“Did you sleep?” she asks, her voice unexpectedly gentle.
“A little.”
She rolls her eyes. “Liar.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She smiles, small and crooked, then turns away to fuss with the kettle. I watch the way the sunlight catches the curve of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth. It would be so easy to pull her close, to hold her there and never let her go. The knowledge of Ivan’s presence—of how close danger truly is—keeps me rooted.
I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
She freezes, spoon hovering over the sugar bowl. “About Irina?”
“No.” I see the flicker of relief in her shoulders, though she tries to hide it. “About Ivan. He’s here. In the city.”
She goes still. Her eyes flick to mine, wide but unafraid. “What do you need me to do?”
I swallow the answer that rises—run, hide, disappear.Instead, I cross the kitchen, placing my hand on her waist, steady and sure.
“Stay close. Don’t go anywhere alone. Trust me, even when you don’t want to.”
She nods, the steel in her spine unmistakable. “I’m not leaving.”
Something inside me eases at her answer. I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough for her to sigh, to relax into my touch.
“Coffee?” she asks, breaking the tension with a half smile.
“Please,” I say, and let her fuss over the mug, watching her move with an ease I never expected to find in my life.
For a few moments, I let myself pretend. I let myself enjoy the warmth, the ordinary ritual, the quiet laughter in her eyes. The world outside can wait—just for now.
As the morning stretches, I know I can’t hold her close forever. Ivan is coming, and I will kill him, or die trying, before I ever let him take her from me.
She hands me the mug, fingers brushing mine, and for the first time all morning, I feel a flicker of hope, dangerous, but real.
Maybe love isn’t a weakness after all. Maybe, in a world like mine, it’s the only thing worth fighting for.
***
Later, Clara insists on going out—a stubborn spark in her eyes I’ve learned not to underestimate. She squares off in the foyer, hair still damp from her shower, a canvas bag slung over her arm.
“Groceries,” she says, voice calm but unyielding. “There’s nothing left in the pantry but flour and a can of beets. If you want dinner tonight, I’m going.”
I refuse at first, shaking my head, every instinct screaming to keep her inside where I can control the variables.“Not today,” I say. “Not with Ivan moving. We can send someone.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a prisoner. I’m not hiding.” There’s a flicker of challenge in her eyes—softened by something pleading. “I need air, Lukyan. Please.”
The word hits me harder than it should. After a moment’s hesitation, I relent. “Fine. I’ll come with you. We take two guards.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Soon enough, we’re in the car, the guards shadowing us with the discretion that comes from years of practice. Clara sits with her arms folded, lips pressed into a stubborn line, but when she sees the old market through the window, her posture relaxes a little.
The market is chaos: bright awnings, vendors shouting over piles of glistening fruit, narrow aisles thick with people. The scent of spices and earth and fresh bread swirls around us. I stay close, scanning every face, every shadow, the guards fanning out around the perimeter.
I’m tense, aware of every jostle, every brush of movement, but Clara… she blooms. She threads through the stalls, plucking tomatoes, smelling herbs, pausing to listen to an old woman hawk jars of honey.
She teases me for the first time in days. “You look like a bodyguard, not a husband,” she says, poking my chest as I hover behind her. “Come on. Pick something.”
I frown at the produce, unable to tell a ripe peach from one about to rot. “This one?” I ask, holding up an apple, uncertain.
