The house feels cavernous as we step inside. Lukyan’s hand never leaves mine as we ascend the stairs. He says nothing more about Irina, only presses a lingering kiss to my temple as we part ways for the night. I watch him disappear down the corridor, the ache in my chest heavier than before.
I close myself in my room, shedding the borrowed diamonds and silk, staring at my reflection. I look different now: older, sharper, and a little more haunted. I try to picture Lukyan with Irina, but it’s blurry, unreal, nothing like the man who confessed the shape of his wounds to me only hours ago.
Sleep is slow to come. I toss and turn, Irina’s words still echoing:“He doesn’t stay interested for long.”But it’s Lukyan’s voice, rough and true, that finally lulls me toward rest:“Don’t let her make you doubt what’s real.”
I don’t know what “real” looks like in his world. I only know that I want it. I want him—messy, complicated, dangerous as that is.
Even if it means standing in the shadow of every lover who came before me. Even if it means letting him see just how much he’s starting to matter.
Chapter Twenty-Two - Lukyan
The morning after the gala dawns gray and electric, thick with the promise of rain. I sleep less than three hours—my mind plagued by the memory of Irina’s smirk, by the ghost of Clara’s voice whispering questions I never want to answer.
I spend the first hour pacing my office, the phone pressed tight to my ear, barking orders to men who know better than to push back. It isn’t enough. I need answers.
I call Simon, my cousin and the sharpest set of eyes in the Bratva—a man who could track a whisper across continents. He arrives with his usual calm: crisp white shirt, silver hair neatly combed, eyes alert beneath heavy lids.
I know him too well, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the table, betray his worry.
I pour two coffees—one for him, black as midnight, and one for myself, though I know I won’t drink it. He accepts the mug with a grateful nod and gets right to business, his voice pitched low, for me alone.
“Ivan’s moving quietly,” Simon says, spreading a thin folder on the table between us. “No chatter, no obvious contacts. He’s here, in the city. Slipped past customs with a new name and a cleaner trail than usual. He’s got money, backup, and patience. I’ll find him.”
I scan the grainy photographs—streets, cars, blurred faces at a distance—and try to suppress the anger simmering beneath my skin. Simon’s words should comfort me. They don’t. Ivan’s patience is legendary, and patience in our world is more dangerous than any show of force.
“I want him before he finds a way in,” I say, voice clipped. “I want to know who he talks to, where he eats, where he sleeps.”
Simon’s gaze flickers to mine, steady as ever. “You think he’ll come for her?”
I don’t answer. The answer is obvious.
He nods once, understanding. “I’ll put my best on it.”
As he leaves, the unease lingers, thick and restless, crawling beneath my skin. Every instinct screams at me to keep Clara within arm’s reach. She’s the one thing in this world that’s not replaceable. The one thing Ivan could use to bring me to my knees.
I make my way to the kitchen, footsteps silent on the old floors. As I push the door open, I pause.
Clara stands at the counter, barefoot, her hair a wild tangle, one shoulder exposed by the crooked drape of her shirt. She’s rummaging for coffee with the single-minded desperation of a woman at war with the morning.
For a heartbeat, I just watch her—how out of place she looks in this house full of secrets, how utterly at home she is in the sunlight.
She mutters something when she burns her finger on the kettle, then yanks open a cupboard, scowling at the empty shelf.
Before I can stop myself, I smile. It sneaks up on me, that sudden warmth. There’s a softness in her frustration, a comfort I haven’t felt in years, and the ache in my chest is almost pleasant.
She glances up and catches me staring. Her eyes narrow with suspicion, curiosity twitching at the corners of her mouth. “What?”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to touch her. “Nothing,” I say, though inside, everything is too loud, every worry, every threat, every memory of her body tangled in mine.
She cocks her head, stepping around the island, mug in hand. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I mutter, but the words come out softer than I intend.
She gives a skeptical snort, setting her mug on the counter. “You’re always intense. There’s a difference.”
I study her, letting the silence fill with questions. For a moment, I want to tell her everything—about Ivan, about Simon, about the gnawing dread that’s been haunting me since last night.
Instead, I just watch the way she stands, toes curling into the tile, arms folded over her chest.
