Chapter Seventeen - Clara
Days pass, but nothing inside me settles.
If anything, the longing and the shame twist tighter.
Every time I catch Lukyan’s gaze across a room, heat flares in my cheeks, and I have to look away, remembering the weight of his body, the sound of his voice in the dark, the way my body surrendered even as my mind screamed for distance.
My skin prickles when he’s near; my thoughts spiral when he’s gone. It feels like I’m living on the edge of a fever.
I hate how easily he consumes my thoughts. I hate how every deep voice in the hallway makes my heart lurch, how even the sound of his measured footsteps sends a rush of anticipation and dread straight to my chest.
I keep telling myself it was just loneliness, just weakness, just survival instinct… but every night, I remember his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like he could see the parts of myself I’d never shown anyone.
Every morning, I wake up wanting him, hating him, and hating myself for both.
I spend my days avoiding him. I read in the conservatory, hide in the library, wander the gardens under the watchful gaze of guards who never speak unless they must. Even the air in this house is heavy with secrets and expectation.
My only solace is the routine, the sense of something I can control—meals at certain times, walks along the same stone path, the steady, silent company of the housemaids.
One afternoon, as rain patters softly against the windows, I find myself sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of too-strong tea. The kitchen is warm and smells faintly of bread and soap. It’s the closest thing to comfort I’ve found in weeks.
Irina, one of the maids—a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a thick braid—moves around the room with practiced efficiency. She pauses when she sees me, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Sharov?” she asks, voice soft but certain.
I almost laugh at the name. It still feels like a joke, a costume I can’t shed. I shake my head, then realize how ridiculous it is to lie.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice thin.
She nods, pours me more tea. “You are not sleeping well.”
It’s not a question. I watch the steam rise, willing myself to speak. “I don’t think anyone sleeps well here.”
Irina sits down across from me, folding her hands on the table. She waits. For a moment, the kitchen feels smaller, safer.
“I can’t talk to anyone,” I finally admit. “Not really. There’s no one here who understands.”
She listens, brow creasing in quiet concern. “You miss home?”
Home. The word aches. “I miss my friend, Eden. We used to talk every day. Now… it’s just me. Me and him.”
Irina looks at me for a long moment. “He is not easy, but he cares for you.”
I huff a bitter laugh. “He owns me. That’s not the same as caring.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Sometimes men do not know the difference. Sometimes they learn.” She reaches across the table, her hand warm over mine. “You can tell me, if you need.”
The offer is kind, but it’s not the same as Eden’s gentle teasing or the late-night confessions we used to trade over ice cream and cheap wine. I want to unburden myself, to spill every fear, every shameful memory of how much I wanted Lukyan that night, how much I still want him even now.
I can’t. The words catch behind my teeth.
“I just want to go home,” I whisper, the confession breaking loose before I can stop it.
Irina’s eyes are sad, but she doesn’t flinch. “I know, but you must be strong. You survived this long. You will survive until you are free.”
I nod, throat tight. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze and stands, busying herself with the bread dough, letting me sit in silence.
When I finally leave the kitchen, the comfort is already fading, replaced by the weight of everything unsaid.
I drift through the house, restless, unable to read, unable to sit still.
I find myself wandering to the grand staircase, peering down at the entrance hall as though expecting Eden to appear out of thin air, ready to whisk me away from this gilded cage.
It’s just Lukyan’s men, talking quietly, always watching.
I hesitate at the landing, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to scream. I scan the foyer, hands curling tight around the railing.
Then I see him.
He stands at the base of the stairs, half in shadow, watching me with that unreadable expression: dangerous, focused, but never cruel. He doesn’t move at first. It’s as if he’s letting me decide whether to run or come closer. My heart hammers. For a moment, I think he might just turn away.
He doesn’t. Instead, he calls up softly, “Are you avoiding me?”
I shake my head, mouth dry, pulse skittering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “No. I just… needed some air.”
He climbs the steps with slow, measured confidence, boots silent on the thick carpet. By the time he’s in front of me, the world feels too small. I have nowhere to go, no clever retort to toss at him. I can only stand my ground as he draws close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body.
He studies me for a long moment, searching my face. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice trembles. It’s a lie.
He lifts a hand so slow, so careful I could move away if I really wanted to.
I don’t. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with more gentleness than I ever expect from him.
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to lean into his palm.
When I open them again, he’s watching me with something dark and intent.
“You shouldn’t run from me, Clara,” he says quietly.
His presence is overwhelming: magnetic and terrifying.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. He steps closer still, hand drifting down, grazing the side of my neck, lingering at the base of my throat.
I feel his breath on my lips, the fire from last time sparking to life beneath my skin.
When his hand slides to my waist, everything in me tightens, memory and want flaring together.
He dips his head, lips so close to mine that I can taste the promise in the air. My body aches to close the distance, to surrender again, but shame claws up, rough and insistent. I push him back, trembling.
“Don’t,” I whisper, voice so faint I barely recognize it. I mean it as a warning. It sounds like a plea.
He stops, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, frustration radiating from every tense line of his body. He could take what he wants. I know it. He knows it. But he doesn’t move. He stands perfectly still, arms at his sides, watching me as if waiting for some sign that I might change my mind.
The air between us is thick, hungry, desperate. It would take nothing to fall into him, but I don’t. Not this time.
I step around him, my legs unsteady. He doesn’t follow, doesn’t call out, doesn’t grab my arm as I retreat down the hall. The restraint in him is a different kind of danger.
I close myself in my old room, pressing my back to the door, heart pounding so loud I can’t hear anything else. My hands shake as I press them to my face, breath ragged and shallow.
I want to believe that if I lock the door, I’ll be safe from him. The truth is, it’s not the door that matters. It’s the way my body still hums from his touch, the way my lips tingle with the memory of almost kissing him. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the ache that refuses to fade.
I hate him for making me crave what I shouldn’t. I hate the way my body answers to him before my mind can catch up. I hate the flicker of disappointment that runs through me when he lets me go.
Most of all, I hate myself for wanting him. For remembering every rough kiss, every gentle stroke, every broken promise that he’d keep his distance.
I pace the room, unable to sit still. My skin feels too tight, my nerves raw and exposed. I remember the way he looked at me. Hungry, yes, but there was something else there too. Something like longing. Something that scares me even more than his anger.
I want to call Eden, to confess how twisted I feel, how much I want what I shouldn’t. But there’s no one to listen but the quiet house, the steady patter of rain against the glass.
I collapse onto the bed, twisting the sheet between my fists, trying to chase the ghost of him from my skin. I press my thighs together, desperate for relief, desperate to forget, but every movement only reminds me of the way he touched me: possessive, claiming, as if I belonged to him.
I remember the feel of his lips, the sound of his voice, the promise in every look. Shame burns in my chest, but it’s not enough to drown the hunger. I close my eyes, breath shuddering, wishing I could tear the longing from my bones.
It lingers, stubborn as ever.
By the time dawn creeps gray and thin across the ceiling, I’m still awake, caught between guilt and desire. I curl into myself, letting the ache settle, knowing that nothing has changed. I still want him. I still fear him.
I still don’t know which feeling will win.
Down the hall, I hear his footsteps again. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for the strength to keep saying no.
A knock comes at the door. I stay very still, curled on my side, breath caught in my throat.
The memory of his touch still smolders beneath my skin, humiliation and longing churning in my chest. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, willing whoever is out there to give up and go away.
The silence stretches, broken only by the steady beat of rain against the windows. I almost believe he’s left, that I’ve won a moment’s peace.
Then his voice comes, low and certain, through the thick wood. “Clara. I know you’re awake.”
I don’t move. My pulse stutters. The urge to answer claws at me, but I bite it back.
He waits a long moment. “This house is big, but you can’t hide from me forever.”
His tone is gentler than I expect, no threat, no demand, just that quiet certainty that always unsettles me more than rage ever could. My hand trembles where it clutches the sheet.
I press my knuckles to my mouth to keep from speaking, from begging him to come in, from begging him to stay away.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he adds, softer now, “I’ll be here.”
I listen to his footsteps fade down the hall, tension unspooling in my muscles as the distance grows. Still, the ache he leaves behind is worse than before.
I stay silent, stubborn. His words linger, sinking deep, making a liar of me. I know he’s right.
No matter how far I run, No matter how tightly I close the door, I’ll never be able to hide from what I feel for him.