Chapter 20 - Tikhon
The days after the shootout drag by, thick and slow, like I’m wading through molasses. Everything aches. Turns out, you don’t need to catch a bullet to feel like you’ve been run over.
Fadir’s guys fought hard—I’ve got the bruises to prove it.
Boot to the ribs, fist to the jaw, knee to the gut.
I spit blood for an hour, but nothing’s broken.
The doctor says maybe cracked ribs, definitely a whole lot of bruising, and that breathing feels like punishment.
Laughing’s out. Even rolling over in bed is a risk.
So, I stay home. Not up for any arguments. Viktor’s in charge of mopping up the mess, Agafon’s crew is out hunting for anyone who slipped through. I let them handle it. For once, I’m not forcing my way into the action.
I figure Katya will head back to her bakery, eager to scrub the blood out and frost over the memories. But when I wake up the next day, she’s right there beside me. Curled up on my good side, her head on my shoulder, arm draped over my chest, like she’s making sure I don’t float away.
Sunlight sneaks through the blinds and catches in her hair, turning it gold at the tips. She’s asleep, breathing quiet and even, but when I shift, she stirs. Her eyes blink open.
“You’re supposed to be at the shop,” I mumble, voice rough from sleep and pain.
She props herself up, careful not to jostle my ribs. “The shop will survive. You’re the one who needs looking after.”
I try to arch an eyebrow, but it pulls at the cut above it, and I wince. “So you’re sticking around to babysit me?”
She smirks. “To keep you from doing anything dumb, like lifting furniture or picking more fights.”
I can’t help but laugh, though it hurts. “I’m not that reckless.”
She leans in, kisses the corner of my mouth, gentle with my split lip. “You’re worse. Now, stay put. I’m making breakfast.”
She slips out of bed, padding to the kitchen in my oversized shirt, hair a mess, legs bare. She moves with that quiet confidence she gets when she’s in control. I watch her go, and something warm settles in my chest, heavier than the bruises.
She’s choosing me. Not the shop, not her routine—just me.
Breakfast is nothing fancy. Scrambled eggs with chives from her little window pot, buttery toast, coffee strong enough to kick me awake. She brings it all in on a tray, sets it across my lap, and climbs back under the covers.
We eat together, not saying much, shoulders pressed close. She keeps stealing bites off my plate, thinking I don’t notice. I always do—I give her a look, and she laughs, easy and bright.
“You’re hopeless at sharing,” I tease, handing her the last piece of toast.
She grins, nibbling the edge. “You never eat slow enough. Anyway, I like watching you eat. Makes me feel useful.”
“You are,” I say, setting the tray aside and pulling her in, careful with my ribs. She tucks herself against me, her head on my shoulder. “More than you think.”
We talk, slow and lazy. She tells me about a new recipe she’s dreaming up—lavender-honey shortbread, something to make winter taste like summer. I tell her about the time my mom tried to teach me to make pirozhki, and I wound up with dough stuck in my hair for a week.
She laughs, really laughs, and it does more for my pain than any meds.
Days run together after that. She stays home, cooks, cleans, and changes my bandages with gentle hands. I heal, slow but steady. We watch movies on the couch—she curled into my side, my arm wrapped around her.
When I’m too sore to sit up, she reads recipes aloud, her voice soft and steady, lulling me half to sleep.
At night, she lies close, careful of my bruises, her breath warm on my neck. There’s something intimate about all these small things—her fingers tracing scars I’ve never explained, me kissing her hair when she thinks I’m asleep.
One afternoon, she’s changing the bandage on my ribs. I’m shirtless, she’s cross-legged beside me on the bed.
Her touch is gentle, almost clinical, but her eyes linger on the dark bruise blooming across my side. “Does it still hurt?”
“Less every day.” I catch her wrist, bring her hand to my lips. “Thanks to you.”
She blushes—soft pink on her cheeks. “I’m not doing much.”
“You’re doing everything.” I tug her closer until she’s straddling my lap—careful, slow. She settles, hands on my shoulders. Our eyes lock. The air thickens—intimate, charged.
“You were really worried,” I say quietly. “When you ran out into the street.”
She looks away. “I was worried for everyone.”
“Bullshit.” I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “You were worried for me.”
Her eyes flick back—defensive, vulnerable. “Maybe.”
“Say it.”
She exhales. “Fine. I was terrified. Thought you were bleeding out somewhere. Thought I’d lost you before I even...” She stops, swallows. “Before I figured out what this is.”
My heart stutters. “What is this, Katya?”
She studies my face. “Something real. Something I’m scared to lose.”
I pull her down and kiss her—slow and deep, pouring everything I can’t put into words right into that moment. She melts against me, her hands tangled in my hair, her body pressed close.
We don’t take it further—my ribs still aren’t up for that—but the kiss says what we both need. When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
Recovery moves slowly. My bruises fade from purple to yellow, cuts scab over, and ribs hurt a little less with every breath. By the end of the week, I’m moving like myself again—still sore, but I can deal.
Sometimes I catch her watching me. Her eyes go soft, full of relief. She’s been here every day. No running off to the shop, no distractions, just us.
On my last night before I get the all-clear, I take her out. Dinner—small Italian spot downtown, tucked into a quiet corner booth, candlelight flickering between us. No bodyguards, no one watching. Just her and me.
She wears that black dress from the gala. Silk that hugs her in all the ways that make my heart skip. I can’t stop staring. She catches me, gives me this shy, teasing smile. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.” I reach across and take her hand. “You’re beautiful.”
She blushes. “Flatterer.”
“It’s just the truth.” I lift her hand to my lips, kiss her knuckles. “Thank you. For staying. For looking after me.”
“You’d do the same.”
“I would.” I squeeze her fingers. “I will. Always.”
Dinner goes slowly. We share plates of pasta, sip wine that somehow tastes better because we’re sharing it. We talk—easy and honest.
About the future. The shop. Us.
She laughs when I butcher the Italian name for dessert. I watch her, really watch her—the way her eyes shine when she talks about a new recipe, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. I’m in love with her. No doubt about it.
When we get home, I try to keep it simple—a goodnight kiss at the door, nothing else. But she lingers, hands on my chest, eyes dark and searching. “Tikhon…”
I kiss her again—slow, deep. She melts into me, arms winding around my neck. We stumble upstairs, shedding clothes as we go. In the bedroom, it’s different this time—more intense, more careful.
I take my time, kissing every inch of her, learning her all over again. She’s so responsive—soft gasps, moans, her fingers digging into my shoulders. When I slide inside her—slow and sure—she arches up, eyes locked on mine.
We move together—deep, steady, building heat and pressure. Her nails rake my back. She says my name, breathless and reverent. When she finally shudders and clenches around me, I follow, burying my face in her neck and holding her tight as if she’s the only thing keeping me here.
We collapse together—sweaty, tangled up, breathing hard. She curls into me, her head on my chest.
“I don’t regret that either,” she whispers.
I kiss her hair. “Good.”
We fall asleep like that, limbs knotted together, hearts beating in sync.
At 3:17 in the morning, the phone rings—loud and shrill. I jerk awake and grab it. Unknown number. I answer, voice rough. “Yeah?”
“Shop’s on fire,” Viktor says. “We’re here. It’s bad.”
His words hit like a bucket of ice water. Katya stirs next to me, eyes wide. “What?”
I’m already out of bed, pulling on clothes. “Stay here.”
“No.” She’s up too, grabbing her robe. “It’s my shop.”
We drive fast, not saying a word. The flames are visible from blocks away—orange lighting up the night sky. Fire trucks everywhere, sirens wailing, smoke billowing thick and black. When we get there, it’s chaos—hoses spraying, people shouting, the roof sagging in.
The shop—her sanctuary, her pride—is burning.
Katya makes this small, broken sound. I pull her in and hold her tight, and we watch everything she built go up in flames.
***
The fire trucks are still there when we show up, red lights flashing across the dark sky.
Hoses snake across the sidewalk, water hissing as it hits the last stubborn bits of flame.
The shop is just gone. The window’s shattered, glass everywhere, and the sign—her name in gold—has melted into ugly black streaks.
Smoke pours from the roof, thick and gray, carrying that awful smell: burnt sugar, burnt wood. Everything she built is just ash now. Every late night. Every perfect swirl of frosting. Every single customer left grinning. All of it, gone.
Katya stands beside me, not moving. Her coat is half off her shoulder, eyes wide and glassy. She lets out this tiny, broken sound—so quiet I almost miss it over the crackle and the firemen shouting. Then she bolts, lurching forward like she’s about to run straight into the wreck.
I grab her around the waist and pull her back. “Katya. Stop.”
She fights me, twisting, reaching for the flames. “My shop—everything—”
“I know.” My arms tighten, ribs aching. “But it’s gone. You can’t go in.”
She just collapses against me, sobbing, rough and raw. “It was all I had. Everything I built. They took it. He took it.”
I turn her toward me and hold her face in my hands. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and soot, her eyes desperate, searching mine like I’m supposed to make this make sense.
“It’s not all you had,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady. “You still have your recipes. Your memories. The skill in your hands. You can rebuild. You will.”
She shakes her head, tears coming faster. “I put everything into that place. Every late night. Every fight with my brothers. Every time I told myself I could be more than just a Letvin princess. It was mine. Now it’s... nothing.”
I wipe her face, smearing ash. “It was yours. And it still is. The fire took the walls. The counters. The display cases. It didn’t take you. It didn’t take what you know, or how you feel when you bake. That’s still here.” I press my hand to her chest. “Right here.”
She covers my hand with hers. Her fingers are freezing. “I don’t know if I can start over. Not after this.”
“You can.” I rest my forehead against hers. “You’re the strongest person I know. You fought your family for that shop. You fought me. You fought Fadir. You’ll fight this, too. And I’ll be right here. Every step. Every recipe. Every brick. Whatever it takes.”
Her breath catches. “You mean that?”
“Every word.” I kiss her—soft, slow, tasting salt and smoke. “We’ll rebuild. Bigger. Better. However you want. I won’t let anyone take it from you again.”
She holds on tight, burying her face in my neck. She shakes with quiet sobs. I rock her, whispering promises, anything to anchor her. The firefighters move around us, voices low. One of them catches my eye and nods—he gets it. This isn’t just another fire.
After a while, her crying slows to shaky breaths. She pulls back, eyes red but clearer. “I don’t want to lose this,” she whispers. “Us. The life we’re trying to make.”
“You won’t.” I brush soot out of her hair. “We’re just getting started.”
She nods, small and shaky, and looks back at what’s left. The fire’s mostly out now. Just blackened piles, the hiss of water on metal. The building’s a skeleton, roof caved in, but the frame is still there. Something to start from.
Katya exhales, straightens up. “Okay. We rebuild.”
I kiss her again, firmer—a promise. “Together.”
We stay there until the last fire truck leaves, the street quiet except for dripping water and the far-off city noise. Her hand finds mine, cold fingers squeezing tight.
We walk to the car. She doesn’t look back.
But I do.
The ashes are still warm. By tomorrow, they’ll be cold.
Tomorrow, we start again.