"Ourson," I repeat. "He's sleeping. Next. Door."
58
Leonid
She freezes. Lips press tight.
I wait for the fight. The denial. Instead, her hands drop from my shoulders. Trembling.
“Look at me,” I say.
"Leonid..." Her voice cracks. She won't meet my eyes.
She’s trying to escape, but I don’t let her. I grip her chin, forcing her head up, “Look at me,Krasotka.”
She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. When she meets my eyes, they're empty.
" … I don't know what I'm supposed to do now." A whisper escapes. Her brows draw together as if she’s bracing for impact, her lips parting just enough for a shallow, uneven breath.
"You don't have to know." I say. I pull her closer, closing the small space between us, my hand still holding her chin.
"That's over. Let me take care of everything."
Her breath catches.
I hold her face, her eyes on mine.“You and Elijah are staying. I’m not gonna let you go.”
Her eyebrows furrow with frustration, but no words come out. My grip on her tightens as I make my intentions clear: “He’s my son.”
Her lips quiver, her eyes glassy, and I feel her body tense under my grip. She’s trying to summon the fight I know she has in her, but it’s buried too deep right now.
“What am I supposed to say to that?” she whispers, “What do you expect me to do?”
I tilt my head, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “Say what you want. But you already know you’re not leaving.” My thumb grazes her jaw, a small movement that’s more instinct than thought.
“You’ve spent years trying to keep him from me, Clara. Now, you’ll spend the rest of your life making sure that never happens again.”
Clara narrows her eyes, studying me like she’s trying to decide whether to fight or fold.
She doesn’t look scared, which is annoying. She should be—she’s backed into a corner—but instead, she looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m bluffing.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yes,” I reply, deadpan.
Her lip quirks. “A tyrant.”
“Obviously.” My thumb brushes the edge of her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, despite how tense she is. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” she says, tilting her head slightly, just enough to make me wonder if she’s going to slap me or kiss me. “You’re also incredibly full of yourself.”
“I’m Russian,” I say, like it explains everything. It kind of does.
She snorts. Nothing ladylike about it. A second later, she curses under her breath, one hand pressing to her side as the laugh makes her ribcage ache.
“You know,” she says, her lips curving in a way that’s half smile, half sneer, “I don’t even know who you are.”
“You’re like… I don’t know. Like Cinderella, maybe?”
