At the time, I'd felt something like regret.
I'd built my life on rules, on control. Such yearning had no place in my world. Yet here it was again, shining in my wife's eyes—she was using charcoal to build a spiritual realm I couldn't touch.
Did I really want to snuff out that light completely? Just thinking about it sent needle-sharp pain through my chest.
But I couldn't let her go either. Maybe when she finally learned obedience, I could let her taste freedom again.
I watched too intently, unconsciously stepping forward.
"Click—"
My shoe hit the wooden floor at the carpet's edge.
In the silence, the sound was jarring.
Worse, when I tried to adjust my position, I bumped the side table.
The crystal vase on top wobbled—
"Crash!"
It shattered.
Noelle spun around, startled. Her brown eyes met mine before I could hide my emotions.
Her body tensed instantly. All that peace shattered, replaced by wariness.
"Don't you make any sound when you walk?"
Annoyance and embarrassment surged through me. Kholod Morozov exposed by a damn vase—ridiculous.
I lifted my chin, adopting an arrogant pose to mask my earlier lapse, and walked slowly toward her.
My shoes crunched on crystal fragments.
"Just a vase," I crouched down and picked up a sharp shard, playing with it between my fingers. "Tomorrow I can buy you a hundred more."
"Some things, once broken, can't be bought back with any amount of money." She closed her sketchbook, clutching it to her chest like protecting some precious treasure.
Her words sent an inexplicable thrill through me.
She was still fighting. Even if only with words.
I dropped to a crouch in front of her, one hand braced against the bookshelf beside her, trapping her between myself and the books.
"Is that so?" My gaze moved from the shard in my hand to the sketchbook pressed against her chest.
"But some things are just temporarily out of reach. Doesn't mean they'll never be seen."
She tried to hide the sketchbook, but I'd already pulled it free.
I flipped it open. The pages showed her landscapes—Iceland's glaciers, Norway's fjords, Scotland's highlands...
Every stroke was meticulous, full of heart.
"You're talented." I meant it, my fingertip lightly tracing the aurora lines she'd drawn.
The slight callus on my finger rasped against the paper.
