The words terrify me. They feel too vulnerable, too honest. I stare at them, pulse racing, then tear the page from my notebook with trembling hands.
I can’t let him see this. I can’t let anyone see it—not even myself.
I carry the slip of paper to the bathroom, light a match from the emergency kit under the sink, and hold the note over the flame. It curls and blackens, shrinking to ash in my palm.
I watch the last of it turn to dust, then flush it away.
Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, the scent of smoke lingering in the air. My mind drifts between fear and something dangerously close to hope.
If monsters have hearts,I remind myself,they also have weaknesses.Maybe I’m starting to see his.
Chapter Ten - Lukyan
Paperwork stacks up on my desk, untouched. I read the same page twice, then a third time, the words blurring into meaninglessness. I sign what needs to be signed, pass judgment on matters my lieutenants should have handled themselves, but none of it holds my attention. Every file, every report, every request—they feel hollow. The world I built has lost its weight, reduced to background noise behind the single thread winding tighter in my mind.
Clara.
I see her everywhere; in the hallway where her scent lingers, in the library chair still angled from where she sat. I think about the way her hand shook when I took the folder from her, the stubborn lift of her chin even when she was caught. I think about her at breakfast, the vulnerability in her voice when she admitted she writes because the truth matters, the way she smiled—almost—for me.
Most of all, I think about the moment her eyes found mine, open and raw, as if she could see the war inside me.
I tell myself it isn’t desire. Desire is simple. This is something else, something jagged, sharp, consuming. Obsession. I know the signs. I’ve watched men destroy themselves for less.
I turn to the surveillance feed. There she is, curled in the window seat of the conservatory, knees tucked to her chest, a book forgotten in her lap. Her hair glints gold in the slant of afternoon light.
She glances up, restless, gazing toward the garden as if she can sense the boundary just beyond the glass. I should look away. I should force myself back to work. But I keep watching,hating the part of me that finds comfort in the sight of her moving through my world, even as she searches for a way out.
Later, the sky turns heavy and gray, clouds churning with the promise of rain. I see her slip outside, hugging her arms tight, breath frosting in the chill.
Clara walks slowly at first, circling the stone paths, but her gaze is fixed on the farthest gate—a rusted iron arch, chained and watched by a distant guard. She doesn’t notice me. Her jaw is set, her eyes bright with anger and something like longing.
I follow her at a distance, silent on the gravel. She stops at the edge of the garden, staring at the road beyond the gate as if she could will herself through by force of stubbornness alone. She doesn’t move for a long time. I can almost see her weighing the risks, tallying escape routes, measuring how far she’d get before the guards caught her.
“You’d last five minutes out there,” I say, voice quiet but carrying across the damp air.
She flinches, spinning to face me. Fury flashes in her eyes, but I hear the tremor in her voice when she snaps, “Maybe that’s five minutes more than I can stand in here. At least I’d have a choice.”
I step closer, letting the cold close the distance between us. “Choice? You made your choice when you published my name. Everything after that was consequences.”
She draws herself up, chin tilted high, but her hands shake where they’re clenched around her sleeves. “You call this protection? Hiding behind cameras, behind guards and locked doors? You’re a coward, Lukyan. If you weren’t, you’d let me decide what happens to me.”
The word lands harder than I expect. I’ve been called worse—by rivals, by enemies, by men who begged for their lives.But coming from her, it burns. Still, I step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat, close enough that I have to remind myself not to reach for her.
Her voice falters but doesn’t break. “Why are you so afraid of letting me go?”
I can’t answer that, not honestly. I know what would happen if I did. The guards would find her within minutes, dragging her back to the house, and I would hate myself for letting her try. Or worse, someone else would find her first, and I would lose the one thing in my world that still feels real.
I reach for her before I can stop myself, fingers brushing the soft fabric of her sleeve. The contact is fleeting, almost accidental, but it shocks us both. She stiffens, breath catching in her chest, and I pull my hand back as if burned.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, every line of her body quivering with defiance and confusion.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she whispers.
I hold her gaze, letting her see the truth I’ve hidden from everyone else. “No,” I say quietly. “I don’t.”
The rain begins to fall, slow at first, then faster, soaking into the grass and the stone at our feet. I make no move to shelter us. I can’t bring myself to leave her side.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of rain on iron and stone, the heat of her anger clashing with the cold in my veins.
