He studies me, lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. “That’s what I like about you.”
For a heartbeat, I think he might kiss me. I want him to. I want to see if the heat in his eyes is real, if the promise he offers is something I can trust. He only lifts a hand, brushes his knuckles down my cheek—a touch so gentle I shiver.
“I won’t force you,” he says, his voice raw. “You should know—belonging to me doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not again.”
He turns to leave, boots silent on the old stones. For a moment, I watch his broad back retreat into the darkness of the hall, the weight of his words wrapping around me like silk and steel.
When I’m alone again, I lean against the railing, trembling. The city sparkles far below. I remember what I told myself, all those nights ago, in the safety of my old life: I wanted a story. I wanted truth. I wanted to expose monsters, not fall for them.
Lukyan Sharov isn’t just a story anymore. He’s not the villain I thought he’d be, nor the savior I sometimes wish he could be. He’s something stranger, something mine, something that has changed me as much as I’ve changed him.
The lines between captor and protector, between need and danger, have blurred so completely I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I wonder if I’ll ever find my way back to the girl who came here with a notebook and a sense of purpose.
Maybe I don’t want to.
Inside, the house is dark. I move quietly to my room, letting the hush close around me, my body still humming with the echo of his touch. I slip under the sheets, wide awake.
I told myself I wanted a story. I never expected to become part of his.
Now, as I lie in the half-light, I understand the danger more than ever: some stories don’t have clean endings. Some monsters, once understood, become impossible to leave. Some promises, once made, rewrite every rule I thought I understood.
I can’t sleep. The city glows in fractured gold through the curtains, restless as my own thoughts. I hear the soft tread of boots in the hallway and know, without looking, that it’s him. Lukyan pauses outside my door, hesitating for the first time since I’ve known him.
I sit up, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you going to hover out there all night?”
There’s a pause. Then the door opens, quietly, as if he’s giving me every chance to protest. He steps inside, the moonlight catching on the bandage at his arm, the lines of exhaustion etched deep in his face.
“You weren’t sleeping,” he says, a question disguised as a statement.
“No,” I admit. “It’s hard to sleep when I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring.”
He nods, moving closer until he stands at the edge of my bed. “I can stay, if you want.”
My heart thuds, the invitation dangerous, tempting. “What if I said yes?”
A ghost of a smile flickers at his mouth. “Then I’d stay. I’d hold you. Nothing more, unless you ask for it.”
I search his eyes, finding not threat, but honesty. I nod, shifting over to make space. He slips beneath the covers, careful and slow, his body heat wrapping around me.
He touches my cheek, gentle as breath. “You’re safe.”
Chapter Twenty - Lukyan
Returning to the world is a calculated risk, but tonight it feels inevitable. The gathering is small by Bratva standards—only a dozen power brokers, politicians, and old friends whose loyalty I trust more than most.
For Clara, it’s the first time beyond the gates since the night bullets shattered our home. I watch her dress in the fading afternoon light, her reflection nervous and determined as she smooths the pale silk over her hips.
When she emerges, every head in the foyer turns. She doesn’t see it—the way conversations stall, the way eyes track her every movement—but I do.
I see it all, and every appreciative glance, every soft murmur in Russian or English, sets my jaw a little tighter. I offer my arm, and she slips her hand through, a tentative trust that sends a charge through my blood.
We arrive at the venue just as the city glows gold outside. It’s an old mansion, candlelight and piano music, the air heavy with expensive perfume and the sharp tang of ambition. I keep her close, my hand at her waist, guiding her gently through clusters of men and women who know how to look friendly while measuring weakness.
She smiles when she must, answers questions with poise, but I can feel the tension humming through her. It’s there in the way her shoulders stiffen when someone asks about her family, in the way her fingers twist the stem of her glass. I lean down, lips brushing her ear, murmuring, “You’re doing fine.”
She glances up at me, eyes bright. “You make it sound like a test.”
“It is,” I reply, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “You’re passing.”
