33. The Night We Stop Pretending
The Night We Stop Pretending
Roman
“Tell me what you’re hiding.”
The words are still in the air when something shifts in her.
Not fear.
Not retreat.
Defiance.
“No,” Vera says.
The refusal lands harder than any lie.
My jaw tightens.
“You don’t get to—”
“I get to choose what I say,” she cuts in, standing now despite the unsteadiness in her body. “Just like you do.”
“This isn’t the same.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
“You’ve been choosing what to tell me since the beginning. About Luka. About the war. About what I am in all of this.”
“I told you what you needed to know.”
“You told me what kept you in control.”
Silence snaps tight between us.
“You want honesty?” she says, stepping closer. “Then stop treating me like a variable and start treating me like your wife.”
The word hits.
Not strategic.
Not calculated.
Real.
I hold her gaze.
“You’re right,” I say.
It costs something to admit it.
I feel it.
The shift.
She stills slightly.
“Then prove it.”
A challenge.
A demand.
Not for control.
For truth.
I exhale slowly.
“Luka wasn’t just killed,” I say. “He was used.”
Her expression changes.
“What do you mean.”
“He was leverage,” I continue. “Before the ambush. Before the leak. He was taken once—briefly. Held. Returned.”
Her breath catches.
“You never said that.”
“I don’t talk about weakness.”
“That’s not weakness,” she says sharply. “That’s betrayal.”
“Yes.”
The word lands heavy.
“They wanted something from my father,” I continue. “Information. Access. He negotiated. Bought Luka back.”
“And after that?”
“They marked him,” I say quietly. “He became the easiest target.”
Silence stretches.
Understanding settles into her expression.
“That’s why you hate the word heir,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Because heirs become leverage.”
“Yes.”
Her voice softens.
“And you think that makes you cruel.”
“I know it does.”
I step closer now.
Not calculated.
Not strategic.
Just… closer.
“I swore it would never happen again,” I say. “Not to anyone under my protection.”
“Even if it meant becoming something you don’t like,” she says.
“Yes.”
Her eyes search mine.
“And me?”
I don’t hesitate.
“You are not leverage.”
“I already am.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You’re the line.”
Silence.
The kind that shifts everything.
“You don’t get to carry this alone,” she says quietly.
“I always have.”
“You don’t have to anymore.”
The words settle deep.
Dangerous.
Because I want to believe them.
Because part of me already does.
She steps closer.
Close enough that I feel her breath.
Close enough that this stops being about strategy.
“Stop pretending,” she whispers.
The control I’ve been holding onto all night finally slips.
Not violently.
Not recklessly.
Just… gone.
My hand lifts to her face, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw.
She leans into it.
Not hesitant.
Certain.
The kiss is different this time.
Not restrained.
Not testing.
Real.
It builds slowly—heat and tension finally matching the chaos outside these walls.
She doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Her hands find me, anchoring, choosing.
Every movement is deliberate.
Mutual.
No control taken.
No control lost.
Just given.
The world narrows to her.
To this.
To something that feels like truth instead of war.
Her breath catches against my mouth.
“Roman…”
My name sounds different on her lips now.
Not defiance.
Not accusation.
Something deeper.
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes.
“You’re choosing this,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“No fear.”
“There’s always fear,” she admits. “But I’m choosing anyway.”
That’s enough.
More than enough.
I don’t rush her.
Don’t take more than she gives.
Everything is slow.
Intentional.
A balance of strength and care that feels unfamiliar and right at the same time.
For the first time since this began—
We aren’t negotiating.
We aren’t strategizing.
We aren’t surviving.
We’re choosing.
Each other.
And it’s more dangerous than anything outside those walls.
The alarms hit like a gunshot.
Sharp.
Piercing.
Immediate.
Viktor’s voice cuts through the system.
“Safe room breach.”