide angles that make it look both modern and quietly feral. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the structure, catching the moonlight and reflecting the icy surface of the lake beyond it, so that the whole house seems to glow from within.
When we pull into the driveway, it takes me a minute to take in the scenery in front of me. From here, Kirill’s home doesn’t look big, just a sturdy two-bedroom cabin with too much glass and too much silence around it. But there’s a power to it, a kind of intentional solitude. A place built for disappearing. For hiding things. For hidingyourself.
A perfect home for aBratvaunderboss to spend his time in and justbe.
I stay in my seat as Kirill walks over to my side, opens the door, and extends his hand for me to take.
“What? You’re not going to throw me over your shoulder and drag me inside like some caveman?”
“I think you’ll walk inside just fine on your own two legs,” he says with that lazy smirk that always makes my knees weak. “But if that’s what you’re into, who am I to deny you anything?”
“Don’t you even think about it!” I point a menacing finger at him before finally placing my hand in his. He helps me out ofthe car, his arm wrapping around my waist as he shuts the door behind us.
We stroll toward the entrance of his home, the porch still wet from the snow, the side swing swaying gently, endearing in a way I wish it wasn’t. Images of Kirill sitting there at night, smoking his cigarette, playing with his lighter as he stares out over the lake, immediately come to mind. And how I wish I didn’t find the imagery of it all so devastatingly beautiful.
Kirill unlocks the door and pushes it open, a sweep of warm air and cedar-scented darkness brushing past us. He steps in first, pressing a few buttons on the discreet wall console, and in an instant, the entire house comes alive.
Soft, golden light spills across the open space, revealing everything at once. The clean lines, the dark woods, the steel accents. It’s masculine in a way that feels deliberate, every piece of furniture solid and unapologetically heavy. Yet there’s a quiet sophistication woven through it all, a kind of refined restraint that surprises me.
With the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across most of its walls, it ends up turning the frozen lake just beyond into part of the room. The reflection of the interior light on the glass makes the forest behind us seem darker, the lake brighter, like we’ve stepped into some liminal space between the two.
Kirill shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door, watching me with a faint smirk as I take it all in. I move slowly, afraid to break the stillness. The stone fireplace anchors the room, its smooth river-rock structure both rough and elegant. A thick charcoal sofa faces it, casually draped with a furlike blanket, like he tossed it there without thinking, even though every inch of the house feels intentional.
I walk further into his home and trail my fingers over the edge of the kitchen counter, its matte-black surface cool undermy touch. Even the way his knives are lined up, all sharpened and spaced evenly, feels like him.
Minimalist. Controlled. Beautiful in a dangerous way.
“Do you like it?” Kirill asks, his voice low and tight, as if my answer might decide the fate of the entire house.
I don’t answer at first. I’m too busy being captivated by the quiet power of the place. By how much of him is in it. By how impossible it is not to feel him everywhere, even where he isn’t standing.
“It’s…” I breathe out, still turning slowly, letting the lake, the woods, the heat of the fireplace wrap around me.
“It’s very you.”
His smile deepens.
“Good,” he says, locking the door behind us. “Because tonight, it’s yours too.”
I don’t dare add one word to that loaded remark.
This is not my home.
Oh, but what if it could be?
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, pulling me away from my thoughts as he gently helps me slip my coat off. I hold in my breath when his knuckles brush the nape of my neck, coaxing goosebumps to flutter across my skin.
“That all depends,” I quip coldly, just to keep him in the dark of the current turmoil I’m under. “What do you have? And don’t be a cliché and say vodka.”
“Very well, I won’t say vodka.” He chuckles while hanging my coat on the rack. “Sit. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
He leaves me standing in the living room as he walks over to the kitchen and prepares something for me to drink. I’m still standing in the middle of the room when he returns with two steaming cups of something that smells incredible.
