Chapter Seventeen - Hannah
The sitting room feels impossibly still, the heavy silence broken only by the faint ticking of a nearby clock. I sit on the couch, my knees drawn to my chest, staring blankly at the empty fireplace. My mind replays the nightmarish events of the attack in an endless loop—the glint of the knife, the intruder’s feral eyes, the sound of Makar’s gunshot ringing out.
My chest tightens, and I wrap my arms around my legs, trying to ward off the lingering fear that clings to me like a second skin.
Along with the fear is something else.
Makar.
The way he moved—ruthless, precise, unrelenting—when the intruder lunged at him. The way his voice cut through my panic, steady and firm, grounding me when I felt like I might shatter.
He protected me.
The thought unsettles me. He’s supposed to be the enemy in this twisted arrangement, the man who controls my every move. And yet, in those terrifying moments, his presence was a strange comfort, a shield against the chaos.
The door opens, and I stiffen, my heart leaping before I see him. Makar steps inside, his dark suit still immaculate despite the events of the evening. His gaze sweeps the room before settling on me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he crosses the room, his movements deliberate, his expression serious but softening slightly as he meets my eyes.
“The attacker,” he begins, his voice steady but laced with an edge, “was connected to Kris. I guess he wanted revenge for what happened.”
The mention of Kris sends a shiver through me, but I say nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” he says, his tone darkening with unspoken promise. “You’re safe here.”
The words settle over me like a blanket, heavy but comforting in their finality. I feel a spark of relief—unexpected and unwelcome—though I try to hide it.
His gaze lingers on me, sharp and assessing, before it shifts slightly, and his brow furrows. “You haven’t eaten in days,” he says, his tone firm but with a hint of something softer. Concern?
I blink, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “I’ve been…,” I falter, unsure of how to finish the sentence.
“Neglecting yourself,” he finishes for me, his voice carrying a note of disapproval. His gaze flickers briefly to my stomach, then back to my face. “That’s not good for you. Or the baby.”
The unexpected gentleness in his voice throws me off-balance. I stare at him, unsure of how to respond.
“Come downstairs for lunch,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need it.”
He turns toward the door but stops after a few steps, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze meets mine, steady and expectant, waiting.
I hesitate, my body rooted to the couch as the conflicting emotions swirl inside me—fear, resentment, confusion, and something dangerously close to gratitude.
Finally, I nod, unfolding myself from the couch and standing. My legs feel unsteady, but I force them to carry me forward.
Makar waits by the door, his expression unreadable as he watches me approach. When I reach him, he turns and leads the way out of the room, his presence both commanding and strangely reassuring.
For a moment, I stay rooted where I am, my chest tight with the weight of everything unspoken between us. Then, forcing myself to move, I follow him out of the room, the soft thud of my footsteps trailing behind his steady stride.
He leads me through the hall, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing silhouette against the dim lighting. When we reach the main staircase, he pauses briefly, his gaze flicking back toward me.
“Don’t take too long,” he says, his tone calm but firm, before turning and heading toward the dining room.
The sound of his footsteps fades as I watch him go, his presence leaving a strange void in its wake.
I turn and head for my room, grateful for the small reprieve. Despite our marriage, Makar has made no move to force me into his space, and for that, I’m thankful. The room I’ve been given is still mine, my small sanctuary in a house that feels more like a gilded cage than a home.
Once inside, I close the door and lean against it for a moment, letting out a slow, measured breath. My reflection stares back at me from the ornate mirror across the room, my features pale and my hair slightly disheveled.
Get it together, Hannah.
I walk to the vanity, dragging a brush through my hair in an effort to tame it. My hands tremble slightly, but I focus on the small, mundane task, letting it center me.
After smoothing down the fabric of my dress, I step back, taking in my appearance. I don’t know why I bother—why I care what I look like when I’m about to face the man who controls every aspect of my life—but the thought nags at me all the same.
My gaze lowers to my stomach, my hand moving instinctively to rest there. It’s still flat, no sign yet of the life growing inside me, but the thought alone is enough to make my chest tighten.
Shaking off the wave of emotion, I turn away and head for the door, my steps steady despite the nervous energy swirling in my chest.
The walk downstairs feels longer than it should, each step echoing in the vast, silent house. When I reach the dining room, my eyes are immediately drawn to him.
Makar sits at the head of the long table, his posture straight, his piercing gaze already fixed on me as I step inside.
For a moment, the weight of his presence threatens to swallow me whole. I square my shoulders and step forward, determined not to let him see the cracks beneath the surface.
The dining room is bathed in the warm glow of the chandelier, the soft light reflecting off the polished wood of the long table. My footsteps are light as I enter, but they still feel loud against the silence that fills the room.
Makar is already seated at the head of the table, his posture as composed and commanding as ever. His sharp blue eyes find mine the moment I step inside, and I fight the urge to fidget under his unwavering gaze.
As I approach, my attention shifts to the place setting in front of me. My breath catches, my heart stumbling in my chest as my eyes land on the dessert waiting for me—a cherry-topped cinnamon roll, the glaze still gleaming and the smell achingly familiar.
It’s just like the ones my mom used to make back in Montana.
For a moment, I forget where I am. The sight of the dessert pulls me back to those afternoons after school, the scent of cinnamon and cherries filling the kitchen as my mom set a plate down in front of me, her smile warm and constant. The memory is so vivid it feels like I could reach out and touch it.
I blink, my throat tightening, and glance at Makar. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze—something that deepens when he notices my surprise.
“Vera mentioned you missed these,” he says, his tone almost casual, as though he hasn’t just turned my world on its head.
The words are simple, but they hit me harder than I expect. He’s trying to act like it’s nothing, but I know better. This isn’t just a gesture; it’s… thoughtful.
Emotion wells up in my chest, threatening to spill over. Before I can second-guess myself, I step closer to him, my hands reaching out.
I press my face against his chest, clutching the crisp fabric of his shirt as a shaky breath escapes me.
It’s brief—just a moment of closeness, my body trembling slightly as I let the wave of gratitude wash over me.
Makar doesn’t move, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll push me away. But he doesn’t. His body is rigid, his breath steady, and though I can’t see his face, I sense his surprise.
When I finally pull back, I avoid his gaze, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He doesn’t respond right away, but when I glance up, he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
“Sit,” he says, his voice calm but with that ever-present hint of command. He gestures toward the chair across from him.
For once, I don’t argue.
I sit quietly, the cinnamon roll in front of me untouched as I try to compose myself. The warmth of Makar’s presence across the table feels heavier than usual, like it’s wrapping around me, holding me in place.
“You’re not eating,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence.
I glance up at him, his expression unreadable. “I was just… remembering,” I say softly.
He leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. “Your mother?”
The question surprises me, but I nod. “She used to make these all the time. After school, on weekends… they were her way of making everything feel normal.”
Makar’s eyes flicker with something—curiosity, perhaps—but he says nothing, letting me continue.
“She passed away when I was fourteen,” I add, my voice trembling slightly. “And after that, nothing felt… right anymore.”
The silence between us deepens, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels heavy with understanding, a shared weight that neither of us speaks aloud.
“She must have been a good mother,” Makar says finally, his tone quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“She was,” I say, a small, wistful smile tugging at my lips. “She would’ve hated this.”
“This?” he echoes, one brow arching slightly.
“This… arrangement. The baby. Everything.”
Makar doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the table. “She would have wanted you safe,” he says after a moment, his voice firm.
I meet his eyes, and for once, I don’t feel the usual cold detachment. There’s something softer there, something I can’t quite name.
I pick up the fork beside my plate and cut into the cinnamon roll, the aroma of cinnamon and cherries hitting me like a wave. The first bite melts on my tongue, and for a moment, the world feels a little less chaotic.
Makar watches me, his gaze steady. “Better?” he asks.
I nod, swallowing. “Better.”
The faintest smirk touches his lips, and I realize it’s not the usual smugness I’ve come to expect from him. It feels… genuine.
“You’re full of surprises,” I say quietly, setting my fork down.
His smirk widens slightly. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
I roll my eyes, a small laugh escaping me despite myself. “You’d complain too if you were in my position.”
“I don’t complain,” he replies smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I adapt.”
I shake my head, another laugh bubbling up. For the first time in what feels like forever, the tension in my chest eases.
As we finish the meal, the silence between us isn’t the heavy, oppressive quiet I’ve grown used to. It feels lighter, easier, like something has shifted between us.
When I glance up at Makar, I catch him watching me, his blue eyes thoughtful.
“You’ve changed,” I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His brow lifts slightly. “Have I?”
“Yes,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know if I like it.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich. “I don’t need you to like it. I just need you to eat.”
I roll my eyes, but the faint smile on my lips lingers as I take another bite.