He steps in, closing the distance. His presence fills the space between us, but there’s a question in his eyes I haven’t seen before.
“You could ask to go out.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Would you say yes?”
He considers this, mouth twisting. “Maybe.”
I want to laugh, but it sticks in my chest. Instead, I ask, “Are you always going to keep me locked up? Am I your prisoner, or something else?”
He studies me, like he’s searching for the answer himself. “You’re not a prisoner, Clara. You’re… important. That means I protect you. Whether you want it or not.”
I should hate that—the way he commands, the way he decides for both of us. I want to hate it. When he looks at me, there’s something vulnerable flickering beneath the armor. Not fear. Not even regret. It’s loneliness, so deep it aches to look at.
His thumb brushes my wrist, the smallest touch, and I realize how easy it would be to lean in, to let the space collapse between us again.
I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I step back, needing to breathe.
That night, I eat dinner in the kitchen with Tatiana. She tells me little things: Lukyan once broke a rival’s hand for cheating his mother out of a paycheck; he spent years earningloyalty from men who would turn on him for a price; he trusts no one, not even her, not completely. She calls him stubborn. Broken. But not heartless.
In bed, I lie awake, replaying the day in pieces. I remember the way Lukyan’s gaze caught mine at breakfast, dark and searching, as if he could see every thought I tried to hide. I remember the press of his hand at my back, the way it didn’t scare me, not like I expected. I remember the taste of his mouth, hard and unyielding, the way he kissed me like he was trying to burn a question out of my head.
I should hate him for all of this. For the control, the confinement, the endless chess game he makes of every day. I should hate him, and maybe part of me still does.
Hate doesn’t explain the way my heart twists when he passes me in the hall, or the way my body aches to be close to him, to touch the man beneath the mask.
It isn’t fear anymore. It’s understanding. Fragile, dangerous understanding.
I close my eyes and promise myself I won’t let him inside any further. When I finally fall asleep, it’s his name that drifts through my dreams, and I know I’ve already lost that fight.
***
The rain comes down in thin silver lines, blurring the city into something dreamlike. I find him on the balcony, a silhouette framed by the spill of amber light through the open doors. He stands with his back to me, broad shoulders squared, one hand braced on the rail while the other holds a cigar.
Smoke drifts in slow spirals, catching the glow of the streetlights below. I watch him for a moment, letting myself see the whole of him: Lukyan Sharov, Bratva boss, feared by menwho would gut each other for his favor. Here, now, he looks untouchable—like the city belongs to him and always has.
I step out, bare feet silent on cold tile. The night air is sharp, full of wet concrete and distant traffic, a faint sweetness from the garden below. I shiver, but not from the cold. Something about the way he stands, so completely alone in the middle of his empire, makes my heart pound in my throat.
He doesn’t turn, but I know he senses me. He always does. I hover by the doorway, fingers curling around the edge of my sweater, gathering my courage.
“You smoke when you’re thinking,” I say, voice quiet. The words feel strange, almost too intimate, but I can’t keep them inside.
His shoulders stiffen, then relax. “Sometimes it helps.” He glances back at me, dark eyes catching the city’s glow, unreadable and old. “Sometimes it’s habit.”
I cross the balcony, standing beside him but not too close. There’s a thin space between us, charged and delicate. I can see the city in the distance, past the house’s grounds.
For a while, I say nothing. Neither does he.
Then, because I can’t stand not knowing, I ask the question that’s been gnawing at me since the moment I first saw him through the bars of my captivity.
“Who would you be without all this?” My voice is steadier than I expect, but my hands shake at my sides.
He’s silent, cigar burning low between his fingers, embers painting his knuckles red. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at the city, at the world he’s carved out with his own blood and will.
“I don’t know anymore,” he says. The words are almost a whisper, so low I barely catch them. “Maybe I never did.”
Something in me breaks quietly at that. Not shattering, not the sharp pain of fear or anger. It’s a softer ache—like the moment before you cry, when all you can do is feel the weight of what’s been lost. I see not just the man who holds me captive, not the monster everyone else fears, but the boy he used to be. The boy Tatiana told me about—clever, lonely, taught by the world to survive at any cost.
I wonder if he even remembers what it felt like to want something for himself, just because it made him happy, not because it made him safe.
