Chapter 17 – Noelle
I wake slowly, the soft weight of the blankets pressing me down, the faint hum of the city beyond the glass settling into my bones.
For a moment, I lie still, disoriented, letting the blur of last night settle back over me.
The words, the tears, the truths I didn’t want to hear.
My mother. My father. Anton. The mess of it all tangles in my chest like barbed wire.
I drag a hand across my face. Everything feels…heavy. Messy. Like I’m not sure where I begin and where their shadows end.
The door creaks softly, and I look up.
Niko steps inside, balancing a tray in his hands. The smell hits me first—warm bread, eggs, coffee. Simple things, but my throat tightens all the same. His eyes meet mine, and just like that, the weight on my chest eases a little.
“Good morning, ogonek,” he says quietly. His voice is rough from sleep, but softer than I expect.
And before I can stop myself, my lips twitch into something that feels suspiciously like a smile.
He did this. For me.
And suddenly, despite the storm still raging in my head, I start to feel a little steadier. A little lighter.
He sets the tray across my lap, then takes his place beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. The steam from the coffee curls between us, but the warmth I feel has nothing to do with that.
I pick up a piece of toast, tearing it carefully, almost stalling before I ask, “Have you ever…done this before?”
He arches a brow. “What? Fed a woman breakfast in bed?”
“Yes.” I squint at him, pretending to sound casual, but my heart is already thudding. “Brought food, sat close, tried to look all domestic?”
He leans back on one arm, smirking. “Domestic?”
“Mm-hm.” I nod, popping the bite of toast into my mouth. “You look suspiciously good at this. Makes me wonder how many women you’ve rehearsed it with.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “None.”
“None?” I tilt my head, unconvinced. “Come on, Niko. Not even once?”
“Not even once,” he repeats firmly, meeting my eyes with that unflinching intensity of his. “Do you really think I’d wake up early, brew coffee, and balance a tray for anyone but you?”
My cheeks heat. I laugh to cover it up. “So what—you’re telling me I’m special?”
His smile curves wicked, but his eyes—his eyes are something else, softer than I’ve ever seen them. “You’re the only one.”
Something inside me stirs at those words, fluttering and aching all at once.
I reach for the coffee to distract myself. “Well,” I murmur, trying to sound breezy, “for a first-timer, you’re not bad at this. Though….” I glance at the eggs and give him a mock-serious look. “They could use a little salt.”
He snatches the fork from my hand before I can take another bite. “Ungrateful,” he mutters, holding the fork out of my reach.
I laugh, leaning into him, trying to grab it back. “Hey, give me that!”
“No,” he says, smirking, keeping it raised. “You insult the chef, you lose your privileges.”
“Chef?” I scoff. “You heated food someone else cooked, Niko. That doesn’t count.”
His arm hooks around my waist suddenly, pulling me flush against him, the fork forgotten. His lips brush my ear when he whispers, “Careful, ogonek. I could find other ways to feed you.”
My breath catches, and I swat at his chest, though my laughter betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” he hums, nuzzling against my cheek before pulling back, that rare, unguarded smile tugging at his mouth. “But you’re laughing. So I’ve done my job.”
My smile falters, but not from sadness—from something deeper. Something that makes my chest feel too tight and too full at the same time. I never thought this man—the cold, ruthless Niko Rusnak—would be here, sitting on a bed, making me laugh over breakfast.
I study him, searching for the cracks in the armor, and he lets me look. Lets me see.
And against my better judgment, against everything I told myself, I realize I like what I see.
He tilts his head, catching me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter quickly, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Just…surprised.”
“By what?”
“That you can be sweet.”
He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
Before I can answer, his phone starts buzzing from the dresser. He groans under his breath, sliding off the bed. “Always when I’m busy,” he mutters, pushing to his feet. “Don’t eat all the toast without me.”
I watch him grab the phone, his voice already low and clipped as he heads out into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the room feels too quiet.
I reach for another bite of toast, but the smell hits me wrong this time. Butter, eggs, even the faint sweetness of jam—it all turns sour in my stomach. My chest tightens. Heat rushes up my throat so fast it makes me gag.
Oh God.
I shove the tray away, stumble out of bed, and half-run, half-collapse into the bathroom. Cold tile bites my knees as I grip the edge of the toilet, retching until my throat burns. The sound echoes in the small room, humiliating and raw.
I try to steady myself, to breathe through the nausea, but the spinning won’t stop. My head feels light, my hands clammy. I curl forward, forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut.
The nausea eases just enough for me to slump back against the wall, trembling. My chest rises and falls too quickly, my body still buzzing from the heaves. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to ground myself.
And then it hits me.
I count backward in my head, lips moving soundlessly. My period should have come last week—no, the week before. My stomach flips again, but this time it isn’t from the nausea.
The fatigue. The waves of queasiness I brushed off. The way I’ve been sleeping more, blaming stress, blaming Niko, blaming everything but what it could actually mean.
Oh God.
My throat closes, a different kind of sickness washing over me. I whisper the words into the quiet bathroom, as if saying them aloud will make them less real:
“I’m late.”
The sound trembles in the air, fragile and terrifying. My fingers curl around my knees, pulling them to my chest as the weight of it presses down on me.
I wipe my mouth and splash water on my face, trying to erase the blotchy redness, the panic still etched in my reflection. My legs feel weak as I push myself upright, and for a moment, I lean against the sink, willing my heartbeat to slow.
When I finally step out, the bedroom feels too bright, too open. Niko’s voice is faint in the distance, still clipped and commanding on his call. I slip back onto the bed, the tray of breakfast waiting where he left it, steam curling from the coffee.
I set the tray on my lap again, but the sight of food turns my stomach. The eggs, the fruit, the toast—all of it looks like it belongs to someone else’s life, someone who isn’t sitting here with her head spinning and her chest heavy with a secret she isn’t sure how to share.
My fingers toy with the corner of a napkin as I stare down, wondering if telling Niko would be wise.
Would he be furious? Would he see it as weakness, as another complication in the middle of a war? Or would he—my breath catches—would he surprise me again? Would he see it as something else entirely?
The questions claw at me, but no answers come.
I swallow hard and push the tray away slightly. Appetite gone.
I sit there, still and small against the expanse of the bed, trying to look composed when inside I feel like I’m unraveling.
The door clicks open, and Niko strides back in, shoulders tight, eyes glued to his phone. His expression is carved from stone, but I can see it—something’s wrong.
I straighten, the words about my own body dying in my throat. My nausea, the fatigue, the terrifying realization…they scatter like dust under the weight of his presence.
“What is it?” I ask, the question tumbling out before I can stop myself. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
He lowers the phone slowly, almost reluctantly, and his gaze finds mine. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
For a second, he doesn’t answer. Just stares, as if weighing how much to tell me.
And in that second, I forget entirely about myself. All I see is him, and the storm in his eyes.
Niko exhales, the sound sharp, controlled, but I can see the tension running through him like a wire about to snap. He drags a hand down his face and finally speaks.
“A bomb went off last night,” he says, his voice flat but edged in steel. “The clinic. Three dead—two of my soldiers and a young doctor.” His gaze drops for the first time, as if the weight is too heavy to hold. “Her name was Martha.”
The air in the room shifts, cold and heavy. My stomach twists.
Martha.
I know that name. I know her face. We never spoke—staff weren’t supposed to—but I remember the first time I saw her in the clinic.
She walked past me, carrying a tray of meds, and for one dizzy second, I thought I was looking at myself in a mirror.
Same shape of the jaw, same curve of the cheekbones.
She was slimmer, sharper around the edges, while I was…
fuller. Softer. But the resemblance was there.
Enough to make me pause. Enough that it stayed with me.
“She looked like me,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “Not exactly, but…close. The first time I saw her, I thought we could have been sisters.”
Niko’s gaze sharpens instantly. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t even blink. Slowly, he nods, his jaw set like stone.
“Demyan said the same thing on the phone.”
A chill ripples through me, crawling under my skin. My breath stutters, the room suddenly too small, too tight.
“This isn’t right,” I whisper, shaking my head as if that alone could undo it. “This isn’t—” My throat closes up. “Was it Anton? Tell me it’s not him.”
Niko’s silence is louder than any answer. His jaw works, muscles flexing like he’s grinding the truth into dust between his teeth.