But before he gets in,every single time,he looks up toward my window, to the sheer curtain I’m always hiding behind to watch him when he comes. He doesn’t wave at me, he just stares, searching for a sign or a shadow. Forme.
And every time, I step back a little farther into the room so he can’t see the shape of me standing there. But I always watch him go.
I know what he wants. It’s not hard to guess.
He wants me to talk to him. To stand beside him now that the threats have been handled. Now that Mikhail is dead and the dust has started to settle, he wants me and Leo to follow him back to his empire in Russia as if it were some kind of family home instead of a fortress I’ve come to associate with deals and domination.
I don’t even know how tothinkabout tomorrow, let alone plan for some whole future. My mind is a minefield of what-ifs and ghosts and sleepless nights where Leo curls so tightly into my chest, I can barely breathe.
But I miss him.
God help me, I miss him so much it aches.
Except our memories together are tangled up with too many others now. With too many dark corridors in my mind that whisper threats, reminding me of the many nights I spent wondering if Leo and I would live to see the morning.
I can’t untangle them.
So I keep the curtains drawn. I keep my mouth shut. I keep my heart caged behind the wall I’ve put around it to make it stop aching.
And I hope one day, he stops returning and reopening the wound that refuses to scab.
Eventually,he stops acting polite.
It’s late at night when it happens.
The house is quiet. My parents have long since gone to bed. Lettie texted hours ago that she was out with friends, and I haven’t heard the front door open since.
For a moment, I delude myself into believing I might actually get a minute of peace.
Leo is curled into me, one arm flung across my stomach, his little body rising and falling in slow, uneven rhythms. It’s the first real sleep he’s had in days. His fingers twitch every now and then like his dreams are still chasing him, but the iron-tight grip he’s kept on me for days has finally loosened enough for me to breathe.
I glance down at him when my stomach growls, brushing his messy curls from his forehead before leaning down to press a soft kiss above his brow.
“My baby,” I whisper. “My broken, brave baby.”
He doesn’t stir.
Carefully, I slide out of bed, moving silently around the room. I pull and tuck the blanket tighter around him and pad barefoot downstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath my steps.
I’m halfway to the kitchen when I almost scream.
Motionless in the dark, I spot a tall, broad-shouldered figure lurking in the living room. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, but he’s there. The hallway shadows eat up the softer edges of him until all that’s left is something almost feral.
When he rises, I stumble back, nearly colliding with the wall leading into the kitchen. I suck in a breath, heart in my throat.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I whisper-shout, panic making my voice higher than I mean for it to be. My hands find his chest instinctively when I push myself away from the wall, shoving him toward the door.
He doesn’t budge, not even an inch. His jaw tics once. “You can’t avoid me forever, Ivy.”
There’s no softness in his voice tonight, no pleading in his eyes. He remains cold and unyielding.
“You can’t be here. If my parents wake up, they’re going to call the cops,” I hiss.
“I don’t care. They’ve made it clear I’m not welcome. That’s fine. But I’m not here for them.” His tone doesn’t rise from a quiet murmur, but it cuts like a blade, nonetheless.
I back up again, but he follows, shrinking the already narrow area into something that feels completely suffocating. His gaze is locked on me, unreadable in the dark, but I feel the weight of it on me, dissecting every inch of my body.
“Maksim—”
