I want to reach for him. I want to lay a hand on his arm and tell him he’s not alone in this. Instead, I stand in the hush of the balcony, listening to the rain, letting my heart pull itself apart in the silence.
“Do you ever wish it was different?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
He exhales, smoke drifting between us. “Sometimes. Not often. When I do, it hurts.”
I nod, throat tight. I understand more than I want to. There’s a part of me that will always want to run from this place—from him, from the danger, from the part of myself that is starting to crave his touch. But there’s another part, growing larger by the day, that sees the man behind the title and aches for him.
I risk another step closer. The scent of smoke and rain fills my lungs. “It’s not too late, you know. You could still—”
He cuts me off, gentle but final. “I can’t go back. Neither can you.”
His words land heavy. I look at his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the flicker of pain in his eyes that he tries to hide.I wonder what it would be like to love him freely, without the world pressing in on every side. I wonder if I already do.
The thought terrifies me. I press a hand to my chest, as if I can steady the ache growing there. I realize, all at once, that I’ve already fallen—deep enough that there’s no climbing back up. I should hate him.
I should be fighting every second to get away. Instead, I want to know if he dreams when he sleeps. I want to know what makes him laugh, what makes him afraid, what he would have become if the world had been kinder.
He stubs the cigar out on the rail, grinding the ember to ash. When he finally looks at me, his eyes are raw and unguarded.
“You should go inside,” he says softly. “It’s cold.”
I nod, but I don’t move right away. I let myself look at him a moment longer, searching for the man I saw in that fleeting, broken moment. I want to say something—anything—that might reach him, but the words won’t come. There’s nothing I can say that he would believe.
So I turn, stepping back inside, leaving the balcony door open just a crack behind me. My chest aches, hollow and full at the same time. I know now that I can’t hate him. I know that whatever happens next, I’ll never see the world the same way again.
When I lie in bed that night, the rain still tapping at the windows, I let myself imagine what it would be like to love him without fear. I let myself believe, just for a moment, that the world outside might someday be kind enough to let us try.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Lukyan
Simon’s call comes just past midnight. The house is dark except for the lamp on my desk, the world beyond the windows pressed flat and silent. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries—just spits out Ivan’s location in clipped, urgent tones. An abandoned shipyard, all the way out past the river, where the city lights die and only rats and broken things remain. It’s the kind of address that should make my skin crawl.
Instead, it makes something in my chest coil tight and hungry. Months of watching my back, months of counting bodies and sleepless nights, all for this. If it’s a trap, so be it. I want the bastard dead enough to walk straight through fire.
I don’t waste time. My hands move with the steadiness that comes from years of knowing exactly what’s needed. Glock. Backup mag. Silencer, though I doubt it will matter. The old knife from my father’s time.
In the silence, I listen to the clatter of metal, the familiar symphony of preparation. My heart thunders, not with fear, but anticipation.
I don’t hear Clara come in. Only when I snap the mag into the grip do I see her in the doorway, wrapped in a sweater, hair wild from sleep. She doesn’t look small, not anymore. There’s a fire in her eyes that makes me pause, thumb hesitating at the safety.
“Don’t go,” she says. Her voice wavers, not with weakness but with something sharper—rage, or maybe terror. “Something’s wrong.”
I slide the last round into place, checking the weight. “It ends tonight. I won’t let him circle any closer.”
She comes closer, crossing the room until the gun is between us, her hand reaching for my wrist. I could pull away. I don’t.
“It’s too easy,” she says, words tumbling fast. “You told me Ivan covers his tracks. He’s gone dark for weeks, then suddenly Simon has an address? None of his people have been seen, not even on your payroll. There’s no chatter, no warning, nothing. Why would he let himself be found now?”
I clench my jaw. “He’s desperate. He knows he’s lost.”
She shakes her head, mouth pressed in a stubborn line. “No. Ivan doesn’t think like that. He’d rather burn the city to ash than let you win. If he’s at that shipyard, he wants you there. He’s counting on you to come running.”
The words sting, because they echo somewhere inside my own mind—a suspicion I’ve been shoving aside in favor of action. I want to argue. I want to believe my way is the only way, but she’s right. Even now, she’s still looking for the angle, still turning every piece over for the detail that doesn’t fit. I look at her, really look at her, and for a second I see the journalist—sharp, relentless, unwilling to back down even when she’s terrified.
She’s shaking, but her eyes don’t leave mine. “I know you want this to be over. I want it too. Don’t walk into a trap just because you’re tired of being hunted. Think, Lukyan. Why now? Why like this?”
I can see the argument forming behind her eyes, the story she’ll write in her head if I don’t come back. I let my free hand drop to my side, the gun hanging heavy. For a moment, the room is silent but for her breath and mine.
“Simon swears it’s good,” I say, but even I can hear the thinness in my voice.
