26
LENA
The morning light in the estate always feels colder than it did in the city. Out here, there are no skyscrapers to break the wind, no hum of traffic to mask the silence. I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows in my room, watching the mist roll over the manicured gardens like a shroud. But I don’t really see the grass.
I see him.
I see Razvan slumped on the floor of the nursery, his head in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with the kind of sobs that break a man apart.
I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve spent months building a cage for my heart, reinforcing the bars with every memory of the dungeon, every cold word he ever spoke, and the haunting image of my father’s body. I told myself he was a monster. A stone-cold killer who didn’t feel anything but the hunger for power and the weight of his own legacy.
But then he cried. He cried for Theo. He admitted he was terrified. In the blue light of the nursery, he wasn’t the Pakhan—he was a man drowning in a love so vast it was suffocating him.
Why am I like this? I press my forehead against the glass, the chill seeping into my skin. Why does my heart ache when I think of his face? Why did I want to pull him closer and tell him everything would be okay?
He killed my father. He’s the reason I’m a prisoner in this house. He’s the man who forced a ring onto my finger, using my son’s life as a bargaining chip to ensure I’d never walk away. Nothing will ever be okay between us. This isn’t a marriage of convenience or some polite arrangement—it’s a conquest. He held the sword to the neck of everything I loved and demanded that I say “I do.” I should hate him more today than I did yesterday. But instead, the hate is being crowded out by something else—something warm and terrifying that makes my pulse race whenever I hear his footsteps in the hall.
It’s eating me alive. This back-and-forth, this tug-of-war between my loyalty to the dead and my desire for the living. Every time I think I’ve found my footing, he does something human, and the ground vanishes beneath me again.
A soft knock at the door breaks my spiral.
“Come in,” I say, straightening my posture and wiping a stray tear I didn’t even realize had fallen.
It’s Maria. She looks at me with a strange, knowing pity that I usually resent, but today, I’m too tired to care.
“The Pakhan requests your presence for dinner tonight, Lena,” she says. “In the private dining room. Eight o’clock.”
I frown, my stomach doing a nervous little flip. “With the council? Or the lieutenants?”
Maria gives a small shake of her head. “No. Just the two of you. He was very specific about that.”
As she leaves, I catch myself. I’m already moving toward the closet. My mind is already racing through my dresses. The black silk? No, too mourning-like. The red? Too aggressive. Maybe the emerald?
I stop mid-step, my hand hovering over a hanger.What are you doing?I scold myself.You shouldn’t care what you look like for him. You shouldn’t want to look good for your father’s murderer.
But I do. I want to see his eyes darken when I walk into the room. I want to see that flicker of hunger that tells me I have power over him, even if it’s only for a second. It’s a sickness. I’m becoming addicted to the very man who destroyed my life.
I spend the afternoon in a daze until the clock strikes eight. The private dining room is small, intimate, and lit almost entirely by candles. The scent of expensive wine and roasted meat fills the air, but all I can smell is the sandalwood that always seems to follow him.
Razvan is already there, standing by the sideboard. He’s ditched the suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink on his forearms. He looks tired, but the raw panic of the other night has been replaced by a quiet, focused intensity.
He looks up as I enter, and the world stops for a heartbeat. His eyes sweep over my emerald dress, lingering on the curve of my neck before meeting my gaze.
“You came,” he says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in my chest.
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. I walk to the table, my heels clicking sharply on the wood. “What is going on, why am I here, Razvan? Am I being punished for something?”
“Sit down, Lena. Please.”
He pulls out my chair for me, his hand brushing my shoulder as I sit. The contact feels like a jolt of electricity, making me stiffen. He sits across from me, pouring a deep red wine into two glasses.
“How is he?” Razvan asks, his eyes searching mine. “Theo? Is his color back?”
I nod, watching the way the candlelight dances in the wine.
“He’s much better. His fever hasn’t returned, and he’s been eating well. He’s back to causing trouble for the guards.”
Razvan exhales, a visible wave of relief crossing his features. “Good. That’s good.”
