Chapter 6 - Tikhon
I don’t go looking for her that night. Around eleven, I hear the front door open quietly, and then a soft click as it shuts.
Her heeled boots tap across the hardwood, barely audible.
I stay put in the study, lights low, bourbon in my hand, pretending to read reports that stopped making sense ages ago.
She doesn’t come looking for me. Doesn’t slam doors or rattle drawers. She just moves through the house like she’s trying not to wake a soul.
When I hear the door to the guest wing close upstairs, I finally let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
She went to the shop. I already knew—the SUV’s GPS pinged the address right after she left. I didn’t follow. Didn’t call or send anyone. Just watched that little dot sit there for two hours, then head right back home.
Part of me wanted to be pissed—she left without a word, took my car, risked being seen. But honestly, relief won out.
She came back. To this house. To me.
Even if she hates every square inch of it.
I finish my bourbon, set the glass down, and head upstairs. Her door’s closed. No light. I stop outside for a second, hand on the frame, listening. Nothing. She’s either out cold or faking it.
I end up in my own room. After I shower, I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it finally does, it’s full of her—the way she looked in that white dress, the taste of cake and anger on her mouth, how her fingers hooked into my jacket during that slow dance like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hold on or shove me away.
I wake up restless. Hard. Shower again; cold this time.
Downstairs, she’s already in the kitchen when I walk in. Hair in a loose braid, wearing one of my old black hoodies over leggings. It drowns her, yet somehow looks better on her than it ever did on me.
“Morning,” I say.
I wonder where she found the old sweatshirt.
She keeps pouring coffee, doesn’t look up. “Morning.”
I lean my hip against the island. “You went to the shop.”
Her shoulders go stiff. “Tatiana needed help with inventory.”
I snort. “Bullshit.”
Finally, she looks at me. Her eyes are light caramel, wary. “You tracked me.”
“I track what matters.”
She sets her mug down, a little too hard. “That’s going to get old fast.”
“I’m not sorry for keeping you safe.”
“I’m not looking for a keeper.”
“Too bad. You’ve got one.”
She blows out a breath. “I’m going back today. To work. Not to hide. Not to run. To work.”
She’s not asking. She’s telling me.
“Fine,” I say. “But someone goes with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not having one of your guys breathing down my neck while I pipe buttercream.”
“Then I’ll go.”
She actually laughs—a sharp, surprised sound. “You? In my kitchen?”
“Why not?”
She gestures at me. “You’re Bratva. Not exactly the dishwashing type.”
“I’ve washed worse.”
She gives me a look, trying to figure out if I mean it. Shrugs. “Whatever. Just stay out of the way.”
“Deal.”
She grabs an apple, takes a bite, and brushes past me without another word.
I follow her out to the garage. She heads straight for the black SUV again. I open the passenger door before she can argue.
She rolls her eyes but gets in.
The drive’s quiet. Snow fluttering down, slow and lazy. Radio off. I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel her watching me out of the corner of her eye.
At the shop, the closed sign’s still up. She unlocks the back door, flips the lights, and starts pulling trays from the cooler like nothing’s changed.
I hang my coat by the door. Roll up my sleeves. “What do you need?”
She glances over. “You serious?”
“Yeah. Dead serious.”
She points at the sink. “Wash those mixing bowls. Dry them. Put them on the rack.”
So I do. Water’s hot. Soap smells like lemon. She’s measuring flour, humming some old jazz tune I almost know but can’t name.
We work like that for an hour. I'm cleaning, she's baking. She doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t need to. The quiet isn’t angry. It’s methodical. Like we’re both feeling out where the edges are now.
Around noon, the front bell rings. She tenses.
I dry my hands. “I’ll get it.”
She nods.
It’s one of her part-timers—Lena, maybe twenty, purple streaks in her hair. She stops short when she sees me.
“Uh… hi?”
“Katya’s in the back,” I say. “She’s expecting you.”
Lena leans past me, looking for Katya. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
Katya appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Hey, Lena. Can you handle the afternoon? I’ll be in and out.”
Lena nods, a little slow. “Sure. No problem.”
When Lena heads up front, Katya turns to me. “You scared her.”
“She’ll survive.”
Katya shakes her head, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. Almost.
We stick around for another hour. She hands me a piece of her latest shortbread—rosemary and sea salt this time. I take a bite, eyes closed. “Jesus. This is dangerous.”
She laughs. “That’s the idea.”
I actually look at her—really look. There’s flour dusted on her cheek, her eyes are bright, her hair’s coming loose from her braid. She’s beautiful, and it hurts a little to see it.
“You belong here,” I tell her.
Something in her face goes soft, just for a second. Then it’s gone. “I know.”
We leave when the afternoon crowd starts rolling in. She locks up, sets the alarm. In the car, she stares out the window the whole drive home and doesn't say a word.
That night, I cook. Nothing fancy—just Delmonico steak, potato wedges, and some greens. She comes downstairs when the smell hits her, still wrapped up in my hoodie.
We eat at the kitchen island. No candles, no music, just the sound of forks scraping plates and the fridge humming in the background.
Halfway through, she says, “There’s something you should know.”
I put my knife down. “Okay. I’m listening.”
She moves her food around. “The shop… it isn’t just a hobby. It’s the only thing I’ve ever had that’s truly mine. No family money. No strings. I used old modeling money and birthday gifts I’d saved up for years. Ilariy and Tatiana helped with the lease, but the rest was all me.”
I nod. “Yeah. I figured.”
“There’s more.” She looks up at me. “My mother… she baked. Before she got sick, before she died. It was the only time she ever seemed happy. Not putting on a show for my father, not running the house—just baking. She taught me when I was a kid. We’d make these ridiculous cakes, crooked and lopsided. We’d laugh until we cried.”
Her voice catches at the end. She swallows, then keeps going.
“I started the shop for her. Because baking was the one thing she loved that wasn’t ruined by everything else. And when she died, it felt like the only way to keep a piece of her with me.”
I let her talk. Don’t interrupt. I just watch her.
Her voice is small. “I can’t lose it. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
“You won’t.”
She glances up. “You threatened it.”
“I know.”
“So why should I believe you now?”
“Because I’m being honest with you.” I lean in a little. “I wanted you. So much so that I did something stupid. But I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to stay bright. The way you are when you’re buried in flour, arguing with a recipe like it’s talking back.”
She almost smiles. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
She looks down at her plate. “I still don’t trust you.”
“I get it.”
“But…” She sighs. “I don’t hate being here as much as I thought I would.”
That’s something.
We finish dinner in silence. She helps clear the dishes. Our hands brush, and neither of us moves away right away.
Later, we end up in the living room. The fire’s going. She curls up on the couch with a book. I take the armchair with my laptop. We don’t talk. Just sit together.
Around midnight, she closes her book and stands up.
“I’m going to bed.”
I nod. “Goodnight, Katya.”
She hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. Looks back.
“You didn’t push tonight.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
She studies me. “Why?”
“I want you to come to me. Not because I forced it.”
She searches my face, then heads upstairs.
I stay by the fire another hour, thinking about her mom, the cakes, the way she hangs onto those memories. Like armor.
I don’t go to her room.
But when I finally head up, I stop outside her door. It’s dark and quiet.
I whisper, barely loud enough for myself, “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Then I go to bed.
Alone.
But honestly, I don’t feel lonely. Not anymore.
***
The mirror in my bedroom has seen better days. It’s full-length, heavy, framed in dark walnut, and the silver’s worn away at the edges, so the glass looks a little cloudy.
My mom gave it to me. Every morning, she’d stand right here, fixing her hair, humming old village songs as if she’d never left.
Sometimes I almost see her in it. Just a flash—a small, stern woman with that half-smile she’d give when she caught me watching. But tonight, it’s just me staring back.
I’m in a black sharp suit, white shirt, no tie yet. The collar’s open, top button undone. My hair’s still damp from the shower, curling at the ends because I haven’t bothered to cut it.
I look... not softer, really. Just less guarded. Less like the guy who always walked into a room ready to fight.
I reach for my tie—charcoal silk, nothing flashy but definitely expensive. I loop it around my neck and start the knot. My hands know the drill; I’ve done this a thousand times, gearing up to look invincible. Tonight, though, my fingers don’t feel steady. Not nerves. Something else.
Katya.
She’s in the east wing—her space. I gave her that suite the day after the wedding. High ceilings, cream walls, and those ridiculous windows overlooking the gardens. She’s probably getting ready, standing in front of her own mirror.
Maybe she’s sliding into her dress. Brushing out her hair so it falls just right. Maybe she’s frowning at her reflection like she does when the icing on a cake doesn’t swirl perfectly. Or maybe she’s smiling. Maybe—God, I hope—she’s thinking about me.
I tighten the knot. Smooth it down. Check my reflection again.
She’s changed everything.
Not in some big, dramatic way—at least, not yet. We haven’t even crossed that line. She was clear from the start: name only. I agreed. I meant it. Still do.
But she’s everywhere.
I wake up with her on my mind. Not Fadir. Not the endless plotting and counter-plotting. Her. The way she looked when she first tasted the herb butter I made, eyes closed, like sunlight on her tongue.
The laugh she gave when I burned the mushrooms because I couldn’t stop watching her.
I spent years building walls so high I forgot what it felt like to be touched without an angle. She walked right through them—no effort, just herself. Stubborn, smart, gentle in ways she hides from most people.
She’s in my kitchen now, using my pans, dusting flour across the counters, and humming songs I don’t know but want to ask about. She’s in my bed—not sleeping in it, not yet—but the pillows smell of her shampoo. Lavender and vanilla.
I breathe it in when she’s not looking, like I’m starving.
I fuss with the tie again. Pointless. It’s already perfect.
I think about tonight. All the families—Letvins, Sokolovs, Orlovs, maybe a few Zolotovs if they’re on their best behavior. Everyone is sizing us up, waiting for a crack. I used to love that, used to walk in like I owned the place because nobody dared challenge me.
Now I’m walking in with her, and all I care about is making sure nobody gives her a reason to flinch. Making sure she feels safe. Making sure she knows—without me saying a word—I’d burn the whole damn room down before I let anyone touch her.
I turn from the mirror. Grab the cufflinks—plain black onyx, nothing showy. Snap them in place. One last look.
I look like a man walking into war.
But I’m not scared of the families. I’m scared of what happens if she wakes up and decides this—us—isn’t enough. If she remembers, I once threatened to take her dreams away. If she looks at me and sees the monster, not the man trying—awkwardly and desperately—to be someone she could love.
I let out a breath. Straighten up.
She’s already changed me.
I just hope it’s enough.
I step into the hallway. Stop outside her door. It’s closed, but I hear her inside—soft footsteps, fabric shifting, the click of a jewelry box. I don’t knock. I don’t need to see her yet. Just knowing she’s there is enough.
I head downstairs.
The car is waiting.
The night is waiting.
And Katya—my wife, my obsession, my reason—is waiting too.
I’ll be back for her.
Always.