Chapter Three #2
The hooded figure from this afternoon haunts every thought, his shadowy presence replaying on an endless loop in my mind. All I can focus on is Hannah—how small she is, how vulnerable, how utterly dependent on me for protection if our carefully constructed world comes crashing down.
"You’re unusually quiet tonight," Timur observes, his sharp eyes studying my face with uncomfortable intensity.
I manage a weak smile. "Just tired, that’s all."
Tired, my ass. I can practically see the thought scrolling across his features. Timur’s gaze lingers, dissecting my expression while he chews with deliberate slowness, like he’s cataloging every one of my micro-expressions for future analysis.
The years haven’t been kind to Timur either.
After Nikolai’s death, he spiraled into the same desperate denial that consumed me.
Sophia became his anchor during those dark months, offering her shoulder when the grief threatened to drown him, but I don’t think he’ll ever fully recover.
He didn’t just lose his best friend and most trusted ally—he lost his entire purpose, his identity stripped away in a hail of bullets.
Sophia told me once that the Rogov Bratva essentially crumbled after Nikolai’s death, absorbed into Ronan Aslanov’s growing empire like a smaller fish swallowed by a shark.
Timur was left adrift, a soldier without a war, wandering through each day with the hollow-eyed confusion of someone who’d lost their reason for existing.
For months, he sought solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, spending his evenings slumped in front of the television while Jack Daniels numbed the edges of his pain.
That wasn’t even the worst of it.
His grief transformed into paranoia—triple-checking locks, forbidding Sophia from leaving the house alone, treating every stranger as a potential threat. She could only venture outside when he accompanied her, his protective instincts morphing into something suffocating and desperate.
But lately, there’s been a shift. Sophia says the pregnancy has awakened glimpses of the old Timur, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The healing is slow, tentative, but she catches flashes of the man he used to be—the one who could make Nikolai laugh until his sides ached.
"Anyway," Sophia interjects, clearly attempting to resurrect our dying conversation and dispel the tension hanging over the table like smoke. “I’m leaning toward Tess for a girl, or maybe Abbey. Frida has a lovely ring to it too, though I think that would only suit a baby with dark hair.” She turns to me with genuine curiosity. “You never told me how you chose Hannah’s name.”
A bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. “That was all Niko. He heard it somewhere and just... knew. He wasn’t one for overthinking things like that.”
A phone buzzes against the table, and I watch Timur’s entire posture change. It’s subtle—just a slight tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible straightening of his spine—but I catch it because I’ve been watching him.
Sophia notices too, her pregnancy-sharpened intuition picking up on the shift in her husband’s energy. "Who is it, honey? Everything okay?"
Timur glances up, and for a split second, I see something flicker across his face—alertness, anticipation, the ghost of his old intensity. “Just... work stuff.” He abandons his silverware with a sharp clatter, pushing back from the table without bothering to tuck in his chair. “I have to go.”
He moves with sudden purpose, circling the table to press a perfunctory kiss to Sophia’s temple. His hand lingers briefly on her hair before he’s striding toward the door, all traces of the relaxed dinner companion gone.
“Text us when you get home, Lauren,” he calls over his shoulder, already reaching for his jacket.
I settle back in my chair, pretending I didn’t notice how completely his demeanor transformed the moment that phone buzzed.
The change was striking—like watching someone slip on a familiar mask, returning to a role they’d thought they’d abandoned.
What could have that effect on him? Or who?
For a moment, he looked exactly like he used to when he worked alongside Nikolai, when they’d disappear into hushed conversations and emergency meetings like conspirators planning their next move.
I don’t push for answers, but I study Sophia instead.
She’s methodically sawing through a piece of roasted potato that’s already been cut in half, the knife scraping against her plate with unnecessary force.
When she realizes what she’s doing, she switches to mashing it with her fork, scooping up clumps and chewing mechanically despite the fact that mashed potato requires no actual chewing.
She noticed his strange behavior too. Timur claimed it was work-related, but according to Sophia, there hasn’t been much “work” to speak of lately. So what kind of call could transform him so completely?
Hannah, Sophia, and I finish dinner in subdued quiet before migrating to the living room. Hannah spreads her collection of dolls across the coffee table, immediately absorbed in their complex social dramas while we tackle the dishes.
We load the dishwasher in companionable silence, both lost in our own thoughts. When we're done, Sophia makes us each a cup of chamomile tea, and we settle onto the couch, letting mindless television wash over us.
“So,” Sophia says during a commercial break, shooting me a knowing look. “What’s the latest? Any interesting men on the horizon?”
I tense despite knowing she means well. My fingers tighten around the warm ceramic mug as I shake my head. “No with a capital N, Soph. You think I have the bandwidth to juggle a four-year-old and the emotional gymnastics that come with dating? Hard pass.”
Sophia grins mischievously. “Not even for that Brad Pitt lookalike from your office building?”
I laugh despite myself. “Brad Pitt’s doppelganger is more obsessed with his reflection than I am with Hannah. Trust me, I’m good. Our life is peaceful. Uncomplicated.”
“I know.” Sophia’s expression turns serious, her voice gentle but persistent. “But you deserve happiness too, Lau. I know these past four years have been brutal, but you can’t wall yourself off forever."
“I’m not walled off. I have—"
“Hannah. I know.” Sophia’s smile is understanding but sad. “She’s the light of your life, and she’s incredible. But what about your needs? Your desires?”
I cringe internally.
God, I really need to expand my vocabulary.
“Listen,” Sophia continues, “if you ever want us to take Hannah for a night—just so you can remember what it feels like to be Lauren instead of just ‘Hannah’s mom’—say the word. Besides, I could use a little practice before this little one arrives.” She pats her belly affectionately.
“Thanks, Soph.” I set my mug aside and pull her into a warm hug, breathing in her familiar lavender perfume.
The truth is, there’s no room in my shattered heart for anyone new. When Brad Pitt’s doppelganger asked me to dinner last month, I went home that night and stared at Nikolai’s empty pillow until my eyes burned, willing him to materialize from my memories like some kind of grief-induced magic trick.
The thought of dating feels like betrayal.
How do you replace the love of your life?
How do you settle for ordinary when you’ve experienced extraordinary?
I don’t want dinner dates or awkward small talk.
I want Nikolai to appear behind me again, all dangerous intensity and sharp edges, his perfectly sculpted jaw set in determination as he warns me away from his world.
I want his voice, low and commanding, promising both protection and peril in the same breath.
I know it sounds insane.
But the brutal truth is, no one measures up to him. I’ve learned to function, to build a life from the ashes of our brief time together, but the idea of another man’s hands on my skin still makes me recoil.
“How are you feeling about the baby?” I ask, desperate to redirect the conversation away from my romantic void.
Sophia’s hand moves protectively to her stomach. “Terrified, honestly. I have no idea how you managed it alone. The thought of actually pushing a watermelon-sized human out of my body makes me want to hide under the covers until the baby magically appears.”
“Trust me, I had the same panic.” I smile, glancing at Hannah as she orchestrates an elaborate tea party between her dolls. “Labor isn’t exactly a spa day, but what comes after... it’s worth every second of pain. I’d do it ten times over for her.”
We share a moment of understanding, two women bonded by the fierce, terrifying love that comes with motherhood. We chat until our conversation reaches its natural conclusion, and I finally gather Hannah and our things.
During the drive home, Timur’s abrupt departure plays on repeat in my mind. The way he moved with such sudden urgency, like he’d been waiting for that call. Something cold and suspicious unfurls in my chest.
What if this is connected to my mysterious watcher?
What if Timur knows something about the black SUV?
I turn into our neighborhood, automatically scanning for threats as I approach our building. My eyes sweep every parked car, every shadowed doorway, searching for that familiar menacing silhouette.
For now, the coast appears clear.
But the pieces are starting to form a pattern I don’t like: first the untraceable SUV, now Timur receiving urgent calls that transform him back into the man he used to be.
What the hell is happening?
And how long before it reaches Hannah?
Lord, give me answers.