This is a man making a choice he was never meant to make, even after paying the price for it.
"You're terrible at being what everyone thinks you are," I say, almost laughing despite the brokenness in my voice. "The cold heir. The man who doesn't?—"
"Don't," he interrupts, but not harshly this time. "Not right now."
His thumb brushes over my knuckle, a small gesture that grounds me, reminding me I'm still here.
The boat drifts.
The fire consumes the shore.
Somewhere in the city, Boris will hear reports: cabin destroyed, property burning, bodies, explosions. He will assume we're dead because that's what makes sense.
He won't imagine we're out here on the water, bleeding, alive, furious.
He won't understand what it feels like to have nothing left to lose.
I lean my head back against the gunwale. My leg throbs with every heartbeat. My hands carry the scent of smoke, blood, and lake water.
Ivan's shoulder presses against mine, solid and warm.
We've lost the cabin.
We've lost the proof.
But we're still breathing.
And the man beside me didn't abandon me.
That's not victory.
Not yet.
But it's the first thing in my life that feels like it could become one.
17
IVAN
The gravel biteswhen I jump out.
Small stones slide under my shoes, loose and sharp. The boat's hull scrapes onto the narrow beach with a sound like teeth on bone. I push it harder than I should. The engine whines, then I kill it.
The sudden quiet hits like a physical blow.
The lake is wide here, gray-green under a washed-out sky. The far shore isn't just empty; it's indifferent. Trees stand packed tight, branches black with wet, no houses in sight.
Three miles behind us, smoke still stains the morning—a dark smear above the treeline where my refuge used to be.
If anyone saw the fire, they'll assume it ended one way. They won't assume we're here, bleeding onto somebody else's shoreline.
That's what I have left: the space between what people believe and what is true.
I look back at Maksim.
He's slumped against the gunwale, shoulder dipped, chin resting near his chest. Soot darkens the hollows around his eyes. Blood has dried in streaks along his forearm. The bandage I wrapped around his thigh is soaked through, the cloth so saturated it looks black.
His breathing is thin, controlled as men breathe when forcing their lungs to keep time with pain.
