She steps back, putting distance between us, but her eyes never leave mine. “You say I’m safer here, but you’re not keeping me safe, Lukyan. You’re just keeping me.”
She turns then, heading back toward the house, her shoulders rigid. I watch her go, every word echoing in my head, every inch of space she puts between us like a wound I can’t close.
The sky darkens and the rain grows heavier. I stand in the garden, letting it soak through my shirt, wondering when the house became a cage for me too.
Obsession, I remind myself. Nothing more. Except the ache in my chest tells another story.
After the rain, the mansion feels different, quiet, as if it’s holding its breath. I walk the halls with the restlessness of a man who doesn’t know what he’s searching for. My mind drifts in and out of work, caught on unfinished business, phone calls left unanswered, reports that barely register.
The storm outside has broken, but a heavier one brews in my chest.
I take the long route through the east wing, past gilded frames and old tapestries that once impressed me. Now, they’re only reminders of how empty the world can be, no matter how carefully it’s decorated. My footsteps echo.
Somewhere in the distance, a door clicks shut, a soft, everyday sound. I pause at the curve of the hallway, out of habit more than suspicion.
She appears around the corner, walking fast, her hair still damp at the ends from the rain. Her posture is tense, head high, lips pressed together.
Clara doesn’t see me at first. She’s lost in her own thoughts, shoulders set in a stubborn line. Then she catches her reflection in the long, gold-framed mirror to her right. For a moment, her eyes flick up to meet her own, then slide sideways—finding me in the glass.
Our gazes lock in the reflection. I see the flash of surprise, quickly masked by practiced indifference. Something raw passes between us. I can’t name it—anger, longing, accusation, regret—but it hits hard, sharper than any argument or threat.
She breaks eye contact first, glancing away and continuing down the hall without a word. Her movements are stiff, her arms folded tight as if bracing against a cold that has nothing to do with weather.
I stand rooted in place, unable to move, watching the ghost of her figure fade into the next corridor. My fists clench at my sides. The urge to follow, to explain, to reach for her, is nearly overwhelming.
Instead, I force myself to look away, catching my own reflection. The man in the glass looks tired. Hardened. There are lines at the edges of his mouth that weren’t there last year. I press my palms flat to my thighs, grounding myself with pain.
“She’s just a liability,” I mutter, voice low, meant only for myself. The words ring hollow. I repeat them, slower, as if the sound will make them true. “A liability. A threat. Nothing more.”
Yet the sound of her name—Clara—rises in my mind, unbidden and soft, and for a second I just stand there, tasting the syllables, letting them linger. Her name feels different in my mouth. Not like a warning, not like a weapon. Something gentler, something that doesn’t fit the world I’ve built.
I shake my head, angry at the weakness. I am not a man given to sentiment. My life has no room for softness or uncertainty.
Yet every time I see her, something in me shifts. She challenges me in ways I didn’t expect: the way she faces me, unbroken, the way she won’t flinch even when I push her to the edge.
Back in my office, I try to lose myself in routine. I shuffle through paperwork, call a meeting with two lieutenants, bark orders for security. I tell them to stay alert, to double-checkevery entrance and screen every visitor, though I know it’s as much for my own peace of mind as for hers.
Hours pass. The sky outside bruises into evening, colors bleeding across the clouds. I lean against the edge of my desk, hands digging into the wood, replaying that moment in the hallway over and over.
What is it about her that unravels me?
I watch her on the cameras, as I always do—sometimes I tell myself it’s only for her safety, but I know better. I watch her pace her room, then settle with a book she hardly reads, turning pages more from habit than focus. I watch the way her hand shakes when she thinks no one is looking. I watch the way she stares at the garden, at the gate, at the sky through the barred windows.
She’s a prisoner, and I put her there. That should be the end of it. But I can’t stop wanting her to understand—wanting her to see me as more than her captor, to see some part of the man I was before the Bratva, before violence became survival.
The memory of her words in the garden still burns:“You’re just keeping me.”It was the truth. I am keeping her. I am keeping her because I can’t let her go.
I leave my office as the first lights come on, footsteps leading me not by decision but by instinct. I walk past the dining room, hear her laughter—a short, dry sound—as she shares some small joke with the housemaid who ignores her English but smiles anyway.
I pause at the door, just out of sight, listening to the comfort in her voice when she thinks she’s alone, the way her guard slips for just a moment.
I want to step into the light. I want to sit across from her and have a real conversation, not this chess match we keepplaying, move for move, heart for heart. But I don’t. I stay in the shadows, letting her be herself for a moment without my interference.
After she leaves the room, I find myself tracing her path. I touch the back of the chair where she sat. I stand by the window where she once pressed her palm to the glass, searching for an exit, for a future beyond these walls.
I know this can’t last. I know sooner or later, she’ll either break—or I will. But for now, I am caught in the limbo she’s created, haunted by reflections and half-formed hopes.
“She’s just a liability,” I whisper once more.
