I sank to the grass, cross-legged, breathing in the earth, listening to the soft splashes of the pond, the gentle thud of the calf’s feet, the mother’s steady rumbles.
Luna lowered her massive head, letting me scratch behind her ear.
Her skin was rough but warm. The calf flopped beside me, draping his tiny weight across my lap, trunk curling around my legs like a heavy, affectionate blanket.
I leaned back against him, careful not to crush or startle him, closing my eyes. For the first time since the chapel, since the graves, since Ruslan had carried me through the storm, I felt something close to peace.
Something close to normal.
Until the scream shattered it.
High. Piercing. Panicked. Unmistakable.
Yannis.
I scrambled to my feet. The calf squealed in confusion. Luna’s ears flared in alarm, trunk lifting in sharp arcs as she stomped the ground, sensing danger.
Bare feet pounding stone, heart hammering in my throat, I ran. I didn’t wait for a plan, didn’t think beyond the scream that had ripped my chest open.
Through the glass doors, across the polished floors, up the floating staircase that seemed impossibly steep, my lungs burning with every breath—I followed the sound.
Chapter 8
ELENA
Irushed into the room—and froze in the doorway.
Yannis was curled in Ruslan’s arms.
The sight struck me so hard I forgot how to breathe.
The little boy’s face was buried against his father’s chest, small fists twisted tightly into the front of Ruslan’s white shirt as though letting go would mean falling into some endless void.
His shoulders shook with silent aftershocks of fear, breaths hitching unevenly.
Ruslan sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, suit jacket discarded somewhere unseen, the pristine white shirt beneath now faintly creased, one cuff unbuttoned.
One arm was wrapped firmly around Yannis’s back—protective, immovable. The other hand cradled the back of his son’s head with surprising gentleness, long fingers threaded through dark hair, palm shielding him like a barrier against the world.
Ruslan’s face was carved from stone.
Unreadable. Controlled. But his body betrayed him.
Every muscle was taut, coiled like a man braced for impact. His jaw was locked, lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders squared as if he were preparing to fight something invisible. Not a rival. Not an enemy.
Loss.
The realization hit me all at once: this was not the posture of a man asserting dominance.
This was the posture of a man who had almost lost everything—and had only just understood how close he’d come.
Yannis sensed me before I made a sound.
His head lifted slowly from Ruslan’s chest. Gray eyes—red-rimmed, glassy, still swimming with terror—locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his expression flickered with confusion.
Then relief crashed through him.
Pure. Desperate. Unfiltered.
