Chapter Twenty-Three - Clara
After the chaos at the market, the house feels charged—every corner humming with memories I can’t set down. I try to distract myself with chores, with tidying, even with baking bread I never finish.
None of it helps. My thoughts keep circling back to the man who pinned a stranger to the wall for standing too close, to the man whose hands both protect and suffocate.
I retreat to my room, dig out the battered notebook that once held outlines and ambition. Now, it’s become something else: confession, therapy, proof that I haven’t lost myself completely. My handwriting is messy, the lines jagged. I fill the pages with half-truths and tangled feelings:
He terrifies me. Not just the violence, but the way he cares, the way he watches me like he’s the only thing standing between me and the end of the world.
Sometimes I wish he would stop. Sometimes I wish he would never let go.
I hated what he did today. When he pulled me behind him, I felt… safe? Is that the right word? Maybe it’s just the only thing left.
I try to convince myself that it’s only gratitude, only adrenaline, only the twisted bond that comes from surviving together. But there are other words, messier ones: want, longing, ache. Words I only let myself write in the dark.
Evening falls slow and blue. I wander the halls, restless, notebook pressed to my chest, craving movement but not ready to face anyone, least of all him. The light spills from the gym, a warm glow on polished floors. I don’t mean to stop, but I do.
The sound is rhythmic, almost soothing: the steady thud of fists against the heavy bag, the shudder of the chain overhead.
I peer through the half-open door. Lukyan is there, alone. He’s stripped to a tank top, sweat sheening over his arms and chest, every muscle in his back and shoulders flexing with each punch. He’s a storm of focus and strength, violence honed into something precise and—God help me—beautiful.
I stand in the doorway, transfixed. The way he moves is different than the cold precision I saw at the market. Here, it’s release. Here, it’s honesty. He isn’t performing for anyone, isn’t trying to scare or impress. He’s fighting something invisible, something only he can see.
He turns, catching me in the mirror. Our eyes lock, and the punch bag swings, forgotten. I want to look away, to keep walking, to let him have this moment alone.
Instead, I linger, my hand tightening on the notebook, pretending to be interested in something on the far wall.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
He doesn’t answer at first. He just watches me, chest rising and falling, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to read the truth in my face.
I try to move past, but he’s quicker, closing the distance with three silent steps. He grabs my wrist—not hard, not even tight, just enough to stop me from slipping away. The contact is electric, all the unspoken tension from the market, the kitchen, the night before burning between us.
My notebook falls from my hand, landing on the mats with a dull thud. He looks down at it, then at me, and something dangerous flickers in his gaze.
“Stay,” he murmurs, voice raw with effort and something I don’t want to name.
He tugs me forward, guiding me until I’m standing right in the center of his reach. His arms go to either side, hands braced on the bag behind me, caging me in. There’s no force, just certainty—the knowledge that I could walk away if I wanted, but that neither of us wants me to.
I feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the salt of his sweat and the clean scent of his skin. He’s close enough that I see every bead of moisture on his neck, every scar and shadow.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
His voice drops, softer, his forehead almost brushing mine. “Why are you watching me?”
I don’t have an answer. Or maybe I have too many. “I don’t know,” I say, the words barely a whisper. “Maybe I wanted to see if you were all right.”
His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. “You’re not afraid?”
I meet his gaze. “Should I be?”
His hand lifts, brushing my cheek, rough knuckles tracing down to my jaw. “No. Not of me. Never of me.”
The promise in his voice shakes something loose inside me. The fear, the longing, the confusion—everything dissolves, leaving only this strange gravity, this pull that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the way he looks at me.
He leans in, mouth hovering just over mine. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me—here, in the bright, open gym, sweat still cooling on his skin. He doesn’t. He waits, breath mingling with mine, letting the tension coil tighter.
I lift my hand, laying it flat against his chest, feeling the wild thud of his heart beneath my palm. His eyes flutter closed, just for a heartbeat, as if he’s memorizing the feeling.
Then his hand slides to my waist, and I’m pressed back against the bag, the world narrowing to the cage of his arms and the rough warmth of his skin.
Neither of us moves, neither of us speaks. I realize, trembling, that I don’t want to break the moment.
I let myself admit the truth, silent and certain as a heartbeat: I don’t want to escape. Not from this. Not from him.
I close my eyes and lean in, just enough that our lips almost touch—almost, but not quite—waiting for him to close the distance, waiting for him to claim what we both want.
“You’re not scared anymore,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and rough as gravel. The warmth of his breath skims my skin, making the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.
I fight the shiver crawling down my spine, summoning bravado because I refuse to let him see how easily he still undoes me.
“Maybe I’ve just gotten used to you,” I scoff, tilting my chin up, determined to meet his eyes. My voice wobbles on the last word—a tell I know he doesn’t miss.
He huffs a laugh, the kind that rumbles low in his chest. His lips brush near my temple, not quite a kiss, just a ghost of one; a promise or a threat, I can’t tell which. My breath stutters, caught somewhere between relief and longing.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll close the distance—give in, claim my mouth the way I ache for—but he doesn’t. Instead, he draws back, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips, eyes dark with mischief and satisfaction.
“Good,” he says, as if we’ve just finished a negotiation. He steps away, already reaching for the punching bag, knuckles flexing, jaw set.
I stand there a second longer, flush creeping hot up my cheeks, pulse thundering everywhere at once. He’s already half turned, muscles rippling under sweat-damp skin, and I know he’s dismissed me, at least for now.
The dismissal stings, but not as much as my own reaction: I want him to chase me, want him to claim me, want something I can’t name.
Annoyed—at him, at myself—I snatch up my notebook and storm out of the gym. I hear the thud of fists resuming behind me, the chain rattling. The rhythm almost matches my heartbeat.
I spend the rest of the evening restless, replaying the moment over and over. The heat of his body behind me, the roughness of his voice, the softness that slipped in between. I hate how easily he unravels me with a look, a touch, a tease.
He shouldn’t have that kind of power over me. No one should.
After dinner, I avoid him, claiming exhaustion, letting the maids draw my bath and brushing off his quiet “Good night” with a nod that’s sharper than I mean.
I bury myself in my room, but there’s no peace—not in the silence, not in the shadows, not in the steady ache coiling low in my belly.
When sleep finally comes, it is anything but restful.
He fills my dreams. Lukyan: bare skin, calloused hands, the rough whisper of my name.
I dream of him caging me against the wall, the weight of his body pinning me in place.
His lips trace the column of my throat, hot and possessive, his teeth grazing my shoulder.
I gasp in the dream, surrendering, arching into him as he presses his mouth to the hollow beneath my ear.
His hands roam my body, confident and knowing. In the dream, I can’t pretend indifference; I give myself up to him with a desperation that startles me. I hear his voice, low and thick: “You’re mine.” It sounds less like a warning, more like a promise I want to believe.
The dream turns heated—his mouth on my breast, the rasp of his stubble against my skin, his fingers sliding between my thighs.
I moan for him, shameless, wanton, opening myself to the darkness, to him, to the part of myself that’s tired of fear and doubts.
My body shudders, pleasure cresting, and I wake breathless, flushed, tangled in damp sheets.
For a moment, I lie still, the room slowly coming back into focus. My skin is slick with sweat; my heart is pounding. The taste of him, the memory of his touch, lingers—so real it aches.
Fear is gone. What’s left feels far more dangerous.
I turn over, swallowing hard, and look across the wide bed. Lukyan is there, deep in sleep, the morning light soft on his face. He looks younger now, all the harshness in his features relaxed, mouth slightly open, one arm tossed above his head.
He doesn’t know what he does to me. He doesn’t see the chaos he’s left behind in my chest. I study him for a long moment, tracing the line of his jaw, the sweep of his dark lashes. He shifts, mumbling something in Russian, and my heart twists painfully.
I could touch him; reach out and claim what I wanted in the safety of sleep and dreams. But I don’t. Instead, I press my hand to my belly, still trembling, letting the heat of longing settle there.
It’s not fear anymore. I know the taste of that, sharp and cold. What I feel now is hot, hungry, and infinitely more reckless.
I slip quietly from the bed and head to the shower, needing the rush of cold water to clear my head, to wash away the dream. His touch lingers, stubborn as always, a promise whispered against my skin, refusing to let me go.
I close the bathroom door gently, careful not to wake him. The tiles are cool beneath my feet as I strip off my sleep shirt, every movement deliberate, grounding myself in the present—trying to shake off the heat of my dream.
I twist the taps, let the water run cold, and step under the spray.
The shock makes me gasp, but it feels right, bracing and honest. I let the chill chase away the last traces of sleep, rubbing soap over my skin with sharp, practiced movements. I scrub my neck, my chest, my thighs—everywhere his mouth and hands lingered in my dreams, but the ache remains.
I rest my forehead against the tiles, watching rivulets race down to the drain. I know I can’t wash him away. I don’t even want to.
When the water finally runs too cold to bear, I shut it off and towel myself dry. I take my time moisturizing, taming my hair into a loose braid. My heart is still pounding, but the trembling has faded into a new kind of anticipation.
I choose a soft dress—something comfortable, pale blue cotton that skims my hips. Nothing seductive, but I catch myself hoping he’ll notice anyway. I swipe on a little lip balm, study my face in the mirror. I look different, eyes too bright, lips a bit swollen.
As I leave the bathroom, sunlight spills across the floor, the house waking slowly. I move quietly, aware of every shift in the air, already thinking of him, wondering what he’ll see when he looks at me today.