For the first time since I met him, there’s something unguarded in Luka’s eyes. The silence that follows is laden with understanding that neither of us wants to admit exists between us. The fire pops loudly, sending a spray of sparks up the flue, and the sound pulls him back into the present. The softness disappears as if it were never there at all.
“My father,” he continues, his tone sharpening into the tone I know too well, “was a different force entirely. Isaak Barinov. Men feared him more than death itself. They still do, even though he's bound to a wheelchair now by a stroke that stole his strength but not his mind. He still rules from the shadows. Even half-broken, he sees everything that happens in this family.”
His fingers tap once against the armrest, a subtle motion that betrays tension he probably doesn't even notice. “He taught me early that love is a liability. That mercy invites betrayal. That the only way to hold power is to make sure everyone around you fears losing your favor more than they fear dying. He built an empire on that philosophy, and I learned how to hold it when his body failed him.”
I try to imagine growing up under a man with that worldview. The cold authority hanging over every decision. The constant expectation to be ruthless, never show softness, and turn emotion into strategy. The thought makes my stomach ache in a way I don't expect. “That's a terrible way to live,” I murmur quietly.
A shadow of amusement touches his lips, barely visible in the firelight. “And yet it keeps us alive when others would see us destroyed.”
I should stop talking. I should let him retreat into his silence and remember that he's my captor, not a man confessing hisghosts to someone who might understand. But something inside me pushes forward anyway, refusing to let this moment pass without probing deeper. “And your mother? Would she agree with that philosophy?”
The question hangs suspended on threads of firelight and unspoken tension. His eyes narrow slightly, studying me as though he can't decide whether to be offended or impressed by my audacity. Then, to my surprise, his voice drops lower, almost fond in a way that makes my heart stutter. “No. She believed kindness could change men. That it could soften even someone as hard as my father. She tried to make him better. Sometimes she succeeded.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “She would hate what I've become. What this life has made necessary.”
He says it so softly I almost miss it, but the pull of it drags through me like an undertow. I can't look away from him now. The man sitting across from me isn't the ruthless boss who had me ripped from the street and locked in a bedroom while he decided whether I lived or died. He's a son who lost the one person who softened the world for him and tried to shield him from becoming exactly what his father demanded he be.
For one dangerous heartbeat, I see him the way his mother must have, as someone who might have been different if life had given him another path. Someone who carries the burden of choices that were never really choices at all. And that tiny glimpse of humanity threatens to undo every wall I've built to protect myself from feeling anything for this man.
Vega shifts beside my feet, letting out a low whine that breaks the spell holding us both captive. Luka's eyes lower to him, and I watch as he reaches forward, resting his palm on the dog'shead. The gesture is simple, absentminded, the type you make without thinking when comfort has become instinct over years of practice. His hand brushes mine when Vega leans toward him for attention, and the contact jolts through me with the force of an electric shock.
He freezes. I do too. My heartbeat drums loud in my ears, drowning out even the crackle of the fire. His eyes meet mine, and in the reflection of firelight dancing in those hazel depths, I see a look dangerously close to desire mixed with confusion.
“You shouldn't look at me with that expression,” he mutters softly.
“What expression?” My voice sounds strangled by the tightness in my throat.
“The one that suggests you want to believe I'm capable of something good.”
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to look away from him. “Maybe I just see a man who's lost more than he's willing to admit to anyone, including himself.”
His jaw tightens, the faintest twitch of muscle that tells me I've struck closer to the truth than he's comfortable with. “You're wrong.”
But I'm not wrong, and we both know it.
He stands abruptly, as if my words burned him, and distance is the only cure. The warmth that had begun to spread between us shatters as he walks toward the shelves on the far wall, his back rigid with tension. The fire crackles loudly, filling the space his silence leaves behind with a false sense of comfort. When he turns again, the vulnerability from moments ago is gone. Hisexpression is once more carved from ice and authority, the mask firmly back in place.
“Tell me everything you know about your father,” he commands, the shift in his voice so abrupt it leaves me reeling.
The demand throws me completely off balance. “My father?”
“Thomas Bellamy,” he insists, his voice hard again, stripped of any warmth. “Tell me what you know about him.”
I frown, thrown by the abrupt turn this conversation has taken. My mind scrambles to switch gears from the intimacy of shared grief to this interrogation. “I already told you there's not much to tell. He died when I was nine. My mother claimed it was a car accident on a mountain road during winter. She never talked about the details.”
“Did she ever mention his brother?” The question comes fast and pointed.
“Brother?” I shake my head, trying to remember anything my mother might have mentioned about extended family. “No. She never talked about his family at all. I assumed they were estranged or something equally unpleasant.”
His eyes narrow, sharp as the edge of broken glass. “Ray Bellamy.” The name leaves his mouth like a blade. “What do you know of him?”
“Nothing.” My voice is too fast and defensive, and I hear it immediately. I grip my hands together in my lap, fighting to keep my breathing steady and not betray how much his sudden intensity unnerves me. “I already told you everything. I don't know anyone named Ray. I've never even heard that name before now.”
Luka studies me for several long, silent seconds. I can feel the scrutiny crawling over my skin, searching for lies and finding only confused fear. “He betrayed my family,” he finally declares, each word honed to cut. “Stole from us. Took information that belonged to the Barinovs and ran to a rival syndicate where he sold it for protection and territory. Men died because of what he did. Good men who bled for this family while he laughed from behind enemy lines.”
He takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to retreat further into the sofa. “You carry his name, Sage. You carry his blood in your veins. That makes you connected to his betrayal whether you knew about it or not.”
The accusation slams into me, stealing the air from my lungs. I stare at him, stunned by the implications of what he's suggesting. “That's impossible. That's completely impossible. I never even heard of this man until you dragged me into whatever nightmare you call a life. If he's my family, it's not by choice or knowledge or anything I can control.”
