Chapter Twenty-Six - Markian
I stand at the window of my study, the glass cold beneath my palm, eyes fixed on the bruised sky as thunder creeps closer.
Beyond the darkened panes, rain lashes the gardens, hammering the stone terrace and blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver.
My reflection shimmers there, sharp and ghostly, the kind of man I once swore I would never become: hard-mouthed, shadow-eyed, every line in my face carved deeper by regret.
What I really see is her.
Jessa, with her hair mussed, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed with heat.
The way she shuddered beneath my hands that night in the hall, her body arching against me as if she could forget every terrible thing I’d done if she just let herself have this.
Have me. For those moments, nothing else existed.
Just her gasps in my ear, the taste of her skin, the desperate way she clung to me as if I was salvation and damnation both.
And after, her eyes. The way she looked at me. Like I could still be more than a monster. Like there was a man left beneath all the ruin and rage. For a heartbeat, I believed it. For a heartbeat, I remembered who I used to be.
When the pleasure faded, reality returned. So did the memories. I remember her fear. The night she ran—pregnant and alone—bolting into the shadows with my children because she believed I might kill her.
That belief wasn’t madness. I’d put it there, word by ugly word. I see it now, clear as lightning on the glass. The threats I spat, the promises of violence I made without thinking. I used fear to keep her close. All I did was teach her how to run.
The rain thickens, drumming like footsteps I’ll never catch.
My jaw aches from clenching. I close my eyes, but that only sharpens the ache: the memory of her trembling, the look she wore every time she glanced over her shoulder in a strange town, clutching our daughters close as if she could shield them from the world and from me.
It was my fault. Every scar, every shadow in her eyes. I carved them there.
I swore I would never become my father, that I’d never make someone I loved feel small, or hunted, or helpless.
The night she left, I was already too far gone. I called her betrayal. I called her thief. I would have rather burned down the world than admit I was afraid of losing her.
Now I have her back. I have our daughters. I have everything I waged war for. The house still feels cold. Haunted, restless, aching for something I can’t name.
Behind me, the clock ticks on. Somewhere down the hall, my children sleep, their breaths soft and even. Jessa is here. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, if she’ll ever truly be mine again, or if the damage I did is permanent.
A crack of thunder splits the night. I press my forehead to the glass, the rain blurring my vision, and promise myself that I will not lose them again. Not to fear. Not to pride. Not to the monster I let myself become.
I don’t know how to make things right. I only know I have to try.
***
Later, after the storm settles, I find myself wandering the halls, drawn by the faint sound of laughter and the scratch of crayons on paper.
It leads me to the playroom—a room I never entered as a child, never cared about as a man.
Now it smells of glue and colored wax, sunlight pooling in the corners, the old rug crowded with scattered blocks and half-finished drawings.
The girls are there, cross-legged on the floor with a battered sketchpad between them. Liana is focused, tongue between her teeth, drawing slow careful lines in purple.
Sofia has already turned her page into a riot of orange scribbles, eyes bright with delight.
Jessa crouches beside them, fingers nimble as she weaves tiny braids into their hair, her voice low and soothing, a current I can’t quite hear.
I linger in the doorway for a moment, hands shoved in my pockets, uncertain how to enter this world without breaking it. The room is all color and warmth, and I am something sharp, unyielding, a shadow against their light.
Still, I step in, stiff and silent, my movements awkward and foreign.
Sofia glances up, her little body curling slightly away, uncertain. Liana pauses, eyes flicking between me and her mother, wary. Jessa says nothing, her face unreadable, but her hand stills on Sofia’s braid, fingers tightening for an instant.
I want to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat. So instead, I kneel awkwardly on the edge of the rug and pick up a stray green crayon, rolling it between my fingers.
The girls watch, silent at first, curiosity and caution mingling in their faces. I draw a rough square on the page, then add a crooked triangle for a roof. A house.
My hand is clumsy, the lines thick and uneven, but I force myself to keep going, to stay present.
For a minute, nothing happens. The paper crinkles, and I hear the occasional whisper of Jessa’s voice as she helps Liana with her bow. Then Sofia giggles, the sound bubbling up out of nowhere. She leans closer, grabs a blue crayon, and draws a cloud above my shaky house.
Liana, not to be left out, adds a flower in the corner, her careful lines brushing against mine.
A warmth stirs in my chest—foreign, shaky, impossible to name. When Sofia suddenly crawls into my lap, her little hands sticky with wax and glue, I freeze. I don’t know what to do, how to hold something so small and fragile.
My arms hesitate, hovering in the air, until instinct takes over.
I settle my hand on her back, gentle, steady, and she sighs contentedly, wriggling closer.
Liana leans against my side, her head heavy against my arm.
My throat tightens. Something softens inside me, old scars giving way to something tender and new.
Jessa watches from the other side of the rug, her face unreadable.
She hasn’t been alone with me since that night in the hall.
She has this careful, measured distance.
I feel it like a cold draft, the gap between us full of things unsaid.
Still, her eyes are on me now, dark and searching, and for a moment the world narrows to just us and the girls.
I want to reach out. I want to say I’m sorry.
I want her to see the man I am trying to become, not the monster I was.
I can’t say any of it, so I let the moment be enough.
The girls curl into me, small and trusting, their giggles a music I never thought I’d deserve.
Jessa looks away first, but not before I see something flicker in her eyes.
A question, maybe, or hope, or just the memory of a life we lost and could still make new.
I don’t smile often. I’ve forgotten how. Now, as Sofia hands me a yellow crayon and demands a sun for our crooked house, I feel something break loose in my chest… a rare, quiet joy. My mouth curves, slow and reluctant, into something that feels almost like peace.
Then a door slams open, loud and sharp, a deliberate announcement of power. The sound echoes through the corridors like a threat.
I stiffen. I know that step, the measured authority in every tread. Before I even see him, I hear the old voice. It’s cold, impatient, slicing the air like a knife.
Vitaly Sharov, my father. He’s aged, but not softened.
His eyes are ice. His mouth a hard line, thin with disdain as he surveys the scene.
His gaze lands on the girls first, narrowing at their pale hair and startled faces.
Then on Jessa, crouched in the sunlight, braiding Liana’s hair with hands that tremble ever so slightly now.
He lets his lip curl, turning that contempt toward me. “So this is the mother of your bastards?” he spits, his tone flat, not loud but full of venom. “You drag them here, these little mistakes? You think this is what a Sharov does?”
The girls freeze, their drawings forgotten. Liana looks at me, confusion and fear in her eyes. Sofia presses closer to Jessa, silent. Jessa shrinks a fraction, as if she’s heard words like that before, as if she’s learned to survive them. My blood boils. I force myself not to react.
Vitaly’s gaze lingers on Jessa, his expression sour, almost curious, as if she’s some insect he’s debating whether to crush.
“Don’t forget your duty, Markian. You’re already engaged. To a woman with status. To a future worthy of our name.”
He takes another step forward, jaw clenched, and I see Jessa flinch, just barely, but enough for anger to spike hot in my veins.
Without thinking, I get to my feet and move between them. I plant myself in front of her, my body a wall she can hide behind if she wants to. I don’t look at him. I stare through him.
“They’re my daughters,” I say quietly. “She is their mother. My choice is made.”
His eyes narrow. “You think you have a choice? You think love is anything compared to blood and legacy?”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say.
For the first time, I realize how little his approval means to me, how empty his threats sound in this room, with my children behind me and the woman I want just an arm’s length away.
All my life, I lived by his rules. All my life, I mistook his cruelty for strength.
Vitaly snorts, a harsh, ugly sound. “Be careful, Markian. You know what happens to men who forget where they come from.” He lets his gaze settle on Jessa again, cold and dismissive, before he turns to leave, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
The silence he leaves behind is heavy, suffocating.
I stand there, my back to Jessa and the girls, breathing hard, fists clenched at my sides.
For a long moment, no one moves. Then, slowly, the girls edge around me, drawn to the safety they find in each other.
Jessa gathers them close, her eyes shining with something fierce and unspoken.
I turn and kneel again, reaching for them, feeling the old wounds my father left in me, the scars from a childhood where love was never a certainty, only a weapon. I don’t want to be him. I will not be him.
I look at Jessa, at the way she holds our daughters, and I know that my choice—this new, uncertain, trembling love—is the first decision I have made in years that feels right. I reach out and brush Liana’s hair from her forehead, let Sofia tug my sleeve.
They look at me not with fear now, but with a growing trust, a cautious hope.
Vitaly’s shadow is long, but it’s fading. I don’t need his approval. My daughters will know a different kind of father. A better one. I won’t let them feel the cold I grew up in. I won’t let them become strangers to their own hearts.
Jessa holds my gaze for a moment, and this time, she doesn’t look away. There’s a question there. A fear, maybe, or a hope that I’m not too late. I nod, silent, and she nods back. The old ways end with me.
As Vitaly’s footsteps fade, I let myself breathe again. I made my choice.