The house settles, old bones creaking. The smell of dust and old cigarettes creeps in through the vent. Someone laughs in the hallway—one sharp, nervous bark, cut off almost instantly. I wonder if the guards are as scared as I am, if they’re waiting for news or an order that never comes.
I wish I could scream. I wish I could run.
Instead, I sit on the bed again, legs curled up, arms wrapped tight around my knees. I bury my face in the soft, borrowed fabric of Lukyan’s old sweatshirt. It still smells like him, though fainter now: soap, gun oil, something spicy and dark. I breathe it in and try to hold myself together.
I almost don’t hear the car when it pulls up outside—engine running too long, headlights splashing across thewindow. The voices rise, sharp and urgent, boots pounding up the porch. My heart leaps into my throat. I stumble to my feet, already moving before I know why.
The front door slams open. Someone yells. My body goes cold, bracing for the worst.
Then I see him.
He fills the doorway, blood on his knuckles, shirt half torn, eyes wild and electric with life. He looks bigger than I remember—more dangerous, more real. For a second, I can’t breathe at all.
“Clara—” His voice is raw, the only word I need.
I cross the room before he finishes, every ounce of fear and hope unraveling in a rush. I slam into him, arms locking tight around his chest, barely noticing the dampness, the warmth of blood seeping through his clothes. I press my face against his neck and let myself shake.
Relief hits so hard I almost sob.
He holds me, solid and strong, anchoring me to the floor, the moment, the world. Everything I’ve been holding back breaks loose, pouring out in uneven breaths.
“I thought…” My voice shatters. I cling tighter, unable to say the rest. I thought you wouldn’t come back.
He smells like rain and gunpowder and sweat. His hands come up, cradling my back, warm and gentle in a way I haven’t let myself imagine.
All the dread, all the restless helplessness of the past hours, dissolves in the space between us. I don’t care about the blood, the mess, the silent guards still lurking in the hall. He’s here.
He’s alive.
I bury my face in the rough fabric of his shirt, still half wild with relief, the memory of waiting clawing up my throat. I don’t care about the blood on my hands or the bruises along his jaw. I only care that he’s here, solid and alive, his arms heavy around my shoulders, holding me like he needs to be sure I’m real too.
“Clara—” He tries to step back, but I won’t let him. My arms lock tighter. My voice comes out broken, raw from hours of useless hope. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, trying to soften the moment. “What, worried about me now? I told you, nothing in this city can kill me.”
His words brush past me, meant to tease, to downplay what just happened. I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyelids. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it was nothing. I waited for hours, and every time a car drove past I thought—”
My throat closes. I force the words out anyway, the fear in me spilling over and refusing to be neat. “I thought you wouldn’t come back. I thought you’d leave me here with nothing but your men and your silence.”
He moves to protest, some smug reply ready, but I cut him off, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I love you, you impossible man.”
The confession shocks us both. I feel it—how the room changes, how he stiffens for just a second, then goes utterly still. For a heartbeat, there’s only the sound of my pulse in my ears, the hard rhythm of his heart beneath my palms.
He pulls back far enough to look at me, really look at me, his brows drawn low and dark, mouth parted as if I’ve struck him. The silence hangs, thick and heavy, more intimate than any touch.
I swipe at my face, embarrassed by the tears. I want to take the words back, but I can’t, not now. I don’t look away, not from him, not from this.
“I do,” I whisper, quieter now, but steadier. “I love you. I couldn’t stand it, not knowing if you’d ever come back.”
For a moment, he only stares at me, his expression unreadable. I can see the battle inside him, the pride and fear and stubbornness all tangled up in the eyes I’ve come to know better than my own reflection.
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs gentle against my cheeks, his touch so careful it makes my breath hitch. He studies me like he’s memorizing the lines of my face, every freckle, every tear. I see his jaw work, something breaking free behind the hard set of his mouth.
Then, quietly, in a voice softer than I’ve ever heard, he says, “Me too, sweetheart.”
It isn’t flashy, isn’t some grand declaration. The words slip between us like a secret, as fragile and real as the trembling in his hands. His thumbs brush the last of my tears away, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I love you,” he repeats, voice rough. “More than I should. More than I ever thought I could.”
