She laughs—genuine, bright, the sound cutting through the haze of nerves. “No, that’s bruised. Give it here.”
She swaps it for a perfect one, her fingers brushing mine. I watch her, memorizing the curve of her smile, the flush in her cheeks, the way she moves through the world as if she belongs to it and not to me.
We linger at a bakery stall, she picks out bread, asks for too many pastries, nudges me until I finally taste one. Her laughter sticks with me, the sound warm and fragile, a reminder of everything I want to protect.
I step away for a moment to take a call—Simon again, terse and efficient, his voice a thin line of tension. “Ivan’s been spotted in the east docks. He’s watching, but he’s not moving yet.”
“Tell me the moment that changes,” I say, eyes never leaving Clara.
When I turn back, everything snaps.
A man in a gray coat has brushed too close—an ordinary man, by all appearances, but I see his hand move toward Clara’s bag, his body angled just a hair too close, too purposeful. She doesn’t notice—she’s laughing at a joke the baker’s made, oblivious to the shadow creeping near.
Rage explodes in my chest before thought can intervene. In two strides I have the man by the collar, slamming him into the brick wall behind the stall. My hand presses into his throat, my voice a low snarl. “You think you can touch her?”
He sputters in terror, hands raised, face blanching. “I… I was just! Please!”
I don’t hear him. My grip tightens. The world shrinks to the thrum of fear, the need to destroy anything that threatens her.
The guards grab me, pulling me back before I can go too far. The man flees, stumbling through the crowd, cursing in confusion and terror.
Shoppers stare, whispers rise, and Clara stands frozen, bread in hand, eyes wide and stunned—not by the scene, but by the cold precision she’s seen in me.
I hate being here, but Clara needs some normalcy. She likes to cook her own meals, do her own shopping. Even if maids could easily wait on her hand and foot, it’s something I won’t deprive her of.
I smooth a hand through my hair, chest heaving, as the guards close ranks around us. The market’s color seems to fade, the air heavier, the laughter and warmth of minutes before now a distant echo.
We pile into the car, groceries forgotten, the city blurring by. The silence is thick—each of us lost in the aftermath.
She stares out the window, fingers tight in her lap, jaw set. I watch her from the corner of my eye, anger and guilt tangling in my chest.
Finally, she speaks, quiet, but sharp as a blade. “You can’t think everything is danger, Lukyan. Not everyone is Ivan.”
I clench my jaw, the old instincts warring with the new tenderness I can’t quite name. “I can when it comes to you.”
She looks away, eyes shining with something I can’t read—hurt, confusion, maybe even understanding. The truth hangs between us, too raw to touch.
The rest of the ride is silent. I want to reach for her, to explain, to tell her that every heartbeat since I met her has been a fight between wanting to protect and wanting to let her breathe.
I say nothing.
When we reach the house, she gets out first, bag clutched to her chest, walking quickly up the steps. I follow, each footstep echoing with regret.
Inside, she disappears into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. I stand in the hall, hands clenched, unsure of how to fix what I’ve broken with my own fear.
I want to give her space. I want to hold her so close that nothing—not Ivan, not memory, not my own darkness—can ever reach her.
Instead, I just listen to the quiet sounds from the kitchen: the clink of dishes, the sigh of breath, the world slowly, painfully, returning to ordinary.
Nothing between us feels ordinary now. Not after what she saw in my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Clara
After the chaos at the market, the house feels charged—every corner humming with memories I can’t set down. I try to distract myself with chores, with tidying, even with baking bread I never finish.
None of it helps. My thoughts keep circling back to the man who pinned a stranger to the wall for standing too close, to the man whose hands both protect and suffocate.
I retreat to my room, dig out the battered notebook that once held outlines and ambition. Now, it’s become something else: confession, therapy, proof that I haven’t lost myself completely. My handwriting is messy, the lines jagged. I fill the pages with half-truths and tangled feelings:
