The world shrinks to the space between us. The tension, the fear, the questions that haunted every hour apart—they all melt away as I lean into his touch. He presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes. His breath ghosts over my lips, and for a moment neither of us moves.
I feel the shudder run through him, the exhale that empties something heavy from his chest. He holds me like I’m the only thing that matters, not Bratva or betrayal or the blood drying on his knuckles.
We stand there, two broken pieces pressed together, letting the silence hold us. There’s no promise of safety, no neat ending. But I don’t need that. I only need this—his arms around me, the truth laid bare in the dark, the knowledge that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
My hands find the back of his neck, pulling him down. Our lips meet, not desperate, not hurried, just… real. A soft, shivering kiss that feels like starting over. He tastes like sweat and smoke and something sweeter underneath, a softness he shows only to me.
When we part, he rests his hand over my heart, feeling the wild flutter there. “We’re not safe yet,” he murmurs, “but I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
“I know.” I nod, the last of my tears drying on my cheeks. “I’m not leaving either.”
We stand together, wrapped in each other, the rest of the world falling away. All the chaos and violence that brought us here narrows to this—one moment, imperfect and true. There is no forever promised, no peace given.
Thereisthis: his hands in my hair, my arms at his waist, two people who survived, and might even learn how to live.
The fear isn’t gone, but it’s different now. It’s softer.
Epilogue - Lukyan
The world is still dark when I wake. Years of discipline—of nights spent waiting for gunshots, mornings spent planning my next move—have trained my body to rise before the sun. Even now, with the city hushed beyond the glass and no enemy at my door, my eyes open in the quiet hour before dawn.
Habit tells me to reach for the pistol in the drawer, to scan the room for shadows, to brace for the rush of another day’s demands.
I don’t. Not today.
Instead, my hand drifts across the sheets and finds Clara. She’s curled on her side, hair tangled across her pillow, her breathing soft and even. The covers have slipped low on her shoulder, leaving a bare patch of skin kissed gold by the first thin edge of morning.
I stay still, letting myself take her in—this small, impossible thing I once called a weakness, now the only peace I know.
The room is quiet. No ringing phone, no urgent messages, no shouts from the street. Only the hum of the city’s slow, early rhythm and the steady pulse of her beside me. I lie on my back for a long moment, letting the tension ebb from my body inch by inch, feeling the strangeness of it.
It’s not the sharpness of adrenaline that fills me; it’s something softer, less familiar. Contentment, maybe. Something dangerously close to hope.
Clara shifts in her sleep, sighs, and nestles closer. I wonder what she dreams about now.
There was a time when I could only imagine her nightmares—images of violence, running, never quite escapingme or the world I dragged her into. I used to lie awake, guilty and silent, wishing I could promise her safety and knowing I never truly could.
Now, watching her sleep, I realize she trusts me in ways that nobody else ever has. Not my men, not the old guard, not even the ghosts of my own family. Clara turns toward me in the night, reaches for my warmth, breathes easy with her back to my chest.
Inside these four walls, I am not the Bratva boss. I am not the monster. I am simply the man she chose.
Carefully, I turn onto my side, propping my head on one arm. The sun’s just beginning to paint the edge of her hair with fire. I reach out, fingers tracing the line of her shoulder, the gentle slope of her arm.
Her skin is warm under my hand, alive with a promise I don’t dare put into words. I touch her as if she might vanish, as if I need to remind myself that she’s here, real and impossibly close.
She stirs, not quite waking, and I pause. Even now, part of me expects her to pull away—to recoil from the scars that mark me, from the weight of what I’ve done to keep this peace. But she sighs again, turns her face toward my palm, and lets herself settle. She isn’t afraid. She never was.
That, more than anything, undoes me.
I lie there, watching her breathe, and feel something tighten in my chest. The city outside would not recognize this version of me—bare, unguarded, lingering in a rare slice of quiet with a woman who sees every crack in my armor and doesn’t flinch. The world might still curse my name, but in this apartment, with Clara’s hand in mine, I am something else. Someone else. Maybe even a man worth saving.
My thumb strokes the inside of her wrist, slow and careful, tracing the small pulse beneath her skin. I count the beats, syncing my own heart to hers, letting the morning slip in around us. The rest of the day will come soon enough: business, meetings, decisions only I can make. There will be blood sometimes, hard choices that never get easier.
For these few minutes, the only thing that matters is the warmth of Clara’s body and the fragile peace she’s brought into this place.
I study her face—softer now, the hard lines of exhaustion eased by sleep, her lips parted in a small smile. She always said I looked like a different person when I wasn’t scowling. I want to tell her she does too, but I keep the thought to myself. Some things are better left unsaid, held close and safe where no one else can touch them.
Slowly, I shift closer, letting my arm slip around her waist, pulling her back into the circle of my body. She murmurs something—my name, or just a word from a dream. I don’t answer. I just hold her, pressing my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of soap and something faintly floral.
