Chapter 17 Daniil #2
But Naomi makes me remember that other version of myself, the one Sasha had faith in.
When she looks at me, I see echoes of that same belief, that same stubborn insistence that I am more than the sum of my sins.
It terrifies me because I know how this story ends.
I know what happens to women who love me.
They become targets, collateral damage in wars they never chose to fight.
The rain starts again, soft at first, then harder, soaking through my coat until I feel like the ground is trying to drag me under.
I let it. The cold water runs down my face, mixing salt with sky, and for once, I do not try to maintain the mask of invincibility.
I kneel in the storm and let the ghosts speak their truth.
Galina demanding obedience, reminding me that sentiment is a luxury that will destroy everything we built.
Sasha whispering forgiveness I will never deserve, her voice as gentle as it was the last time I heard it.
And threading through both their voices, Naomi's words from earlier, alive and insistent, pulling me back from the grave even when I do not want to return.
She refuses to let me disappear into the darkness that has claimed so much of my life.
Her questions force me to confront truths I have buried beneath years of carefully forged numbness.
Hours pass before I leave. The storm moves on, leaving the cemetery washed clean and gleaming under the streetlights.
The drive back is silent, the city still dripping from the rain like tears on a mourner's face.
My clothes are soaked through, my hair plastered to my skull, but I feel lighter as if the buried secrets are arranged differently across my shoulders.
By the time I step into the mansion, dawn is brushing faint light against the windows.
The house feels different now, less like a mausoleum and more like a place where the living might actually exist. I find Naomi in the library, curled on the sofa.
A book lies in her lap, thick and scholarly, probably one she brought from the museum.
She is not asleep, though her eyes are glazed with exhaustion.
She lifts them to me as I enter, and for a moment, I cannot breathe.
There is no judgment in her gaze, no fear or condemnation.
Only concern and something that looks dangerously close to love.
She takes in my rain-soaked appearance and the mud on my shoes.
I take the chair across from her, but the distance feels unbearable.
Every instinct screams at me to maintain space, to keep her at arm's length where she cannot see too deeply into the wreckage of my soul.
But the night has stripped away too many defenses.
I am raw, exposed, and bleeding from wounds I thought had healed years ago.
Her voice is quiet when she asks, “Where did you go?”
“To the cemetery.” My words are rough, dragged from my throat with unsaid things. “I needed to think.”
Her eyes soften, though she doesn't speak at first. She only closes the book and sets it aside.
“My mother is buried there,” I continue, the words coming easier now. “And Sasha.”
Her lips part as if she recognizes the name, though I have never given it to her before this moment. “The locked room,” she whispers. It’s not a question.
I nod once. “She was mine. Before any of this. Before the throne. Before I became what I am.” The words taste like rust and regret.
“We were engaged. She had dreams of opening an art gallery and traveling to Europe to study the masters. She wanted us to disappear together, start fresh somewhere the Zorin name meant nothing.”
Naomi's hand moves to her throat, as if she can feel the pain of what I am confessing. “What happened?”
“A rival family planted a bomb in the car. She never stood a chance.” The clinical words cannot capture the horror of that day, the way her death reduced everything beautiful in the world to ash and twisted metal.
“She was supposed to surprise me with lunch from our favorite place. Took my keys, kissed my cheek, and promised she would be back within the hour. I was in a meeting when the call came. By the time I reached the scene, there was nothing left but debris and smoke.”
Her hand trembles slightly where it rests on her leg. I can see her processing this revelation, understanding finally why that room exists and remains locked against intrusion. “And you kept her alive in there.”
“Yes.” I don't deny it. There is no point in pretending anymore.
“Because letting go felt like betrayal. Forgetting her was unthinkable.
And I was too much of a coward to face what her death turned me into.
That room holds everything she touched, everything she created, and proof that she existed.
Her paintings, letters, even her clothes that still smell like her perfume. I couldn't bear to disturb any of it.”
I wait for her to recoil from my confession and finally see me for the broken creature I truly am. Instead, her gaze holds mine, unwavering and somehow stronger than before.
“You're not a coward.”
“You don't know what I am.” My voice drops low and dangerous.
“You see the man in front of you, but not the monster beneath. The things I did after she died, the people I destroyed in the name of revenge. If Viktor touches you, if anyone touches you, I will burn this city to the ground. And then what will you think of me?”
She doesn't look away. She rises, crosses the space between us, and kneels at my side. Her hand rests against my chest, feeling the thunder beneath my ribs. “I'll think you're a man who lost too much already. And a man who won't lose me, too.”
Her words shatter the final wall that has been holding back the flood.
I pull her into my lap, her warmth chasing away the chill that has lived inside me for years.
She fits against me perfectly, as if she were designed to fill the hollow space Sasha's death carved into my chest. She tilts her face up, and when I kiss her, it is not hunger that drives me.
It is desperation. Grief and desire tangled until I can no longer tell one from the other.
The light from the desk lamp dances across her skin as her body presses closer, her lips parting beneath mine with a quiet gasp.
My hand slides through her hair, tugging her head back gently so I can trace her throat with my mouth, tasting the pulse that beats there like a drum.
She clings to me, soft yet unyielding, her nails pressing into my shoulders as if to anchor me here with her.
I carry her to the sofa, laying her back against the cushions. Her breath is quick, her eyes dark and mirroring my own need. I kiss her again, slower this time, memorizing every sigh, every tremor, and wordless plea.
Tonight is not about dominance or control.
It is not about staking a claim. Tonight is about grief and hope colliding and finding something worth holding onto when the world is built to take everything away.
Her hands frame my face as if she knows and sees through every mask I have ever worn.
And when her lips brush mine again, I let the ghosts fall silent at last. For once, I am not plotting, planning, or watching for betrayal.
I am simply here with her in my arms. For the first time in years, I am not haunted. I am home.