“I don’t want to be hidden,” she whispers. “I won’t live in the shadows, Lukyan. If you want me here, you need to let me be here. Not just for your convenience.”
Her words sting, because she’s right. I want to protect her, but I can’t deny what it looks like from her side. I’ve built a life around secrecy and survival; I don’t know how to let someone in, not all the way.
Still, I nod, swallowing what’s left of my pride. “You deserve more than that,” I manage. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
She studies me, searching for the lie, then nods. The anger in her fades, replaced by something more vulnerable—hope, maybe, or something like it.
We don’t speak after that. There’s no need. The moment hangs between us, heavy with promise and threat. I know something has changed, that this—whatever it is—has crossed a line we can’t come back from.
Later, when she leaves the gym, I linger behind, the taste of her still on my lips. I know my men will talk. I know they’ll say I’ve lost my edge, that she’s the weakness I swore I’d never have.
Let them talk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Clara
The days that follow feel strange, drawn out and compressed all at once, like time is folding in on itself. Mornings slip by in a hush, the house too big for two people with so many secrets between them.
I keep finding Lukyan in places I never expect—a shadow in the doorway, a silent figure on the phone at dawn, eyes hard as stone one minute and softening when he catches me watching.
There are moments when I can’t decide what unsettles me more: the memory of his mouth on mine, or how easy it’s become to want that again.
At breakfast, he’s already dressed for the day, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand comes up, absently, to rest on the table near mine. Close enough I can feel the heat of his skin, close enough to make my heart beat faster.
“I’ll handle it. No mistakes this time,” he says, voice flat and final. When the call ends, the silence hangs too heavy with everything we’re not saying.
He finally glances at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “You don’t have to look so tense.”
I shrug, poking at my food. “Hard not to. You’re always two seconds away from breaking someone’s arm.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Only when they deserve it.”
A long beat passes, neither of us touching the tension lingering between us. I wonder if he knows how much I see. The way his jaw clenches when news is bad. How he checks the windows, the doors, as if expecting betrayal at every turn. I used to think that was paranoia.
Now I understand it’s just survival.
When he leaves, I find myself drifting through the house—half in search of distraction, half in search of him. I run into Tatiana, the housekeeper, in the upstairs hall. She’s older, hair pulled tight, movements brisk and economical, but her eyes soften when she sees me.
She sets down a stack of towels and nods. “He’s gone out?”
“Warehouse meeting,” I say, repeating the words I heard Lukyan mutter an hour before. “He doesn’t really talk about it.”
Tatiana smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “He never has. Not since he was a boy.”
I lean against the banister, curiosity winning over caution. “Has he always been like this?”
She hesitates, folding a towel with unnecessary care. “Not always. He was a sweet child. Quiet. Too clever for his own good. Lost his father early. His mother… well, she didn’t last long after that.”
There’s a lump in my throat. I swallow it down. “What happened?”
Her hands pause. “This world takes things from you, Mrs. Sharov. Friends. Family. He learned early that trust costs blood. Every betrayal left a scar.”
Her words linger, reshaping the image I carry of Lukyan in my head. I picture the boy he must have been: clever, watchful, learning too soon that love can hurt more than fists. I wonder if he even remembers what softness feels like.
Later, I find myself at the window, watching the driveway for the gleam of his car. It’s stupid, I tell myself. Stockholm syndrome, some therapist would say. The world outside feels impossibly far away… another life, another Clara. When Lukyanreturns, I hear his boots on the stairs, the sound heavy, measured. I pretend not to notice him, but I feel him behind me, the air shifting as he comes closer. His hand grazes my lower back—a fleeting touch, but it lights a fuse under my skin.
“You spend all day staring out windows?” he asks, voice pitched low.
I turn to face him, trying for casual. “You keep the place locked up tight. I have to get my fresh air somewhere.”
