I stand at last, slow and unsteady, and rest my palm on the door.
“Forgive me,” I whisper, voice rough. “For everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Five - Clara
Days in the mansion stretch long, thick as honey, every moment heavy with tension. My world has shrunk to the pattern of Lukyan’s footsteps in the hall, the sound of his voice through half-open doors, the way he says my name—soft, private, lower than he uses with anyone else.
I try to lose myself in books, in routine, in anything that isn’t him, but somehow I find myself orbiting his presence.
I pretend to read just outside his study, eavesdropping on the cadence of his Russian when he thinks I’m not listening. I invent errands that take me down the hall when I know he’ll be there, catching the subtle shift in the air as I brush past.
Every time he glances at me, heat coils low in my belly. I hate how much I notice him, how every look feels like a dare.
The frustration is maddening. I tell myself it’s just the confinement, just the odd intimacy forced by a world that’s narrowed to stone walls and locked gates.
The truth is I’m hyperaware of everything he does, every small softness that doesn’t fit the legend I imagined before I came here. It’s the little things that undo me—how his jaw tenses when he’s thinking, the way he watches over everyone even as he pretends not to care.
Then the storm comes. Dark clouds swallow the city, turning afternoon to dusk. Rain lashes the windows, thunder shakes the glass.
When the power flickers out, all that’s left is the firelight in the library, shadows dancing on old wood. I settle in with a Russian novel I can barely follow, trying to let the sound of rain and the smell of smoke distract me from the restlessness inside.
He finds me like this, hunched in a pool of lamplight, blanket thrown over my knees. The door opens quietly, and I look up to see Lukyan carrying a candle, its flame flickering over the sharp angles of his face. He’s all shadows and heat, the bruise at his jaw only half healed.
“Found your hiding place,” he teases, voice softer than I expect. “Didn’t peg you for the type to run from a little thunder.”
I arch a brow, heart pounding though I pretend indifference. “Someone has to look after your precious books. With the way you run this house, I figured you’d appreciate someone keeping things in line.”
He grins. A real one, rare and crooked, almost boyish. “Is that what you think I do? Keep things in line?”
I toss the novel onto the table, shrugging as if it’s nothing. “It’s all you ever do. Control everything. Everyone. If you could, you’d even boss around the weather.”
He steps closer, firelight gilding his hair, making him look both softer and more dangerous at once. “Maybe I like knowing where the danger is. Maybe I like knowing who to protect.”
I snort, trying to mask my nerves. “You mean who to boss around.”
His gaze sharpens, but he’s still smiling, a glint in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I move to the window, watching the rain blur the city into watery streaks, arms folded tight across my chest. “Maybe it is. Maybe you should try letting someone else take charge for once.”
He’s silent a moment, then I hear the creak of the sofa as he sits, sprawling like a king in his domain. “Would you want that?” His tone is teasing, but I hear something underneath—curiosity, maybe even hope.
I glance back, letting him see the challenge in my eyes. “Would you?”
He laughs, rough and warm, the sound skating over my skin. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”
We sit in silence, thunder cracking above, the fire painting the bookshelves gold. I pretend to read again, but really I’m waiting. Waiting for him to fill the distance, to break the tension that’s grown almost unbearable.
He doesn’t let me hide. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m not the only one who likes control, Clara.”
Heat rushes up my neck. “Maybe I just don’t like being ordered around.”
He smirks, his gaze burning. “Maybe you like the fight. Maybe you need someone who won’t let you run.”
His words hit something deep inside me. I glance away, heart pounding. “Maybe I do.”
His low laugh fills the space between us, unexpected and strangely disarming. I shouldn’t feel comforted by it, but I do.
It softens the sharpness of the moment, but somehow makes the tension worse—closer, heavier, like the storm pressing against the windows. My breath comes quick and shallow, syncing unconsciously to the rhythm of rain and thunder.
