Chapter Twenty-Nine - Clara
The safe house is too quiet. Ivan moved me here as soon as his plan was put into action, but now I’m restless without him.
There are voices in the next room, footsteps up and down the hall, but none of it helps. Every sound echoes in my chest, feeding the dread that knots tighter every minute Lukyan is gone.
The guards might as well be ghosts—hard-eyed, unsmiling, watching me like I’m made of glass or maybe a bomb about to go off. They offer nothing but their silence and the weight of their guns.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clenched in my lap, forcing myself to breathe through another spike of panic. The curtains are drawn tight, yellow lamplight turning everything stale and flat. I keep glancing at the door, waiting for it to open.
I listen for his voice in every scrape of a chair, every car that passes on the road outside.
No one comes. The night crawls on, thick and endless.
I try to read. The book lies open in my lap for an hour before I realize I haven’t turned a page.
Words blur and slip away, crowded out by darker thoughts.
My mind replays every argument we had before he left, every warning I tried to force past the edge of my fear.
I should have said more. I should have begged him not to go.
Instead, I’m here: boxed in, powerless, all my sharp words and stubborn pride worth nothing now that he’s stepped out into danger alone.
Restless, I pace the room, counting the scuffs in the floorboards, the cracks in the plaster. I try to write, but my hand shakes too badly to hold the pen steady.
All I manage is a half page of scribbled questions and broken lines. Did he make it? Did the plan hold? Did Ivan see through it all?
I remember the feel of Lukyan’s hand under mine, the way his pulse thrummed as I begged him not to go alone. The memory is sharper than the bite of cold air leaking under the door. I wonder if he thought of me at all when the gunfire started—if he cursed my worry or clung to it.
A guard knocks. His voice is muffled, his words pointless: “All quiet, Miss.” He doesn’t know what to do with my thanks, so he disappears again, leaving the door ajar. I close it with trembling fingers, then press my forehead to the wood, willing it to be solid, willing time to move faster.
I lose track of how long I wait. Minutes tangle into hours. I imagine every possible ending, each one worse than the last. The Lukyan in my mind dies a hundred different ways… alone, outnumbered, betrayed by someone he trusted. My chest aches with every new vision.
The house settles, old bones creaking. The smell of dust and old cigarettes creeps in through the vent. Someone laughs in the hallway—one sharp, nervous bark, cut off almost instantly. I wonder if the guards are as scared as I am, if they’re waiting for news or an order that never comes.
I wish I could scream. I wish I could run.
Instead, I sit on the bed again, legs curled up, arms wrapped tight around my knees. I bury my face in the soft, borrowed fabric of Lukyan’s old sweatshirt. It still smells like him, though fainter now: soap, gun oil, something spicy and dark. I breathe it in and try to hold myself together.
I almost don’t hear the car when it pulls up outside—engine running too long, headlights splashing across the window. The voices rise, sharp and urgent, boots pounding up the porch. My heart leaps into my throat. I stumble to my feet, already moving before I know why.
The front door slams open. Someone yells. My body goes cold, bracing for the worst.
Then I see him.
He fills the doorway, blood on his knuckles, shirt half torn, eyes wild and electric with life. He looks bigger than I remember—more dangerous, more real. For a second, I can’t breathe at all.
“Clara—” His voice is raw, the only word I need.
I cross the room before he finishes, every ounce of fear and hope unraveling in a rush. I slam into him, arms locking tight around his chest, barely noticing the dampness, the warmth of blood seeping through his clothes. I press my face against his neck and let myself shake.
Relief hits so hard I almost sob.
He holds me, solid and strong, anchoring me to the floor, the moment, the world. Everything I’ve been holding back breaks loose, pouring out in uneven breaths.
“I thought…” My voice shatters. I cling tighter, unable to say the rest. I thought you wouldn’t come back.
He smells like rain and gunpowder and sweat. His hands come up, cradling my back, warm and gentle in a way I haven’t let myself imagine.
All the dread, all the restless helplessness of the past hours, dissolves in the space between us. I don’t care about the blood, the mess, the silent guards still lurking in the hall. He’s here.
He’s alive.
I bury my face in the rough fabric of his shirt, still half wild with relief, the memory of waiting clawing up my throat.
I don’t care about the blood on my hands or the bruises along his jaw.
I only care that he’s here, solid and alive, his arms heavy around my shoulders, holding me like he needs to be sure I’m real too.
“Clara—” He tries to step back, but I won’t let him. My arms lock tighter. My voice comes out broken, raw from hours of useless hope. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, trying to soften the moment. “What, worried about me now? I told you, nothing in this city can kill me.”
His words brush past me, meant to tease, to downplay what just happened. I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyelids. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it was nothing. I waited for hours, and every time a car drove past I thought—”
My throat closes. I force the words out anyway, the fear in me spilling over and refusing to be neat. “I thought you wouldn’t come back. I thought you’d leave me here with nothing but your men and your silence.”
He moves to protest, some smug reply ready, but I cut him off, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I love you, you impossible man.”
The confession shocks us both. I feel it—how the room changes, how he stiffens for just a second, then goes utterly still. For a heartbeat, there’s only the sound of my pulse in my ears, the hard rhythm of his heart beneath my palms.
He pulls back far enough to look at me, really look at me, his brows drawn low and dark, mouth parted as if I’ve struck him. The silence hangs, thick and heavy, more intimate than any touch.
I swipe at my face, embarrassed by the tears. I want to take the words back, but I can’t, not now. I don’t look away, not from him, not from this.
“I do,” I whisper, quieter now, but steadier. “I love you. I couldn’t stand it, not knowing if you’d ever come back.”
For a moment, he only stares at me, his expression unreadable. I can see the battle inside him, the pride and fear and stubbornness all tangled up in the eyes I’ve come to know better than my own reflection.
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs gentle against my cheeks, his touch so careful it makes my breath hitch. He studies me like he’s memorizing the lines of my face, every freckle, every tear. I see his jaw work, something breaking free behind the hard set of his mouth.
Then, quietly, in a voice softer than I’ve ever heard, he says, “Me too, sweetheart.”
It isn’t flashy, isn’t some grand declaration. The words slip between us like a secret, as fragile and real as the trembling in his hands. His thumbs brush the last of my tears away, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I love you,” he repeats, voice rough. “More than I should. More than I ever thought I could.”
The world shrinks to the space between us. The tension, the fear, the questions that haunted every hour apart—they all melt away as I lean into his touch. He presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes. His breath ghosts over my lips, and for a moment neither of us moves.
I feel the shudder run through him, the exhale that empties something heavy from his chest. He holds me like I’m the only thing that matters, not Bratva or betrayal or the blood drying on his knuckles.
We stand there, two broken pieces pressed together, letting the silence hold us. There’s no promise of safety, no neat ending. But I don’t need that. I only need this—his arms around me, the truth laid bare in the dark, the knowledge that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
My hands find the back of his neck, pulling him down. Our lips meet, not desperate, not hurried, just… real. A soft, shivering kiss that feels like starting over. He tastes like sweat and smoke and something sweeter underneath, a softness he shows only to me.
When we part, he rests his hand over my heart, feeling the wild flutter there. “We’re not safe yet,” he murmurs, “but I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
“I know.” I nod, the last of my tears drying on my cheeks. “I’m not leaving either.”
We stand together, wrapped in each other, the rest of the world falling away. All the chaos and violence that brought us here narrows to this—one moment, imperfect and true. There is no forever promised, no peace given.
There is this: his hands in my hair, my arms at his waist, two people who survived, and might even learn how to live.
The fear isn’t gone, but it’s different now. It’s softer.