Chapter Twenty-Two - Lukyan
The morning after the gala dawns gray and electric, thick with the promise of rain. I sleep less than three hours—my mind plagued by the memory of Irina’s smirk, by the ghost of Clara’s voice whispering questions I never want to answer.
I spend the first hour pacing my office, the phone pressed tight to my ear, barking orders to men who know better than to push back. It isn’t enough. I need answers.
I call Simon, my cousin and the sharpest set of eyes in the Bratva—a man who could track a whisper across continents. He arrives with his usual calm: crisp white shirt, silver hair neatly combed, eyes alert beneath heavy lids.
I know him too well, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the table, betray his worry.
I pour two coffees—one for him, black as midnight, and one for myself, though I know I won’t drink it. He accepts the mug with a grateful nod and gets right to business, his voice pitched low, for me alone.
“Ivan’s moving quietly,” Simon says, spreading a thin folder on the table between us. “No chatter, no obvious contacts. He’s here, in the city. Slipped past customs with a new name and a cleaner trail than usual. He’s got money, backup, and patience. I’ll find him.”
I scan the grainy photographs—streets, cars, blurred faces at a distance—and try to suppress the anger simmering beneath my skin. Simon’s words should comfort me. They don’t. Ivan’s patience is legendary, and patience in our world is more dangerous than any show of force.
“I want him before he finds a way in,” I say, voice clipped. “I want to know who he talks to, where he eats, where he sleeps.”
Simon’s gaze flickers to mine, steady as ever. “You think he’ll come for her?”
I don’t answer. The answer is obvious.
He nods once, understanding. “I’ll put my best on it.”
As he leaves, the unease lingers, thick and restless, crawling beneath my skin. Every instinct screams at me to keep Clara within arm’s reach. She’s the one thing in this world that’s not replaceable. The one thing Ivan could use to bring me to my knees.
I make my way to the kitchen, footsteps silent on the old floors. As I push the door open, I pause.
Clara stands at the counter, barefoot, her hair a wild tangle, one shoulder exposed by the crooked drape of her shirt. She’s rummaging for coffee with the single-minded desperation of a woman at war with the morning.
For a heartbeat, I just watch her—how out of place she looks in this house full of secrets, how utterly at home she is in the sunlight.
She mutters something when she burns her finger on the kettle, then yanks open a cupboard, scowling at the empty shelf.
Before I can stop myself, I smile. It sneaks up on me, that sudden warmth. There’s a softness in her frustration, a comfort I haven’t felt in years, and the ache in my chest is almost pleasant.
She glances up and catches me staring. Her eyes narrow with suspicion, curiosity twitching at the corners of her mouth. “What?”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to touch her. “Nothing,” I say, though inside, everything is too loud, every worry, every threat, every memory of her body tangled in mine.
She cocks her head, stepping around the island, mug in hand. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I mutter, but the words come out softer than I intend.
She gives a skeptical snort, setting her mug on the counter. “You’re always intense. There’s a difference.”
I study her, letting the silence fill with questions. For a moment, I want to tell her everything—about Ivan, about Simon, about the gnawing dread that’s been haunting me since last night.
Instead, I just watch the way she stands, toes curling into the tile, arms folded over her chest.
“Did you sleep?” she asks, her voice unexpectedly gentle.
“A little.”
She rolls her eyes. “Liar.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She smiles, small and crooked, then turns away to fuss with the kettle.
I watch the way the sunlight catches the curve of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth.
It would be so easy to pull her close, to hold her there and never let her go.
The knowledge of Ivan’s presence—of how close danger truly is—keeps me rooted.
I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
She freezes, spoon hovering over the sugar bowl. “About Irina?”
“No.” I see the flicker of relief in her shoulders, though she tries to hide it. “About Ivan. He’s here. In the city.”
She goes still. Her eyes flick to mine, wide but unafraid. “What do you need me to do?”
I swallow the answer that rises—run, hide, disappear. Instead, I cross the kitchen, placing my hand on her waist, steady and sure.
“Stay close. Don’t go anywhere alone. Trust me, even when you don’t want to.”
She nods, the steel in her spine unmistakable. “I’m not leaving.”
Something inside me eases at her answer. I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough for her to sigh, to relax into my touch.
“Coffee?” she asks, breaking the tension with a half smile.
“Please,” I say, and let her fuss over the mug, watching her move with an ease I never expected to find in my life.
For a few moments, I let myself pretend. I let myself enjoy the warmth, the ordinary ritual, the quiet laughter in her eyes. The world outside can wait—just for now.
As the morning stretches, I know I can’t hold her close forever. Ivan is coming, and I will kill him, or die trying, before I ever let him take her from me.
She hands me the mug, fingers brushing mine, and for the first time all morning, I feel a flicker of hope, dangerous, but real.
Maybe love isn’t a weakness after all. Maybe, in a world like mine, it’s the only thing worth fighting for.
***
Later, Clara insists on going out—a stubborn spark in her eyes I’ve learned not to underestimate. She squares off in the foyer, hair still damp from her shower, a canvas bag slung over her arm.
“Groceries,” she says, voice calm but unyielding. “There’s nothing left in the pantry but flour and a can of beets. If you want dinner tonight, I’m going.”
I refuse at first, shaking my head, every instinct screaming to keep her inside where I can control the variables. “Not today,” I say. “Not with Ivan moving. We can send someone.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a prisoner. I’m not hiding.” There’s a flicker of challenge in her eyes—softened by something pleading. “I need air, Lukyan. Please.”
The word hits me harder than it should. After a moment’s hesitation, I relent. “Fine. I’ll come with you. We take two guards.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Soon enough, we’re in the car, the guards shadowing us with the discretion that comes from years of practice. Clara sits with her arms folded, lips pressed into a stubborn line, but when she sees the old market through the window, her posture relaxes a little.
The market is chaos: bright awnings, vendors shouting over piles of glistening fruit, narrow aisles thick with people. The scent of spices and earth and fresh bread swirls around us. I stay close, scanning every face, every shadow, the guards fanning out around the perimeter.
I’m tense, aware of every jostle, every brush of movement, but Clara… she blooms. She threads through the stalls, plucking tomatoes, smelling herbs, pausing to listen to an old woman hawk jars of honey.
She teases me for the first time in days. “You look like a bodyguard, not a husband,” she says, poking my chest as I hover behind her. “Come on. Pick something.”
I frown at the produce, unable to tell a ripe peach from one about to rot. “This one?” I ask, holding up an apple, uncertain.
She laughs—genuine, bright, the sound cutting through the haze of nerves. “No, that’s bruised. Give it here.”
She swaps it for a perfect one, her fingers brushing mine. I watch her, memorizing the curve of her smile, the flush in her cheeks, the way she moves through the world as if she belongs to it and not to me.
We linger at a bakery stall, she picks out bread, asks for too many pastries, nudges me until I finally taste one. Her laughter sticks with me, the sound warm and fragile, a reminder of everything I want to protect.
I step away for a moment to take a call—Simon again, terse and efficient, his voice a thin line of tension. “Ivan’s been spotted in the east docks. He’s watching, but he’s not moving yet.”
“Tell me the moment that changes,” I say, eyes never leaving Clara.
When I turn back, everything snaps.
A man in a gray coat has brushed too close—an ordinary man, by all appearances, but I see his hand move toward Clara’s bag, his body angled just a hair too close, too purposeful. She doesn’t notice—she’s laughing at a joke the baker’s made, oblivious to the shadow creeping near.
Rage explodes in my chest before thought can intervene. In two strides I have the man by the collar, slamming him into the brick wall behind the stall. My hand presses into his throat, my voice a low snarl. “You think you can touch her?”
He sputters in terror, hands raised, face blanching. “I… I was just! Please!”
I don’t hear him. My grip tightens. The world shrinks to the thrum of fear, the need to destroy anything that threatens her.
The guards grab me, pulling me back before I can go too far. The man flees, stumbling through the crowd, cursing in confusion and terror.
Shoppers stare, whispers rise, and Clara stands frozen, bread in hand, eyes wide and stunned—not by the scene, but by the cold precision she’s seen in me.
I hate being here, but Clara needs some normalcy. She likes to cook her own meals, do her own shopping. Even if maids could easily wait on her hand and foot, it’s something I won’t deprive her of.
I smooth a hand through my hair, chest heaving, as the guards close ranks around us. The market’s color seems to fade, the air heavier, the laughter and warmth of minutes before now a distant echo.
We pile into the car, groceries forgotten, the city blurring by. The silence is thick—each of us lost in the aftermath.
She stares out the window, fingers tight in her lap, jaw set. I watch her from the corner of my eye, anger and guilt tangling in my chest.
Finally, she speaks, quiet, but sharp as a blade. “You can’t think everything is danger, Lukyan. Not everyone is Ivan.”
I clench my jaw, the old instincts warring with the new tenderness I can’t quite name. “I can when it comes to you.”
She looks away, eyes shining with something I can’t read—hurt, confusion, maybe even understanding. The truth hangs between us, too raw to touch.
The rest of the ride is silent. I want to reach for her, to explain, to tell her that every heartbeat since I met her has been a fight between wanting to protect and wanting to let her breathe.
I say nothing.
When we reach the house, she gets out first, bag clutched to her chest, walking quickly up the steps. I follow, each footstep echoing with regret.
Inside, she disappears into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. I stand in the hall, hands clenched, unsure of how to fix what I’ve broken with my own fear.
I want to give her space. I want to hold her so close that nothing—not Ivan, not memory, not my own darkness—can ever reach her.
Instead, I just listen to the quiet sounds from the kitchen: the clink of dishes, the sigh of breath, the world slowly, painfully, returning to ordinary.
Nothing between us feels ordinary now. Not after what she saw in my eyes.