A Silent Promise
Chapter 62
A Silent Promise
Isabella
The city pulses beneath my feet, its vibrant energy a stark contrast to the quiet isolation of the cabin. Aslanov and I walk side by side through the heart of the Russian city, the narrow streets winding with the same rhythm of old stone and cobblestones. The air is brisk, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and freshly baked piroshki from the nearby market stalls, where vendors shout their wares in the thick, Russian-accented chatter. The sounds of life—laughter, conversations, the occasional clink of glass—fill the space around us, but there’s an edge to it today.
Aslanov’s presence beside me feels steady, but something in his demeanor tells me he’s not at ease. His pace is deliberate, yet there’s an alertness in him that stands out. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a quiet, simmering tension just beneath the surface. He’s not looking around in panic, but his eyes flicker from one corner to the next, scanning the surrounding buildings, the clutter of people in the streets, and the dark alleyways that branch off like veins through the city. The steady hum of life here doesn’t seem to register with him; he’s always calculating, always observing.
I glance at him, trying to decipher the hard set of his jaw, and the subtle movement of his eyes as they sweep across the rooftops, never missing a detail. His head shifts, the motion barely perceptible, yet it’s as though he’s searching for threats in the shadows of this bustling city—shadows of which there are many, thanks to the long, low buildings and narrow, tightly packed streets that are so characteristic of Russia’s older districts. It’s as though the normalcy of this place—people haggling over vegetables, children running past—hasn’t reached him. Aslanov is always in motion, but never truly at ease, a man who thrives in vigilance, even in the heart of a city full of life.
He’s here— in the open , walking these crowded streets as if he belongs—but I know better. It’s still foreign to me that he can walk freely through this city, his identity cloaked and anonymous. To everyone else, he’s just another man among the masses. To me, he’s something else entirely. A devil in disguise. A devil I came to care about.
“You’re quiet,” I say, glancing up at him.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting in that way that makes my chest flutter. “You’re usually the one filling the silence, solnyshko.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my face. It’s true—I talk too much, especially when the quiet starts to feel heavy. But today, I notice something more. The way he moves, the way he never lets his guard down. The usual tension that coils tightly around him seems softened, but only on the surface. Beneath it, there’s something much sharper, more alert. He’s still in survival mode.
We stop at a small café tucked into the corner of a busy square. Its faded awning and mismatched chairs give it a charm that feels almost untouched by time. Aslanov holds the door open for me, but there’s something in the way he checks the street behind us before entering. He’s scanning, always scanning. Even here, in this quiet moment, he’s vigilant.
Inside, the air is warm, tinged with the rich aroma of coffee and sugar. I order something sweet—a caramel latte piled high with whipped cream—and he opts for his usual—a black coffee, strong and bitter, just like him. I settle into the chair, but I can’t shake the feeling that Aslanov is still not truly at ease. His eyes dart around the room, lingering on the door, the people, and the windows. He shifts in his seat, positioning himself at an angle that allows him to see everything and everyone. He’s aware of every possible exit, every potential threat. It’s second nature to him.
I watch him stir his coffee absently, his eyes scanning the square outside. Even in here, he’s on high alert, never fully letting his guard down.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He glances at me, his gaze softening just a little. “Just watching. You notice a lot if you pay attention.”
I tilt my head, considering his words. “Like what?”
He leans back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That couple over there,” he nods toward a pair sitting by the fountain, their heads bent close together, “she’s nervous. Fidgeting with her bracelet. He’s trying to calm her, but he’s terrible at it.”
I follow his gaze, surprised by how quickly I see it too—the way her fingers twist the thin chain on her wrist, the subtle shift of his body toward hers, his hands gesturing too much as he speaks.
“You’re good at that,” I say, impressed.
“Noticing things?”
I nod.
His gaze flickers back to me, sharp and calculating, but now it feels heavier, more intense. The usual warmth in his eyes has been replaced by something cold and watchful. As if, in this moment, I’m the next thing he’s analyzing. It’s disconcerting, the way he can dissect everything around him with such precision, but it’s not just the people outside that are under his watchful eye—it’s me.
“You’re not good at hiding your tells,” he says softly, his voice low, but it carries weight.
“My tells?” I echo, my stomach tightening under his scrutiny.
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his coffee forgotten. “The way you glance at the door every so often, as if you’re mapping out an escape route. How your fingers curl around the handle of your cup, not because you’re cold, but because it gives you something to do with your hands. Even the way you cross your legs, positioning yourself slightly toward the exit. You’re always ready to run, solnyshko.”
I swallow hard, feeling exposed under his gaze. “Maybe I just like to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” His tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s a dangerous edge to it that sends a shiver down my spine.
“For anything,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but I can’t look away from him.
He studies me for a moment longer, then leans back with a smirk. “Good answer. But not good enough.”
I exhale slowly, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. “Are you always this intense?”
“Only when I’m interested,” he replies smoothly, the playful note in his voice easing some of the tension.
I roll my eyes, though the flutter in my chest betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re fascinating,” he counters, lifting his coffee cup to his lips and taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving mine.
I shake my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “You know, I can’t believe we’re sitting here having coffee like normal people.”
His smirk falters slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He sets his cup down, his fingers tracing the rim as if considering something. “I don’t usually do this.”
“Do what? Have coffee?”
“Not like this.” His voice is quieter now, the playful edge replaced by something more serious. “Not for fun. Not with someone I care about.”
The words catch me off guard, and I blink at him, unsure if I’ve heard him right. He doesn’t look away, his gaze unflinching as if waiting for me to process what he’s said.
I stare at him, my mind struggling to catch up with the shift in his tone. For a moment, everything else fades—the murmur of voices around us, the clink of cups and plates—all I can hear is the thudding of my own heartbeat. Aslanov’s eyes soften, but there’s still that ever-present edge in them, as though he’s never fully free of the weight he carries.
Suddenly, without warning, his hand moves across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. My breath catches in my throat. His grip is firm but gentle, his thumb stroking the back of my hand in a gesture that feels both comforting and possessive. It’s a small touch, but it’s filled with so much more—ownership, care, and something unspoken. His eyes never leave mine, and I feel the weight of his gaze, intense and unwavering.
He slowly raises my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckle. The simple act feels loaded with so much more—possessiveness, tenderness, and something almost dangerous. I feel the pull of it deep in my chest.
His lips linger there for a moment longer than necessary, and when he pulls back, there’s something in his eyes that shifts—a glint of something fierce, something protective. It’s not just affection I see; it’s a promise. A silent vow.