We walk to the bedroom together. He helps me out of my robe with careful hands. Helps me into bed like I’m something precious.
Then he strips to his boxers and slides in beside me.
We lie on opposite sides of the bed. Close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Not touching, but not letting go either.
“Elena?” His voice is quiet in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“I am sorry, for what it’s worth. For the lies, for the manipulation, for everything I did based on false intelligence. I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. I just don’t know if it makes a difference,” I whisper.
“I meant what I said. I’ll earn your trust. However long it takes.”
“Okay.”
Silence stretches. I should sleep. Should let exhaustion take me. Instead, I find myself inching closer. Just slightly. Just enough that my hand brushes his.
He catches my fingers. Interlaces them with his. Holds on like I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Aleksandr
The security issue happens on a Thursday.
A credible threat against the Moscow estate—nothing immediate, but enough that Viktor insists on relocating until the situation is neutralized. I have a secondary property outside the city, smaller but equally secure.
Elena accepts the news with her usual composure. Packs a bag without complaint. Sits quietly in the car while Viktor drives us through Moscow traffic.
The car is too small. Too enclosed. The space between us feels suffocating despite us not touching.
She stares out the window, hand resting on the barely visible swell of her belly. Six weeks pregnant now. Not showing yet except to someone who knows where to look.
I know where to look.
I watch her profile, the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the careful blankness of her expression. Watch her trace absent patterns on her stomach, soothing a child she hasn’t fully acknowledged yet.
The need to touch her claws through my chest. To close the distance. To make her look at me instead of through me.
“Elena,” I say quietly.
“Yes?” Polite. Distant.
“Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The formality of it makes something twist in my gut. We’re back to this. To careful politeness and strategic distance. To her treating me like a captor instead of—
Instead of what? Her husband? The father of her child? The man who admitted he can’t let her go even knowing everything he did wrong?
“Talk to me,” I say.
“We are talking.”
“You know what I mean.”
She finally looks at me. Her expression is carefully neutral. “What would you like to discuss?”
