“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “For hurting you. For not stopping it sooner. For all of it.” I pull her closer. “
“Shhh…moya dorogaya,” I murmur softly, My dear. My everything.
Her fingers tighten on me, but she doesn’t pull away. Her tears soak through my jacket, and I don’t care. I’ll take it all—her grief, her anger, her pain—if it means I can give her even a fraction of peace."He's not your killer. He's the father of your nephew.”
Clara shifts slightly, pulling away just enough to face the grave again. Her voice cracks as she speaks, her words trembling in the still air. “Elijah has your smile, Jake,” she says, her fingers brushing the edge of the stone. “Did you know that? The samedeep dimple you had. The one that made everyone think you weren’t carrying the weight of the world.”
She laughs bitterly, her breath hitching. “But you were, weren’t you? You always were. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any of it. I hated all the wrong people.” Her voice wavers, and she presses her palm flat against the marble. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jake.”
My heart constricts at the mention of our son. At everything we lost to Stephan's lies. Everything we might still have.
I reach for her, my hands gentle as I turn her to face me fully. My thumb brushes a stray tear from her cheek, and for a moment, the world shrinks to just this—just us.
Clara pulls back slightly, tear-streaked face lifting to mine. The last light paints her skin gold, catches in her eyes like fire. The words escape before I can cage them:
"I love you, Clara Caldwell. Marry me."
70
Clara
Just act normal. Just act normal.Just. Act. Normal.
The garage door hums closed behind us, the sound echoing off gleaming black epoxy floors that reflect our distorted images like dark mirrors. My hands shake slightly as I fumble with my helmet strap.
Why won't it—Ugh.
The clasp is stuck, because of course it is, and I'm probably turning purple trying to—
"Let me." Leonid's voice rumbles close to my ear, and suddenly his hands are there, warm and steady against my neck. I freeze.
He loves me. Helovesme.
He wants to marry me.Marry me?Is that even real?
Because that’s insane. Absurd. Completely unhinged.
His fingers brush my skin as he works the clasp free, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact. Of his chest barely inches from mine. Of the way he smells like leather and wind andhim.
The helmet comes loose, and I stumble back a step. My hair tumbles free, probably a mess, and I try to smooth it with trembling fingers.Get it together, Clara.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
I sound like a teenager.
Ifeellike a teenager, all racing pulse and butterflies, which is ridiculous because I'm a grown woman and a mother and—
"Clara."
I realize I’ve been staring at the Ferrari 812 Superfast as if its matte red finish holds the secrets of the universe. Leonid hasn’t moved. He’s watching me with those chocolate eyes, intensity rolling off him in waves. My knees feel weak.
Traitors.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says softly.
A laugh bubbles up, slightly hysterical. “Well, someone just dropped quite a bomb on me back there, so excuse me if I’m a little—” I wave my hands vaguely, nearly dropping my helmet.
He catches it easily, setting it on a nearby workbench without taking his eyes off me. The garage lights catch the planes of his face, throwing shadows that make him look carved from marble. It’s unfair how beautiful he is. Unfair how his simple black t-shirt stretches across shoulders that could carry the weight of empires. Unfair how he’s looking at me like—
