She nods, pours me more tea. “You are not sleeping well.”
It’s not a question. I watch the steam rise, willing myself to speak. “I don’t think anyone sleeps well here.”
Irina sits down across from me, folding her hands on the table. She waits. For a moment, the kitchen feels smaller, safer.
“I can’t talk to anyone,” I finally admit. “Not really. There’s no one here who understands.”
She listens, brow creasing in quiet concern. “You miss home?”
Home. The word aches. “I miss my friend, Eden. We used to talk every day. Now… it’s just me. Me and him.”
Irina looks at me for a long moment. “He is not easy, but he cares for you.”
I huff a bitter laugh. “He owns me. That’s not the same as caring.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Sometimes men do not know the difference. Sometimes they learn.” She reaches acrossthe table, her hand warm over mine. “You can tell me, if you need.”
The offer is kind, but it’s not the same as Eden’s gentle teasing or the late-night confessions we used to trade over ice cream and cheap wine. I want to unburden myself, to spill every fear, every shameful memory of how much I wanted Lukyan that night, how much I still want him even now.
I can’t. The words catch behind my teeth.
“I just want to go home,” I whisper, the confession breaking loose before I can stop it.
Irina’s eyes are sad, but she doesn’t flinch. “I know, but you must be strong. You survived this long. You will survive until you are free.”
I nod, throat tight. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze and stands, busying herself with the bread dough, letting me sit in silence.
When I finally leave the kitchen, the comfort is already fading, replaced by the weight of everything unsaid. I drift through the house, restless, unable to read, unable to sit still. I find myself wandering to the grand staircase, peering down at the entrance hall as though expecting Eden to appear out of thin air, ready to whisk me away from this gilded cage.
It’s just Lukyan’s men, talking quietly, always watching.
I hesitate at the landing, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to scream. I scan the foyer, hands curling tight around the railing.
Then I see him.
He stands at the base of the stairs, half in shadow, watching me with that unreadable expression: dangerous, focused, but never cruel. He doesn’t move at first. It’s as ifhe’s letting me decide whether to run or come closer. My heart hammers. For a moment, I think he might just turn away.
He doesn’t. Instead, he calls up softly, “Are you avoiding me?”
I shake my head, mouth dry, pulse skittering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “No. I just… needed some air.”
He climbs the steps with slow, measured confidence, boots silent on the thick carpet. By the time he’s in front of me, the world feels too small. I have nowhere to go, no clever retort to toss at him. I can only stand my ground as he draws close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body.
He studies me for a long moment, searching my face. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice trembles. It’s a lie.
He lifts a hand so slow, so careful I could move away if I really wanted to. I don’t. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with more gentleness than I ever expect from him. I close my eyes, fighting the urge to lean into his palm. When I open them again, he’s watching me with something dark and intent.
“You shouldn’t run from me, Clara,” he says quietly.
His presence is overwhelming: magnetic and terrifying. I can’t breathe, can’t think. He steps closer still, hand drifting down, grazing the side of my neck, lingering at the base of my throat. I feel his breath on my lips, the fire from last time sparking to life beneath my skin. When his hand slides to my waist, everything in me tightens, memory and want flaring together.
He dips his head, lips so close to mine that I can taste the promise in the air. My body aches to close the distance, tosurrender again, but shame claws up, rough and insistent. I push him back, trembling.
“Don’t,” I whisper, voice so faint I barely recognize it. I mean it as a warning. It sounds like a plea.
He stops, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, frustration radiating from every tense line of his body. He could take what he wants. I know it. He knows it. But he doesn’t move. He stands perfectly still, arms at his sides, watching me as if waiting for some sign that I might change my mind.
