I clench my fists, the pain a reminder that I’m still alive.
For now.
When I return home, the house feels too bright, too clean—like it knows something ugly is about to stain the floors. My boots leave dark prints on the marble, but I don’t care. I want to slip upstairs, to hide the blood on my hands and the ache in my chest before Clara can see the worst of me.
She’s there, waiting in the hallway, framed in lamplight and shadow. She wears a pale robe knotted at her waist, hair loose, eyes wide as they take me in: my torn shirt, the split in my knuckles, the fresh blood drying at my wrists. For a long moment, we only stare at each other. I see questions flicker behind her eyes, but she doesn’t speak.
I stop in the middle of the rug, suddenly exhausted. She comes closer, slow and steady, as if approaching a wild animal, though she knows by now that it’s not her I’d ever hurt. I expect her to flinch, to recoil. She does neither.
Without a word, she reaches for the towel I’m holding. Her hands close over mine, gentle but determined, and she begins to wipe the blood away. The towel is soft, the water cold. She works carefully, pressing the cloth to my knuckles, watching the stains fade from skin but never quite disappear from memory.
I want to say something—warn her off, apologize, beg her to turn away from all this darkness—but nothing comes out except a rough whisper: “You shouldn’t have to see this.”
She pauses, fingers tightening on my hand. Her voice, when it comes, is steady but trembles just enough to betray what’s underneath. “Then stop making me watch.”
There’s no anger, no theatrical accusation. Just a plea, raw and vulnerable. My breath stutters in my chest. I’ve faced men with guns, knives, hate in their eyes, but nothing has ever undone me like this—her steady touch, her simple, human disappointment.
She dabs at the blood on my wrist, lifts my hand to the light. “Does it hurt?” she asks quietly, almost as if she’s talking about something deeper than bruises and wounds.
“Not as much as it should,” I manage.
She presses her lips together, the silence thickening. I could pull her close, let her warmth drive out the cold, the guilt. I want to more than anything, but I force myself to hold still. I can’t bring her into this. Not after tonight.
She finishes with the towel and lets my hand go, turning away before I can see if she’s crying. The hallway is quiet, only the sound of her breath and the distant ticking of the old clock.
“Thank you,” I say, and it sounds like defeat.
She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. “Just… try not to make it a habit.” The words are a shield, but her voice wavers. I know she cares more than she wants me to see.
I watch her disappear down the corridor, the echo of her footsteps fading into the hush. For a while, I just stand there, staring at the bloodstained towel in my hands, the ache in my chest sharper than any blade.
***
That night, I wander the house, restless and raw. The staff avoid my gaze. The rooms are dark and echoing, every oldpainting and shadowed corner reminding me of the man I’m supposed to be—ruthless, untouchable.
I can still feel Clara’s hands on mine, the gentleness of her touch burning through every scar.
When the house has finally settled, I find myself outside her door. I shouldn’t be here. I should sleep, or drink, or disappear into the empty spaces I’ve always kept for myself. I can’t stay away.
I lower myself to the floor, back against the wall, bruised hands dangling between my knees. I listen for her: the creak of the mattress, the slow, uncertain breaths she takes when she can’t sleep. I wonder if she knows I’m here—if she’s awake, thinking of me, hating me, hoping for something better.
The scent of blood clings to my skin. I could go back downstairs, scrub my hands raw, wash every trace of violence away. The truth is, it’s not the blood on my knuckles that haunts me. It’s the blood she saw. It’s the way she looked at me—sad, steady, loving enough to try to save me, but strong enough not to pretend she can.
The restraint nearly kills me. I want to open her door, pull her into my arms, confess everything. Instead, I force myself to stay. Punishment and devotion, penance for the life I can’t leave and the woman I want to deserve.
I sit there as the hours crawl by, the chill of the floor seeping into my bones, the house settling around us like an old promise I’ve never kept. I think of Pavel’s betrayal, of Ivan’s shadow on my world, of every choice that led me here—to this door, this pain, this impossible hope.
When the first gray light of dawn creeps under the crack, I am still there, keeping watch, holding the line between love andruin. For her, I’ll do it every night if I have to.
If this is what love costs, I’ll pay it again and again.
Dawn filters in silver and thin through the cracks beneath her door. My body aches from the fight and the cold, but I don’t move. It feels right to stay, an unspoken apology, a vigil, a penance I can’t voice. From inside her room, I hear the faintest shift of bedsheets, a sigh, and the soft rhythm of her breathing as she slips in and out of sleep.
I press my bruised knuckles to my lips, closing my eyes against the ache that isn’t physical. Every instinct tells me to run, to hide what I am from her.
I stay, because I can’t leave—not when she’s the only good thing I have left.
The hallway is quiet, the rest of the house slowly waking. Soon, the staff will start their day, and the mask I wear for the world will slip back into place. For these last few moments, I let myself be honest—just a man, wounded and wanting, tethered to the only person who’s ever seen the blood on my hands and still dared to reach for me.
