“You’re burning up again,” she says, her hand moving to my cheek. “Aleksander, you have a fever—this isn’t good.” She sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around me, eyes searching for answers, for something she can fix. She reaches for the thermometer and checks my temperature, her brow furrowing as she reads the number. “You need antibiotics. You can’t keep ignoring this.”
I take her hand, squeezing it, even though my body is heavy with exhaustion and pain. “I’m fine.”
“I’m serious. What are we even doing?” she says, her voice small but fierce. “You’re hurt, you’re wanted, your mother is trying to kill you, and I—I can’t even get my head around any of this. This isn’t a life. It’s barely survival.”
I watch her, stunned for a moment by how much I want her—even now, especially now. The worry in her eyes, the fear in her voice, the way her hands shake as she fumbles with the thermometer. No one’s ever looked at me like this before. No one’s ever cared this way.
She shakes her head, angry and scared. “I can’t do this, Aleksander. I can’t live my life just waiting for the next bullet or the next person who wants to hurt us.”
Her words echo in the air between us, but I don’t answer right away. I just stare at her—at the woman I chased across continents, the woman who haunts every dream, every blank canvas, every stretch of lonely silence. For four years, I tried to paint her out of my system. For four years, every line, every sketch, every color brought her closer instead.
And I realize, with the force of a blow, that I’ve loved her all along.
I was stupid not to admit it before, and even now, the words stick in my throat.
I want to tell her. I want to promise her forever, to beg her to stay.
But I know better. I know the world I live in. I know how much I’ve already put her through.
She wraps the blanket around herself tighter, frustrated tears brimming in her eyes. “Say something,” she whispers.
I reach out and take her hand, even as fever shakes my grip. I bring her palm to my lips, pressing a kiss there, holding on as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
The words I want to say stick in my throat. Not yet, not out loud. But I know it, now, deep in my bones.
“After all of this is over,” I tell her quietly, “I promise—I’ll let you go.”
19
BELLA
His words hitme like a slap. I’m sitting next to him, still wrapped in the blanket, barely able to catch my breath from the fever scare and everything we just did—and then he says it.
“I’ll let you go.”
I stare at him, stunned. A hundred emotions crash through me—relief, yes, but also a wave of disappointment that nearly makes me dizzy. “You’re going to let me go?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.
Aleksander’s face is serious, dark eyes locked on mine. “Yes. When this is over, I’ll never look for you again. You’ll be free to live however you want. But—” he adds, reaching for my hand, “you have to give me some time first. I need to make sure you’ll be safe.”
“How will you do that?” I ask, not bothering to hide my doubt. “Safe from who? Your mother?”
He exhales, jaw tight. “I don’t know yet. But I can feel it—whatever Irina wants, it’s tied to what happened on the plane. To Kirov.”
His words sink in. “You think she took me to get to you because of that murder?”
“Maybe,” he says. “If I can find out who killed Kirov, or why he was killed, I might have something to bargain with. Or at least I’ll know where the next threat is coming from.”
I pull the blanket tighter, shivering. I’m not sure if it’s from cold or from the idea that my freedom depends on solving a murder I barely even understand.
“Do you really think you can find out?” I ask, softer now, all the fight leaking out of me. “Do you even know where to start?”
Aleksander’s eyes don’t leave mine. “I have to try.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The city hums outside the window, the world moving on as if everything hasn’t changed.
I want to believe him—I want to believe any of us can be safe—but I’m not sure hope is enough.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, sheet twisted in my lap, the city glowing behind Aleksander’s broad silhouette. He’s watching me, feverish but focused, as if willing himself to stay upright through pure stubbornness.
