Chapter 50
FIFTY
LUCAS
He always listens to music when he cooks or whenever he’s working on something that needs his full attention.
He says it helps him focus and always keeps him calm, and I don’t doubt that.
His playlist will never seem to amaze me—Arctic Monkeys, Hozier, Labrinth, Novo Amor, CAS…
songs with a softness that you wouldn’t expect from someone like him.
A man who looks like a storm, who carries the kind of presence that makes a whole room shrink.
But then again, unless you’re close to him, you wouldn’t know how romantic he really is. How gentle. How the rough edges melt away when he’s with me.
My heart tugs as I watch him plate the pasta with a practiced ease, as if this kitchen was made for him, as if feeding me was second nature to him.
Fuck. I’m here. God, I’m here again. In his space.
In his house. Watching him cook for me like he always has since I got to know him.
Just yesterday, I was drowning in bed, weighed down by the storms in my head, missing him so much it ached.
Fighting shadows I couldn’t name, begging silently for relief.
And now… now I’m here, and he pulled me out of that ache and into his arms, saying words I never thought I’d hear.
Told me how proud he is of me. How strong I am, even when I don’t see it.
Told me he can’t live without me. That I can lean on him whenever it gets too much, his voice was steady, sure, and I felt the truth behind it like a pulse.
And it broke something open inside me. Not just his words—him.
The way he held me. The way it felt like the ground I was slipping on finally steadied beneath my feet.
Walking into his house had been like stepping into warmth after freezing for too long.
The familiarity of this place, the smell, the quiet, it felt like home.
He felt like home to me. And when I finally let myself break apart, sobbing into his chest, it was like something inside me unclenched.
I can’t even remember the last time I cried like that.
Maybe years. Maybe never. But crying with him there…
it felt like relief. Like letting go of weights that I have been carrying for years.
It was raw, ugly, and freeing all at once.
His voice, his hands, the softness of his gaze, it wasn’t just comfort, it was salvation.
The storms are still in my head, still roaring in the distance, and I know they won’t vanish overnight. But with Alex here, I feel anchored. I feel stronger. Like maybe I can battle it. Like maybe I can make it through.
He sets down a huge bowl of Alfredo chicken pasta in front of me, cutting off my thoughts.
The steam curling up, rich with garlic and cream.
The cheesy garlic bread on the side makes my stomach twist with hunger.
My mouth waters instantly. Then something else hits me sharp and sudden. My chest tightens.
The bracelet.
It’s there, snug around his wrist, catching the warm kitchen light every time he moves. Alex has a whole collection—expensive ones, unique ones, each carrying its own weight of meaning. But the one he’s wearing right now is the one I bought for him, I know it without a doubt.
I’d never actually given it to him; things had spiraled too quickly that day, and in the chaos, I’d left it inside Maksim’s car.
So how is he wearing it now?
Did Maksim give it to him?
Is it on his wrist because he likes it?
The thought lodges itself in my chest, heavy and warm, and I don’t know whether to cry or smile.
“Do you want a drink?” his voice pulls me out of the spiral. He’s already reaching for the fridge.
“Just water, please,” I manage, my throat dry, the words scraping past the lump stuck there.
He nods, pours it into a glass, and sets it in front of me with the same quiet care he seems to do everything—with the same hands that wear my bracelet.
“Thank you,” I whisper, giving him a small smile.
He returns it, a little softer. “Dig in then.”
I blink, hesitating. “Where’s yours?”
He studies me for a beat, then finally plates his. His portion is smaller, as always. Mine is overflowing because I eat a lot, and he never really does. But he makes sure I do. Always.
He takes the stool beside me, his own plate in front of him. Then he looks at me, steady, waiting, and gestures gently for me to start.
A breath of relief escapes me, and I don’t hold back anymore. I dig in like a starving man, because I am. Because I haven’t eaten properly in days.
The first bite nearly undoes me. The flavors hit me all at once—creamy, rich, perfectly seasoned, like comfort itself folded into pasta.
God, I missed this. Missed him cooking for me, missed the way every dish tasted like he poured pieces of himself into it.
My chest tightens as I chew, my eyes pricking before I can stop them.
I blink hard, silently begging my mind to stop acting like a little child.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed this until now.
The storms in my head quiet under the warmth of every bite, and it blooms something inside me, something tender, fragile, desperate to grow. My heart aches at how simple it is, how something as small as him cooking for me makes me feel like I’m worth the world.
I’m eating too fast, shoveling forkful after forkful like I’ve been starved for weeks, not just days. And maybe I have been—
Starved of comfort.
Starved of safety.
Starved of him.
“Slow down, krasivy.” His voice slips through the air, low and warm, carrying that quiet tenderness that always manages to undo me. I freeze, glancing up. He leans in slightly, and with one effortless motion, his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth where sauce has smeared.
The touch makes me tremble. So small. So gentle. Yet it splits something inside me wide open.
“I don’t want you to choke,” he says softly. “Take it easy, okay?”
A shaky laugh escapes me, caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief. I sniffle, nodding quickly, slowing my pace, but also feeling like the luckiest person alive.
“Baby—” he starts, and my head snaps up.
“Mm?” I manage around a mouthful of pasta, cheeks warm.
The way he’s looking at me nearly undoes me all over again. His eyes, blue and unflinching, hold nothing back. The love is right there, open and unhidden, because Alex never hides it. Not from me.
“Thank you for the bracelet,” he says, voice steady, but there’s a rough edge to it, like the words cost him something. “I’ll cherish it for the rest of my life.”
My heart flutters, and the smile that blooms across my face is wide, unguarded, and helpless. My chest swells so much it feels like it might burst.
***
“Do you want to talk about the news?” Alex asks, his voice quiet, almost careful, like he’s stepping onto fragile glass.
My head is resting on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me, his arms wrapped firmly around me as if he knows I need him close.
After the heavy meal he cooked, all I’d wanted was this—his arms, his warmth, the safe cocoon of him.
He’d thought I wanted space to shower alone, but I couldn’t bear it. I’d held him tighter, whispering that we should shower together like always. And we did. We brushed, and he dried my hair afterward, dressed me gently like I was something fragile, then carried me to bed.
We haven’t kissed and touched each other sexually since I came here.
I can feel him holding back, and it took everything in me not to beg him to fuck me against the shower glass like I know he wants to.
Despite the storm still raging inside me, I want him to kiss me, touch me, remind me that I’m his. But I don’t push.
“Lucas?” His chest vibrates under my cheek when he says my name, tugging me back from my wandering thoughts.
I blink, realizing he’s been waiting.
“Yeah? Sorry…” I mumble, fumbling as I glance up at him.
“Where did your mind go?” His eyes search mine, patient but probing.
“Nowhere,” I lie quickly, pressing my cheek back to his chest before he sees the flush creeping up my face. My heart beats hard. I want him to kiss me, to crush me beneath the certainty of his touch.
But instead, I whisper, “I just… don’t know.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?” His tone is patient, coaxing, but there’s something beneath it. He always knows when I’m running.
I swallow hard, my voice coming out sharper than I mean.
“You want us to talk about how you brutally killed the boys who used my mouth for fun?”
The words hang heavy between us. And I feel him stiffen.
The words taste sharp, but I can’t stop them.
I haven’t thought of them much—not really.
Do I feel relieved they’re gone? Maybe. At least they can’t do to anyone else what they did to me.
Did their deaths erase the storm in my head?
No. But did the image of them suffering give me satisfaction? Yes. More than I’d like to admit.
It’s like my mind doesn’t really know how to feel about the situation.
“It doesn’t matter how cruel it sounds,” he says finally, his voice even and calm, “If talking about it will ease you, then we talk.”
I lift my head, startled by the ease in his tone, and find him meeting my gaze without flinching. His eyes burn with a conviction that makes my chest tighten.
“I don’t regret what I did,” he says, his voice steady, absolute. “Not for a second. And I would do it again. A thousand times over, if it meant you never had to carry that fear again.”
I stare at him—this man I’ve fallen in love with. A man capable of killing without hesitation, yet holding me now with such impossible tenderness. How does he live in both worlds? How does he balance Violence and gentleness so seamlessly?
And why is it that I, of all people, am not afraid of him?