Chapter 23 - Katya
The house feels hollow tonight. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—this is the kind that lingers after a storm, where everything’s soaked, and you’re not sure what’s coming next.
I’ve been curled up on the couch for hours, wearing one of Tikhon’s old hoodies. It swallows me, smells a little like him. There’s just this one lamp on, throwing a gold puddle over the rug. I didn’t bother with the overheads. Didn’t want the room too bright, not yet.
He still isn’t home.
Not since the night all the secrets finally spilled out—his obsession, the threat, and how he twisted himself up thinking the only way to keep me safe was to trap me. I hugged him then, holding on while he waited for me to flinch away in disgust.
But I didn’t.
After that, he slipped back into himself, a little further each day, chasing Fadir like it’s the only thing that matters. His calls go straight to voicemail. My texts hang there, marked “read,” but he never replies.
Viktor tells me he’s safe when I ask, but that doesn’t stop this ache in my chest. Or the fear that one day he’ll vanish for good, swallowed up by the shadows he’s always known, and I’ll be here, still waiting.
A little after two, the front door clicks open. I hear the lock turn, the floorboard groan in the hall. My heart leaps up—relief tangled with dread. I don’t move. I just listen.
He appears in the doorway, still wearing his coat, hair dripping from the rain, eyes ringed with shadows. When he spots me—awake, waiting—something shifts in his face. He looks wrung out. Guilty. Maybe a little relieved.
“Katya.” His voice is scratchy, like he hasn’t spoken in days.
I uncurl, stand up slowly. “You’re home.”
He nods, but keeps his distance. “Was gonna crash in the guest room. Didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
He sighs and runs a shaky hand through his wet hair. “I’m sorry. I just... I had to finish this.”
I step closer. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
He nods again, quieter. “I know.”
Another step. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground chasing him.”
“I’m close. I can feel it.”
I stop, a few feet away. “And then what? When he’s gone—after you’ve done whatever you need to do—do you come back? Or will there just be another Fadir? Another threat? Another reason to disappear?”
He finally really looks at me, right in the eyes. He looks so tired it almost hurts to see. “I don’t know.”
That honesty stings more than any lie.
I close the gap between us. Reach up, cup his face. His skin is cold and damp. I brush my thumbs over his cheekbones, gently.
“I’m not angry,” I say, voice low.
He blinks. “You should be.”
“Maybe. But I’m not.” I search his face. “I’m grateful.”
He frowns. “Grateful?”
“You believed in me.” My voice shakes, but I don’t stop.
“From the start. Even when you were threatening me and pulling every dirty trick to keep me close. You saw me—the real me. Not a Letvin princess. Not a socialite. The baker. The one who stays up until three a.m. just to get the frosting right. You wanted me to grow. You said so yourself. Even if the beginning was ugly, even if it hurt, you never tried to snuff that out. You fought for it. For me.”
He swallows hard. “I hurt you.”
“You did.” I nod. “And I hurt you, too. I pushed you away. I doubted you. But we’re here. And I don’t want to lose you to this obsession. I don’t want to wake up to a cold, empty bed every morning and wonder if you’re coming home.”
He shuts his eyes. “Katya…”
“I love you,” I say.
Simple.
o hesitation.
His eyes fly open. He looks at me like breathing just got complicated.
“I love you,” I say again, softer. “Not in spite of everything. Because of it. Because you fought for me when I couldn’t.
Because you gave me space when I needed it.
Because when the shop burned, you just held me and let me be broken.
You didn’t try to fix it. I love you, Tikhon.
And I’m scared. Scared you’ll chase Fadir until you’re gone.
Scared I’ll lose the man who made me believe I could want more than a gilded cage. ”
“Yeah,” I say. “For telling me the truth, finally. For coming home tonight, even if you look like hell.” My hands stay on his face, steady, like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I let go. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But you don’t have to do this alone.”
He closes his eyes, leans into my touch—just a little. I feel him shaking, exhaustion and adrenaline fighting it out under his skin. “I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not chasing something.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “You’re mine. That’s who you are. You’re the one who makes coffee too strong and forgets to water the plants. You leave your boots by the door and your books on every surface.” A tiny, wry smile tugs at my mouth. “You snore.”
He laughs—hoarse, broken, but real. “I do not.”
“Liar.” My smile grows. “Come here.”
He hesitates, then lets me pull him close. His arms wrap around me, tight—like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers. Rain clings to his coat, cold seeping into my hoodie, but I don’t care.
I press my face to his shoulder, breathe him in—wet wool, soap, something sharp underneath.
Fear, maybe.
“I missed you,” I whisper, words muffled against his chest.
His hand slides up, fingers threading through my hair. “I missed you, too. More than I thought I could.” His voice is small. He sounds young, lost.
We stand like that for a long time, just breathing. The storm outside is gone, but the world still feels soaked, heavy, waiting for something to break.
Eventually, he pulls back, just enough to look at me. “I want to come home,” he says. “I just—don’t know how to let it go.”
I nod. “You don’t have to let it go all at once. Just… stay tonight. Be here. With me.”
He looks like he might argue, but then his shoulders drop, and the fight bleeds out of him. “Okay,” he says.
Barely more than a breath.
I take his hand and lead him down the hall. At the bedroom door, he stops, glancing at me like he’s asking permission. I answer by pulling him inside.
We shed our layers in silence. Old hurts and fresh worries, clothes damp from rain. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled, familiar. He crawls in first. I slide in beside him, tucking myself against his side.
He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair. His breath is shaky, but his arms are steady.
The house is quiet. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the way his chest rises and falls against my back. For once, I let myself believe he’s really here, that tomorrow might be kinder.
I close my eyes. I let the dark hold us, just for now.
“You believed in me.” My voice shakes, but I keep talking.
“From the very start. Even when you were threatening me. Even when you pulled every dirty trick just to keep me close. You saw me for who I am—not the Letvin princess, not the socialite. The baker. The one who stays up until three in the morning, obsessed with getting the frosting just right. You wanted me to grow. You told me so. Even when things got ugly, even when it hurt… You never tried to put out that spark. You fought for it. For me.”
His throat tightens. “I hurt you.”
“You did.” I nod. “And I hurt you, too. I pushed you away, doubted you. But we’re here now. And I don’t want to lose you to this obsession. I don’t want to wake up to an empty bed every morning, wondering if today’s the day you don’t come back.”
His eyes fill with tears. He blinks them away quickly, like he’s embarrassed. “I love you too,” he whispers. “More than anything. More than revenge. More than this whole life. I just… I don’t know how to stop.”
I pull him down, press my forehead to his. “Then let me help you. Let me be the reason you come home, not the reason you leave.”
He breathes out—shaky, raw. “I’m so tired.”
“I know.” I kiss him—soft and slow. “Come to bed. Let me hold you, just for tonight. No plans. No hunts. Just us.”
He nods, small and defeated, but there’s relief in it. I take his hand and lead him upstairs. We undress in silence, our clothes piling on the floor. No rush, just the quiet kind of closeness that comes from being bare together.
I guide him under the covers and curl into his side. His head rests on my chest, his arms wrap around my waist, his ear pressed over my heart.
I run my fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. “Tell me what scares you,” I whisper.
He’s silent for a long time. Then, his voice muffled against my skin: “If I stop, he’ll come for you. I’ll fail you again. I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone—because I couldn’t keep you safe. Because I’m still the man who once threatened you.”
I hold him tighter. “You’re not that man anymore. You’re the one who fought for my freedom. You helped me rebuild my dream. You hold me when I fall apart and just stay, even when you can’t fix it. That’s enough. You’re enough.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You do.” I kiss his hair. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
We talk for hours, our voices low in the dark.
About fear.
About love.
About the future we want—a new shop, maybe bigger, maybe with a little café in the corner. Classes for kids on weekends. Late nights trying out new recipes together. Mornings waking up twisted up in each other. No more shadows. No more running.
Eventually, his breathing slows. He falls asleep, head on my chest, arm heavy over my waist—safe.
I keep stroking his hair. Whispering promises into the dark.
“I love you,” I murmur, even though he’s sleeping. “I’m here. Always.”
I don’t drift off right away. I just listen to his heartbeat—steady, strong. The house is quiet. The world outside is quiet. For the first time in weeks, I actually feel like we might make it.
Together.
I close my eyes.
For once, I don’t dream of fire.
I dream of blooming.
***
I wake up slowly. The room’s still mostly dark, just that thin gray light sneaking in around the curtains. I glance at the clock—5:42 a.m. Instinct kicks in. I reach across the bed, hunting for Tikhon, expecting him to be there, warm and breathing beside me.
But he’s not. The sheets are cold. My heart jumps. I sit up quickly, sheets bunched around my waist. His pillow’s empty, the dent from his head still there but already cooled off.
All that’s left is a hint of his shampoo on the fabric. The bathroom’s dark, door shut. No sound. Nothing.
“Tikhon?” My voice barely makes a dent in the silence. No answer.
I throw off the covers and swing my feet to the floor. The wood is freezing. I grab his hoodie from the chair—still holding some of last night’s warmth—and tug it on.
The sleeves hang past my hands. I head downstairs as quietly as I can. The living room is empty. Kitchen, too. I check the garage. His car’s gone.
Panic punches through me. I snatch my phone off the counter. No note. No text. No clue. I call him—straight to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. Where are you? Please call me back.”
I try again. Still voicemail.
Now I’m pacing the kitchen, cold tile under my feet, thoughts spinning. He was wiped out last night. He let me hold him. Told me he loved me. And now he’s gone. Again.
I know where he went. Fadir. The hunt he’d sworn he’d give up but couldn’t. Not with the guy who torched my shop still out there.
Fear twists up inside me, tight and cold. This time feels worse somehow—like the air’s heavy, like something’s about to snap. It’s the same dread I felt the night of the shootout, when the call dropped and the gunfire started. I know that feeling. It means danger.
I slide down to the floor, knees pulled to my chest, back pressed against the cabinets. Tears hit fast and hard. I bury my face in my knees, trying to breathe, trying to push down the panic. But all I see is him—hurt, bleeding, his eyes flat and distant. All I hear is this awful silence.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just let him be safe. Bring him home. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not after I found him.”
The words just tumble out—half promise, half prayer.
“I love him,” I say, voice cracking. “I love him so much it hurts. More than the shop. More than anything. I didn’t know I could need someone like this. Please don’t take him away. Please.”
I rock a little, arms clamped around myself. The clock ticks on, slow and cruel. 6:03. 6:17. 6:34.
I can’t stop thinking about him. That first crooked smile in the shop. The way he tasted my weird recipes like they were a gift. The night he held me while everything burned and didn’t try to fix it—he just stayed.
The way he fought for me. The way he cried in my arms last night, all his walls gone. He’s not perfect. He’s got scars and broken parts. But he’s mine. And I’m his. I can’t let that go.
I pull myself up, shaky but sure. I can’t just sit here. Not this time.
I grab my phone. Scroll until I find Agafon’s number. My thumb hesitates, then I hit call.
He picks up on the second ring, voice rough with sleep. “Katya? It’s early.”
“Tikhon’s gone,” I say. “He left in the middle of the night. He’s after Fadir. Alone. I need help.”
Silence.
Then, “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. But something’s wrong. I feel it. Please. Help me find him.”
Another pause. Then Agafon—my oldest brother, the one who never budges—says something I never expected.
“We’re on it. Stay put. We’ll bring him home.”
I hang up. Slide back down against the cabinets.
And wait.
And pray.
Because he means more than the shop ever did.
He’s everything.