Chapter 17 Bella #2
The space smells faintly of charcoal and paint and something clean, like fresh paper. A worktable sits in the middle. Canvases lean against the walls. Sketchbooks are stacked in messy piles. A lamp glows softly in the corner.
I take one step back, instinctively, like I’ve walked into something private.
Then I see the drawings.
My breath catches.
There are dozens. Maybe more.
Sketches pinned to boards. Portraits propped on easels.
Quick pencil lines and careful shading, my face in different angles, different expressions.
Me looking over my shoulder. Me laughing.
Me asleep. Me with my hair down like that first night in the hotel.
Me with my mouth parted like I’m about to speak.
Me again and again, rendered with an attention that makes my skin prickle.
My hands fly to my mouth.
I move closer without meaning to, drawn in despite myself. My throat tightens as I recognize details no stranger should know. The curve of my collarbone. A small freckle near my jaw. The exact shape of my eyes when I’m trying not to cry.
I turn slowly, taking it all in, and a cold realization sinks deep into my chest.
He didn’t forget me.
Not for a single day.
I stand in that studio for too long, staring at versions of myself that should not exist.
My chest feels tight, like I can’t get a full breath in. I back out slowly and close the door with my fingertips, careful, like I’m afraid the room will bite.
I walk back to his bedroom on unsteady legs.
Aleksander is asleep, turned slightly to one side, the bandage stark against his skin. In sleep he looks younger. Less carved out of violence. Less controlled. The sight makes something in me ache and annoys me at the same time.
I sit on the edge of the bed again, staring at his face, listening to his breathing.
Then I whisper, “Why do you have a room full of drawings of me?”
His eyes open almost immediately, like he was never really asleep. He blinks once, slow, then focuses on me.
For a second he says nothing. He looks at my expression and seems to understand I’m not asking lightly.
“You went into that room,” he says.
“It was an accident,” I reply. “I was looking for the bathroom. I found…that.”
He exhales, closing his eyes briefly. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with the bullet.
“Bella,” he says quietly, “I did not forget you.”
“That’s obvious,” I snap, and I hate that my voice wobbles. “It’s not normal. That isn’t normal.”
He shifts, careful with his shoulder. His good hand moves to the edge of the mattress, palm up, not grabbing. Just there.
“Come here,” he says. “Please.”
I don’t take his hand. I keep mine in my lap so he can’t see them shaking.
He watches me for a long beat, then nods like he accepts it. “You want to know why my mother hates me,” he says.
My stomach turns. “I want to know why she tried to have you killed in a garden full of guests.”
A faint, humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s her version of restraint.”
I swallow. “Tell me.”
He stares at the ceiling for a moment, like he’s memorized it. Then his voice drops, steadier than his eyes.
“My father died when I was young,” he says. “After that, she built her life around control. Control of the house, control of the men around her, control of me.”
He pauses, jaw tightening.
Then he says quietly, “His name was Maxim. My half brother.”
He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, his voice stripped of all pretense. “My father died young. Years later, Irina had Maxim with another man. She adored him. Gave him everything she never gave me.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He takes a breath. “A few years ago, there was a threat—someone tried to hit me at the house. I thought I was protecting everyone, but my decisions brought violence right into our home. Maxim was caught in the middle.”
I feel my stomach drop. “He died?”
Aleksander nods. His mouth is a thin, hard line. “He was just a kid. He got in the way. It was my fault—my enemies, my world, my mistake. My mother has never forgiven me. She wants me to pay for it.”
I let the silence stretch. His eyes finally meet mine, and for once, there’s no mask. “That’s why she wants me gone. Not business. Not power. Just payback for Maxim.”
For a long minute, neither of us says a word.
He looks away. “I’ve carried that every day since.”
I reach for his hand, needing some tether. “You can’t keep blaming yourself forever.”
His voice is flat. “She can. She will.”
I squeeze his fingers. I want to say something to fix it, but there’s nothing to fix. The damage is done—he knows it, and so do I.
He goes quiet after that, the weight of everything heavy in the air between us.
I sit there, looking at his face in the half-light, my hand still wrapped around his. There’s nothing romantic about this kind of honesty. It’s raw, ugly, and true.
I try to keep my voice steady. “So she’s not going to stop.”
He shakes his head once. “No. Irina doesn’t let go. Not of grief. Not of anger. She’ll keep coming.”
I swallow, pressing my free hand to my chest like I can steady my heartbeat. “And us?”
Aleksander looks at me, his expression open for once. Right now he’s just a man, not a boss, not a criminal, not a ghost from my past. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you and Lily safe,” he says. “I promise.”
His fingers tighten around mine. He’s trembling a little. Maybe from pain, maybe from something else. I don’t pull away.
“I can’t bring Maxim back,” he says quietly. “But I can make sure I don’t lose anyone else.”
I don’t say anything—I just hold on.
Eventually, his eyes close, exhaustion winning. His breathing slows, his grip loosens, and I watch him drift off, knowing sleep is a mercy he rarely gets.
For the first time, I understand just how much he’s lost—and how much more he stands to lose. And I realize, with a heavy ache in my chest, that none of us are really safe. Not from Irina, not from the past, and maybe not even from each other.
I don’t even remember drifting off. One moment I’m perched at the edge of the mattress, watching Aleksander breathe, thinking I’ll just close my eyes for a minute—then the world dissolves.
When I wake, the room is filled with gentle morning light, and his hand is stroking through my hair. For a second, I forget everything—who he is, what he’s done, what we’ve survived. It’s just warmth and his rough fingers, slow and careful, brushing against my scalp.
I blink, lifting my head. Aleksander is already awake, propped against the pillows, watching me. There’s a strange softness in his expression—something like apology, or longing, or maybe just exhaustion.
We look at each other, a silent understanding hanging between us. We still haven’t talked about it—not really. Not about Lily, and how she’s his daughter. There’s too much to say and not enough language for any of it.
Before I can gather my thoughts, my phone vibrates against the nightstand. The sound jolts me out of the moment. I snatch it up, half-afraid of what news could possibly come next.
It’s Maya. I answer immediately. “Maya? Are you okay?”
She sounds tired, but relieved. “I was about to ask you the same thing! I heard back from Nikolai—”
“Nikolai?” I interrupt, glancing at Aleksander, who just arches an eyebrow. “When did you talk to him?”
Maya sighs. “I met him yesterday. He was at my apartment, he and his boss, Aleksander. They were looking for you.”
I exhale sharply as I look at Aleksander. Shit. After the events of last night, I had totally forgotten about that.
She hesitates. “Are you really safe, Bella? Nikolai said you’re with Aleksander.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, guilt pricking at my conscience. I hadn’t even thought to ask about her.
“Maya, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did they—”
“I’m fine,” Maya interrupts. “The apartment’s trashed, but Aleksander already wired money for repairs, and—get this—he put me in some kind of safe house with actual guards. You know I’ve always wanted a bodyguard, right? Just not quite like this.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out. “Maya, I’m so, so sorry. I should have checked in—”
“Stop,” she says, voice gentle. “You’ve had your own nightmare. Just promise you’ll let me know you’re alive next time, okay? And, um…tell your Russian mobster I’ll send him the receipts for new furniture.”
I actually manage to laugh, though it comes out shaky. Aleksander’s eyes are still fixed on mine, quietly intense, as if he’s waiting for something else—something neither of us has said yet.
Lily’s little footsteps echo in the hallway before I even hang up the call. The door pushes open and she comes bounding in, curls flying, dragging her worn bunny by one ear. She’s grinning, pure energy, but her socks slip on the hardwood and she tumbles right onto the rug.
“Careful, love,” I say, half rising, but she’s already giggling, picking herself up.
Aleksander swings his legs off the bed, wincing as he tries to get up, but Lily’s attention is already on him. She marches over, all seriousness now, and climbs onto the bed, kneeling right next to his bandaged arm.
She points at the gauze and frowns. “You get a boo-boo,” she tells him gravely, as if he might not have noticed.
Aleksander blinks, and something in his face softens so much I feel it in my chest. He puts on an exaggerated pout, his big frame curled awkwardly to Lily’s level. “Yes, malyshka. Papa got a big boo-boo.”
She studies the bandage, her little brow furrowed in concentration. “You need a Band-Aid.”
I have to look away, swallowing a lump in my throat as I watch Aleksander—the man everyone fears—nodding solemnly at his toddler’s diagnosis. “I think you might be right,” he says.
Lily leans in, presses a kiss to the edge of the bandage, and declares, “All better now.”
Aleksander’s jaw flexes. I can see how hard he’s working not to fall apart.
He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes locked on Lily’s little hand gripping his.
The room feels softer somehow, the daylight brightening the edges of the night we barely survived.
Lily sits cross-legged in front of him, proud of her magic kiss, looking up for approval.
“Thank you, Dr. Lily,” he says, his Russian accent thicker, almost playful.
She grins and nods, completely serious. “You not cry, okay?”
He chuckles quietly, the sound rough but real. “I promise. Not a single tear.”
I move to sit beside Lily, brushing her hair back from her forehead, overwhelmed by the sight of the two of them together. Aleksander looks at me, something unspoken passing between us—a question, a hope, maybe a promise he’s too cautious to make out loud.
Lily’s attention flits to her bunny, then back to Aleksander. “Mama say rest. You need rest too.”
He smiles at her, then glances at me. “I think our daughter is right.”
My heart stutters. Our daughter. The words linger between us, heavy and beautiful, and for a moment I almost forget all the pain and danger that brought us here.
“Maybe we all need some rest,” I say softly.
Lily nestles between us, bunny in her arms, her head resting against my side. Aleksander settles back on the pillows, careful not to disturb his wound. He reaches for my hand, and this time I don’t hesitate. I take it, holding on tight.
We sit like that for a while, the three of us wrapped in an uneasy peace, sunlight creeping across the floor, breathing in and out as if life could start again right here.