Chapter 8
ELENA
Irushed into the room—and froze in the doorway.
Yannis was curled in Ruslan’s arms.
The sight struck me so hard I forgot how to breathe.
The little boy’s face was buried against his father’s chest, small fists twisted tightly into the front of Ruslan’s white shirt as though letting go would mean falling into some endless void.
His shoulders shook with silent aftershocks of fear, breaths hitching unevenly.
Ruslan sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, suit jacket discarded somewhere unseen, the pristine white shirt beneath now faintly creased, one cuff unbuttoned.
One arm was wrapped firmly around Yannis’s back—protective, immovable. The other hand cradled the back of his son’s head with surprising gentleness, long fingers threaded through dark hair, palm shielding him like a barrier against the world.
Ruslan’s face was carved from stone.
Unreadable. Controlled. But his body betrayed him.
Every muscle was taut, coiled like a man braced for impact. His jaw was locked, lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders squared as if he were preparing to fight something invisible. Not a rival. Not an enemy.
Loss.
The realization hit me all at once: this was not the posture of a man asserting dominance.
This was the posture of a man who had almost lost everything—and had only just understood how close he’d come.
Yannis sensed me before I made a sound.
His head lifted slowly from Ruslan’s chest. Gray eyes—red-rimmed, glassy, still swimming with terror—locked onto mine. For a fraction of a second, his expression flickered with confusion.
Then relief crashed through him.
Pure. Desperate. Unfiltered.
“—Elena.”
He pushed away from Ruslan abruptly, small body scrambling across the mattress with frantic urgency. Ruslan’s arms loosened instinctively, fingers lingering for half a second too long before letting go.
Yannis bolted toward me.
I barely had time to brace myself before he collided with my legs, wrapping his arms around my waist with surprising force. His face pressed into my stomach, breath hot and uneven, fingers gripping the fabric of my sweater like a lifeline.
My hands flew to his back without thought, holding him tight, anchoring him.
I looked up.
Over the crown of his dark head, I met Ruslan’s gaze.
He stared at us like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.
His son had left him.
Left the safety of his father’s arms.
And run to me.
A woman he had known for barely two days.
A woman he had married out of vengeance.
A woman he had planned to bury alive less than twenty-four hours ago.
The silence in the room thickened, heavy and electric, stretching taut between us.
Yannis shivered violently against me—small, uncontrollable tremors rippling through his body.
I bent without breaking eye contact, lifted him easily, and settled him against my hip.
His arms looped around my neck immediately, face tucking into the curve of my shoulder as if the world beyond me no longer existed.
“I heard you screaming,” I said softly, my voice deliberately gentle. I rubbed slow, steady circles into his back, grounding, repetitive. “What happened, sweetheart?”
He clung tighter.
“I... I saw my mom in my dream,” he whispered, voice muffled against my skin, thin and fragile. “She was running. She looked scared.”
My chest tightened painfully.
He swallowed, breath hitching.
“She was being chased by a dragon,” he continued, voice trembling. “Big. Black. Breathing fire.”
His fingers dug into my shoulders as if the memory itself had teeth.
“When I tried to help her... the dragon saw me.” His voice cracked completely. “It stopped chasing her. It came for me instead.”
I held him closer, my hand pressing flat against his back, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my palm.
“Oh, baby,” I murmured, rubbing more firmly now, anchoring him in the present. “That sounds terrifying.”
He nodded against my shoulder.
“I could smell the smoke,” he whispered. “I could hear her screaming my name. She was calling me, Elena. I tried to run but my legs wouldn’t move.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“It’s just a dream,” I said gently, though my own voice shook. “I promise you, it wasn’t real. Dreams can feel very real, but they can’t hurt you. You’re safe. You’re here. I’ve got you.”
“It... felt real,” he said again, softer now, exhausted. “I thought I lost you too.”
I glanced up.
Ruslan had risen from the bed.
He stood a few steps away now, hands at his sides, fingers flexing once before stilling.
His expression was something I had never seen on his face before—raw confusion threaded with disbelief, pain tightening the lines around his eyes, and beneath it all.
.. something dangerously close to vulnerability.
“I asked him repeatedly what was wrong,” Ruslan said quietly, his voice rougher than before. “He wouldn’t speak to me.”
The words weren’t accusatory.
They were... wounded.
I looked at him for a long moment, then back at Yannis, who was slowly calming in my arms, breathing evening out, weight settling heavier against me as the terror loosened its grip.
“He wasn’t ready to talk,” I said softly. “Sometimes fear needs to feel safe before it can find words.”
Ruslan’s jaw tightened.
“He is safe with me.”
“I know,” I said—not challenging him, not contradicting. Just stating a truth that could exist alongside his own. “But right now... he needed something familiar.”
Ruslan didn’t argue.
Didn’t correct me.
He simply watched as Yannis curled closer, small fingers relaxing at last, his body gradually surrendering to exhaustion.
The silence returned—but it was different now.
Charged. Heavy with something unnamed.
I carried Yannis to the bed and lowered myself onto the edge, letting him settle against me.
His small body molded into mine—head pressed to my chest, legs draped across my lap. One arm went around his shoulders, holding him steady, while the other moved in slow, soothing strokes through his dark hair.
I let my fingers trace the familiar contours of his scalp, memorizing the curve of his skull, the softness behind his ears, the way he smelled faintly of soap and lavender.
Ruslan remained near the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.
His eyes never left us. Not for a second.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t clear his throat or shift his weight to announce himself.
He stood there in absolute stillness, a silent presence at the edge of the room, watching as though he were committing the moment to memory.
There was something unnerving in that focus. Sharp. Assessing. Not jealousy exactly, not softness either—something colder, more deliberate. As if he were measuring what this bond meant. What it cost. What power it held.
He turned and walked away his footsteps soundless against the floor, granting us privacy without ever asking for it.
Yannis’s breathing gradually steadied, but sleep did not claim him. He remained wide-eyed, small fists gripping the fabric of my shirt, clinging to me as though I were the last tether keeping him afloat in a world that had thrown him into darkness.
After a long, fragile moment, he lifted his head. His gray eyes met mine, vulnerable and searching.
“Is my mom truly with the angels?” he asked, voice small, trembling, hopeful, heartbreaking all at once.
I swallowed hard. Every part of me wanted to protect him from the truth, but he needed it—clear, soft, unflinching.
“Yes,” I said gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “She is.”
He nodded slowly, almost reluctantly accepting it, then pressed his face back against me, drawing comfort from the warmth I could give.
“But I see her in my dreams,” he whispered, voice barely audible.
“Sometimes she’s calling me from across a deep river.
Sometimes she’s running from monsters. Last time.
.. giant men with masks were trying to take me from her.
She held me so tight. She wouldn’t let go.
She fought them. She was screaming my name. ”
My heart ached, cracked open. Each word was a knife I couldn’t shield him from. I kept my hand moving through his hair, smoothing, tracing, grounding him.
“Sometimes I’m scared to sleep,” he added, his voice even quieter, trembling against me. “Because of the scary dreams.”
I pressed my lips to the crown of his head. Warm, small, fragile.
“Yannis,” I murmured, voice low, soft, steady, “I’m so sorry you lost your mom. I know how much it hurts. But I’m here now. And I promise—the scary dreams will get quieter over time. They’ll fade. And when they come, I’ll be right here to hold you through them.”
He stayed quiet, just breathing against me, as though measuring whether my promise could be trusted. Then, in the faintest whisper, words that cut through my chest:
“If the dreams stop... I won’t see her anymore.”
I hugged him tighter, pressing him closer into the curve of my body, desperate to offer a substitute for the safety he had lost, for the mother he would never hold again.
“Have you ever been told a bedtime story before?” I asked, trying to shift the weight, to build a small, fragile light between us.
He nodded against me. “Dad tried a few times. But... they were boring.”
A small, helpless smile tugged at my lips despite the tight ache in my chest. “Perhaps I should try, huh?”
His head lifted slightly, eyes curious, shining despite the lingering sadness.
I adjusted us, settling more comfortably against the headboard, him tucked under my arm, the warmth of our bodies mingling.
“Once upon a time,” I began, voice gentle, almost hypnotic, “there was a little star who lived high in the night sky. His name was Lio, and he was the brightest star in his constellation. But he was lonely. All the other stars had friends—twinkling together, telling stories, dancing across the sky. Lio wanted that too.”