Chapter Ten - Lukyan
Paperwork stacks up on my desk, untouched.
I read the same page twice, then a third time, the words blurring into meaninglessness.
I sign what needs to be signed, pass judgment on matters my lieutenants should have handled themselves, but none of it holds my attention.
Every file, every report, every request—they feel hollow.
The world I built has lost its weight, reduced to background noise behind the single thread winding tighter in my mind.
Clara.
I see her everywhere; in the hallway where her scent lingers, in the library chair still angled from where she sat.
I think about the way her hand shook when I took the folder from her, the stubborn lift of her chin even when she was caught.
I think about her at breakfast, the vulnerability in her voice when she admitted she writes because the truth matters, the way she smiled—almost—for me.
Most of all, I think about the moment her eyes found mine, open and raw, as if she could see the war inside me.
I tell myself it isn’t desire. Desire is simple. This is something else, something jagged, sharp, consuming. Obsession. I know the signs. I’ve watched men destroy themselves for less.
I turn to the surveillance feed. There she is, curled in the window seat of the conservatory, knees tucked to her chest, a book forgotten in her lap. Her hair glints gold in the slant of afternoon light.
She glances up, restless, gazing toward the garden as if she can sense the boundary just beyond the glass.
I should look away. I should force myself back to work.
But I keep watching, hating the part of me that finds comfort in the sight of her moving through my world, even as she searches for a way out.
Later, the sky turns heavy and gray, clouds churning with the promise of rain. I see her slip outside, hugging her arms tight, breath frosting in the chill.
Clara walks slowly at first, circling the stone paths, but her gaze is fixed on the farthest gate—a rusted iron arch, chained and watched by a distant guard. She doesn’t notice me. Her jaw is set, her eyes bright with anger and something like longing.
I follow her at a distance, silent on the gravel.
She stops at the edge of the garden, staring at the road beyond the gate as if she could will herself through by force of stubbornness alone.
She doesn’t move for a long time. I can almost see her weighing the risks, tallying escape routes, measuring how far she’d get before the guards caught her.
“You’d last five minutes out there,” I say, voice quiet but carrying across the damp air.
She flinches, spinning to face me. Fury flashes in her eyes, but I hear the tremor in her voice when she snaps, “Maybe that’s five minutes more than I can stand in here. At least I’d have a choice.”
I step closer, letting the cold close the distance between us. “Choice? You made your choice when you published my name. Everything after that was consequences.”
She draws herself up, chin tilted high, but her hands shake where they’re clenched around her sleeves. “You call this protection? Hiding behind cameras, behind guards and locked doors? You’re a coward, Lukyan. If you weren’t, you’d let me decide what happens to me.”
The word lands harder than I expect. I’ve been called worse—by rivals, by enemies, by men who begged for their lives. But coming from her, it burns. Still, I step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat, close enough that I have to remind myself not to reach for her.
Her voice falters but doesn’t break. “Why are you so afraid of letting me go?”
I can’t answer that, not honestly. I know what would happen if I did. The guards would find her within minutes, dragging her back to the house, and I would hate myself for letting her try. Or worse, someone else would find her first, and I would lose the one thing in my world that still feels real.
I reach for her before I can stop myself, fingers brushing the soft fabric of her sleeve. The contact is fleeting, almost accidental, but it shocks us both. She stiffens, breath catching in her chest, and I pull my hand back as if burned.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, every line of her body quivering with defiance and confusion.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she whispers.
I hold her gaze, letting her see the truth I’ve hidden from everyone else. “No,” I say quietly. “I don’t.”
The rain begins to fall, slow at first, then faster, soaking into the grass and the stone at our feet. I make no move to shelter us. I can’t bring myself to leave her side.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of rain on iron and stone, the heat of her anger clashing with the cold in my veins.
She steps back, putting distance between us, but her eyes never leave mine. “You say I’m safer here, but you’re not keeping me safe, Lukyan. You’re just keeping me.”
She turns then, heading back toward the house, her shoulders rigid. I watch her go, every word echoing in my head, every inch of space she puts between us like a wound I can’t close.
The sky darkens and the rain grows heavier. I stand in the garden, letting it soak through my shirt, wondering when the house became a cage for me too.
Obsession, I remind myself. Nothing more. Except the ache in my chest tells another story.
After the rain, the mansion feels different, quiet, as if it’s holding its breath. I walk the halls with the restlessness of a man who doesn’t know what he’s searching for. My mind drifts in and out of work, caught on unfinished business, phone calls left unanswered, reports that barely register.
The storm outside has broken, but a heavier one brews in my chest.
I take the long route through the east wing, past gilded frames and old tapestries that once impressed me. Now, they’re only reminders of how empty the world can be, no matter how carefully it’s decorated. My footsteps echo.
Somewhere in the distance, a door clicks shut, a soft, everyday sound. I pause at the curve of the hallway, out of habit more than suspicion.
She appears around the corner, walking fast, her hair still damp at the ends from the rain. Her posture is tense, head high, lips pressed together.
Clara doesn’t see me at first. She’s lost in her own thoughts, shoulders set in a stubborn line. Then she catches her reflection in the long, gold-framed mirror to her right. For a moment, her eyes flick up to meet her own, then slide sideways—finding me in the glass.
Our gazes lock in the reflection. I see the flash of surprise, quickly masked by practiced indifference. Something raw passes between us. I can’t name it—anger, longing, accusation, regret—but it hits hard, sharper than any argument or threat.
She breaks eye contact first, glancing away and continuing down the hall without a word. Her movements are stiff, her arms folded tight as if bracing against a cold that has nothing to do with weather.
I stand rooted in place, unable to move, watching the ghost of her figure fade into the next corridor. My fists clench at my sides. The urge to follow, to explain, to reach for her, is nearly overwhelming.
Instead, I force myself to look away, catching my own reflection. The man in the glass looks tired. Hardened. There are lines at the edges of his mouth that weren’t there last year. I press my palms flat to my thighs, grounding myself with pain.
“She’s just a liability,” I mutter, voice low, meant only for myself. The words ring hollow. I repeat them, slower, as if the sound will make them true. “A liability. A threat. Nothing more.”
Yet the sound of her name—Clara—rises in my mind, unbidden and soft, and for a second I just stand there, tasting the syllables, letting them linger. Her name feels different in my mouth. Not like a warning, not like a weapon. Something gentler, something that doesn’t fit the world I’ve built.
I shake my head, angry at the weakness. I am not a man given to sentiment. My life has no room for softness or uncertainty.
Yet every time I see her, something in me shifts. She challenges me in ways I didn’t expect: the way she faces me, unbroken, the way she won’t flinch even when I push her to the edge.
Back in my office, I try to lose myself in routine. I shuffle through paperwork, call a meeting with two lieutenants, bark orders for security. I tell them to stay alert, to double-check every entrance and screen every visitor, though I know it’s as much for my own peace of mind as for hers.
Hours pass. The sky outside bruises into evening, colors bleeding across the clouds. I lean against the edge of my desk, hands digging into the wood, replaying that moment in the hallway over and over.
What is it about her that unravels me?
I watch her on the cameras, as I always do—sometimes I tell myself it’s only for her safety, but I know better.
I watch her pace her room, then settle with a book she hardly reads, turning pages more from habit than focus.
I watch the way her hand shakes when she thinks no one is looking.
I watch the way she stares at the garden, at the gate, at the sky through the barred windows.
She’s a prisoner, and I put her there. That should be the end of it. But I can’t stop wanting her to understand—wanting her to see me as more than her captor, to see some part of the man I was before the Bratva, before violence became survival.
The memory of her words in the garden still burns: “You’re just keeping me.” It was the truth. I am keeping her. I am keeping her because I can’t let her go.
I leave my office as the first lights come on, footsteps leading me not by decision but by instinct. I walk past the dining room, hear her laughter—a short, dry sound—as she shares some small joke with the housemaid who ignores her English but smiles anyway.
I pause at the door, just out of sight, listening to the comfort in her voice when she thinks she’s alone, the way her guard slips for just a moment.
I want to step into the light. I want to sit across from her and have a real conversation, not this chess match we keep playing, move for move, heart for heart. But I don’t. I stay in the shadows, letting her be herself for a moment without my interference.
After she leaves the room, I find myself tracing her path. I touch the back of the chair where she sat. I stand by the window where she once pressed her palm to the glass, searching for an exit, for a future beyond these walls.
I know this can’t last. I know sooner or later, she’ll either break—or I will. But for now, I am caught in the limbo she’s created, haunted by reflections and half-formed hopes.
“She’s just a liability,” I whisper once more.
Even in the silence, I know it’s a lie. Clara has become something else. Something I want… and something I’m terrified to lose.