18. Sabina
18
Sabina
I sit on the edge of my bed, the small, elegantly wrapped box resting on my lap. It’s the fourth package to arrive this week, each one bearing no return address, no note—just the gift itself, exquisite and unmistakably deliberate. Every time, it feels like the universe is conspiring to unravel me. Just when I think I’ve steadied myself enough to breathe without aching, another package arrives, and the air is stolen from my lungs all over again.
My fingers tremble as I untie the ribbon, the fabric whispering against the glossy paper like a secret only I’m meant to hear. Slowly, I lift the lid, my breath catching as the contents come into view. Black silk scarves. Their texture is luxurious, smooth beneath my fingers, like liquid shadow. I pull one free, letting it cascade between my hands, the dark silk clinging lightly to my skin as if it knows where it belongs.
I don’t need a note or a signature to tell me who sent this package. It’s him. Always him.
The first gift had been the Ruger LCP II, sleek and deadly, the slide a beautiful polished blue. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a promise. A reminder of the gun I’d lost and the man who hadn’t forgotten how much it mattered.
The second had been the Louboutins, perfect replicas of the ones ruined in the crash. My hands had lingered over the red soles, the glossy black leather, the familiar curves of the shoes that had once made me feel invincible. They were more than replacements—they were a memory given back to me, a fragment of who I’d been that night.
Then came the gold cuffs. Not just jewelry, but a symbol. Delicate yet unyielding. Their design whispered of restraint and power, strength hidden in elegance. When I’d held them, I could almost feel the weight of his hands on my wrists, the rough heat of his touch.
And now this. The scarves.
I press one against my cheek, closing my eyes. The intimacy of it—the message laced in its softness—sends a shiver through me. My pulse quickens as images flood my mind. His voice, low and commanding, wrapping around me like the scarves themselves. His hands, strong and certain, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The way his gaze locked on mine, holding me captive, making me feel both exposed and safe at the same time.
There’s no card, no signature, no words to tie these gifts to him, but they don’t need any. He’s in every detail, every thread, every deliberate choice. He’s in the echo of his touch that still lingers on my skin, in the spaces and the memories I try and fail to suppress. Even in his absence he’s here.
Longing swells, sharp and painful. It wraps itself around me, suffocating in its strength. I want to be angry, to scream at the cruelty of his silence, his distance, but I can’t. Because beneath the anger is gratitude. A warmth that spreads from my chest to my fingertips. He hasn’t forgotten me. He’s out there, thinking of me.
But the ache is still there, relentless and unforgiving. Because these gifts are all I have of him now—silent reminders of the man who could make me feel so much with his presence and even more with his absence. A man who can’t even include a card because it’s too dangerous. Because this connection could destroy us both. I don’t know if these gifts are his way of keeping me close or if they’re his way of saying goodbye.
The scarf slips through my hands, pooling in my lap like ink spreading across a blank page. I stare down at it, the weight of its meaning far heavier than the delicate fabric. The emotions swirling inside me twist and churn, each fighting for dominance—hope and despair, anger and gratitude, want and impossibility. They’re too much, too strong, and they leave me breathless.
He’s not here. But he’s everywhere. In every thought I can’t push away. In every memory that catches me off guard. In the silence of my sleepless nights when I wonder where he is, if he’s safe. If I’m safe, or if the next time I leave the compound, I’ll be set upon, hurt, killed.
I grew up in this world. I wasn’t there when my father was killed, but I’ve felt the weight and heartbreak of his absence every day since. And I was on the yacht. I remember the cold dread in my chest when mercenaries held my family at gunpoint, their eyes empty of mercy. I saw Leo shot, watched him fall into the ocean. For those endless moments, I thought he was dead. I thought any second, we would all be dead.
I thought I was smarter than this. I’ve always prided myself on being clear-headed, logical, even in a world that thrives on chaos. Growing up in the Russo family taught me how to spot danger, how to navigate around it, how to survive without getting consumed by it. And for years, that clarity had been my armor, my guide. I’ve always known better than to let someone like Nikolai slip past my defenses.
Nikolai Ivanov is everything I should stay away from: dangerous, unpredictable, an Ivanov—our families’ bitter history is woven into the fabric of who we are.
What the hell am I doing?
The question slices through me, sharp and unrelenting. Back in the real world, away from the isolated bubble of that snow-covered cabin, everything is clearer. And bleaker. Nikolai and I live on opposite sides of an impossible divide. Our families are adversaries. That might not have been the case when Papa and Vlasta were alive, but Mikhail Ivanov killed my father .
How can I even think of building something with his son?
In the world we live in, Nikolai is bound by his father’s shadow, by a legacy steeped in blood and betrayal. And I’m bound by the weight of my family, the expectations, the endless lines we’re all taught never to cross.
The scarf shimmers in the dim light, its inky blackness a stark contrast against the soft gold of the gift box. It’s just a piece of silk, yet it feels like a lifeline. Or a chain. I can’t decide which.
And beneath all the ache and longing, fear curls its way into my thoughts. Every package that arrives reminds me that Nikolai is taking a risk, even if he thinks he’s being careful. If Mikhail knew—if he even suspected—what would he do to Nikolai? To me? My family? Nikolai’s father isn’t just dangerous; he’s merciless. And that knowledge chills me as much as the memory of Nikolai’s touch warms me.
A tear slips down my cheek, silent and unbidden, and I swipe it away quickly, as though hiding it from myself. How did I get here? How did he become this to me—a man I can’t have, yet can’t seem to let go of? A man whose absence feels more suffocating than the weight of his presence ever could?
I shake my head, as if the movement might dislodge the thoughts spiraling in my mind. But they stay. He stays.
And for the first time, I don’t know how to move forward. Because the path I want to take leads straight to him. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to walk away.