Or is he simply enjoying this, letting me sit in the space between hope and dread, suspended like an insect pinned beneath glass?
I wander the estate deliberately on the off-chance I might stumble into him. I pass studies, sitting rooms, galleries lined with portraits of men whose eyes follow you no matter where you stand. Yet still no Nikolai.
By the time I find myself drifting into the library, my nerves are stretched thin.
It’s vast, far larger than Sasha’s or any library I’ve ever seen, for that matter. Floor-to-ceiling shelves curve along the walls, stacked with leather-bound volumes and modern tomes alike. Ladders on rails climb toward the ceiling. The air smells like dust and ink and something faintly metallic.
I move slowly between the aisles, trailing my fingers along spines I don’t read, my thoughts spiraling tighter with every step. This place feels quieter than the rest of the estate, almost reverent. A sanctuary in its own right.
I drift deeper, toward the back where the shelves curve inward and the light from the tall windows thins into shadows. The farther I go, the more the library feels… private. Less curated, like a place no one bothers to tidy because no one is supposed to be here.
That’s when something catches my eye.
A sliver of canvas. Just the corner of it peeking out from behind one of the shelves, dulled with dust and partially obscured like it’s been deliberately hidden rather than forgotten. The frameis dark wood, scratched and worn, nothing like the polished portraits lining the rest of the estate’s halls.
I stop.
My pulse kicks harder, curiosity pricking, sharp and immediate. Why would a portrait be shoved back here? Why hide it at all in a house that seems to display everything else so proudly?
I tilt my head, studying the angle, then glance over my shoulder. The library remains empty behind me.
Slowly, I step closer.
When I reach for it, my fingers brush dust so thick, it coats my skin in a fine film. The frame doesn’t budge at first and I have to grip it with both hands, bracing my foot against the shelf as I wrestle it out inch by inch to free it. It’s heavier than I expect.
The canvas scrapes softly against the wood as it slides out, the sound grating in the quiet. My arms strain as I pull it fully into the open, my breath catching with the effort. I stagger back a step, steadying the portrait against my thigh before letting it rest back against the shelf.
For a moment, all I see is grime, then I wipe a hand across the surface. The dust smears away easily. The face staring back at me steals the air from my lungs.
It’s a woman.
Her light blonde hair is swept back from her face. Her strong cheekbones are dusted pink. Her eyes, a vibrant green, look almost alive despite the state of the canvas—sharp, intelligent, unyielding. She’s dressed simply with no jewels and no extravagance, nothing that screams wealth or status. A quiet ferocity that feels achingly familiar clings to her.
She’s young. Much younger than I expected. Late teens, maybe early twenties at most. Her face hasn’t yet learned restraint or compromise. There’s an openness to her expression that feels almost defiant, the kind of beauty that doesn’t ask permission to exist. Her eyes are sharp and knowing, like she’s already seen too much of the world and decided it won’t break her.
I tilt my head, studying the brushstrokes, the way the artist captured her posture upright and unflinching. Why would this be back here, hidden, buried behind shelves like something shameful?
The question barely finishes forming before a voice cuts through the silence behind me.
“You’re quite the curious thing, aren’t you?”
I jump out of my skin.
A startled gasp tears out of me as I nearly lose my grip on the portrait. It tilts dangerously, the heavy frame slipping an inch before I catch it again. My heart slams into my ribs so hard, it makes my vision blot temporarily. I spin around, one hand flying to my chest, breath coming fast and shallowly.
Nikolai stands a few feet behind me.
He looks infuriatingly calm, hands loosely clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly, dark eyes lit with faint amusement as if he’s been watching me puzzle over this moment for far longer than I realized.
I drag in a slow breath, trying to collect myself. “You scared me.”
“I see that,” he says mildly.
His gaze slides past me to the painting in my hands. The amusement dims just a fraction, replaced by something a little more guarded.
“Is it a habit of yours,” he continues, “to disturb things that are clearly not meant to be found?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I glance down at the portrait, suddenly acutely aware of how incriminating this looks. “I—I didn’t mean to. I just… saw it.”
