Chapter 23 #2
“No,” I say, and my gaze drops, brief and involuntary, to the line of her throat. “You’re not.”
She catches it, she always catches it, and holds my gaze, daring me to move.
I don’t.
After a beat, she looks away again, as if she’s angry at herself for wanting the test at all.
Downstairs, the kitchen is too quiet for a house this size.
I wash my hands, then open the fridge.
Cold air rolls out, and I reach in for the plastic container of soup that arrived as a starter with the osobucco the other night.
I take it out, set it on the counter, and find a saucepan. No deliveries. No new bags. No chance for anyone to slip anything through my door.
The soup slides into the pot with a soft, thick sound. I put the burner on low and stir until it loosens, watching it go from refrigerator-cold to steaming, the surface turning glossy as it warms.
Behind me, Lidiya climbs onto one of the stools. She perches on the edge, posture rigid, bare feet braced on the rung like she’s ready to bolt even though she won’t.
I set out a bowl, a spoon, a small plate with bread. A mug for tea. Simple. Controlled. Real.
When the soup is hot, I ladle it into the bowl and carry it to her—on a tray, no dining room, no performance. The island stays between us like a boundary line.
I set the bowl down in front of her. Steam curls up, fogging the space between her hands and mine.
“Eat,” I say.
Her eyes flick from the soup to my face. Suspicion, automatic. “You made that.”
“I heated it,” I say.
She picks up the spoon like it might be poisoned on principle, then tastes.
One mouthful. Then another.
It isn’t much, but it’s something.
“Happy?” she asks, voice flat.
“No,” I say.
That makes her pause. “Why?”
Because someone tried to outbid me for you. Because someone looped cameras. Because someone is testing my perimeter and my appetite at the same time. Because I want to put you in my pocket, and that is not love, that is possession, and possession gets people killed.
I say none of that.
“Because we’re not done,” I say instead.
She chews slowly, eyes on her bowl. “Is it always like this?”
“What,” I ask.
She gestures vaguely with her spoon, a small, furious circle. “The violence. The threats. People acting like it’s normal.”
I lean back on the counter across from her, keeping distance even when my body wants the opposite. “For Bratva? Yes.”
“And for you,” she says, looking up now, “is it… fun?”
The question hits cleaner than it should.
My mouth curves, reflex. “Sometimes.”
Her gaze doesn’t drop. “That’s sick.”
“Yes,” I agree.
She stares at me like she can’t decide whether she’s afraid or fascinated.
Probably both.
When she’s finished, I stand, take the tray, and set it aside.
“Rest,” I say.
“I’m sleeping in the guest room,” she says, chin high.
“Fine,” I say and lead her upstairs. It’s stiff, awkward, almost, but it’s better than not having her here.
I show her which room. It’s secure. It has a sturdy lock. Cameras cover the hallway. It’s safer than most houses are on their best day.
“I’ll be down for dinner, Damien,” she says, and it’s stiff, polite, like she’s signing her name at the bottom of a contract.
“Don’t worry about dinner, solnyshko. Just rest, sleep,” I reply, and she flinches at the endearment like it’s a touch.
I go to my room, sit in a chair by the window with the lights off, and watch the camera feeds on my tablet until my eyes ache.
At some point, my mind tries to replay the auction—her face when the numbers climbed, the way she stood like she refused to crumble even when she was shaking.
My phone lights up with a message from Kirill.
No movement. Perimeter clean.
A soft sound pulls me from the screen.
Not a footstep. Not a knock.
A door opening.
I’m on my feet before I think about it. Quiet, controlled. I move through the hall like a shadow.
Lidiya’s eyes flick to me, then away, then back again.
“I can’t,” she says, voice raw with irritation at herself. “I can’t rest in there.”
I keep my hands at my sides. “Do you want me to sit outside the door?”
“No,” she says immediately. Then she swallows. “No.”
I wait, forcing myself to give her space to choose.
She lifts her chin toward my room. “I want to sleep. That’s it. I’m not—” She breaks off, as if the words embarrass her. “I just… I can’t switch my brain off.”
My throat tightens. “You can sleep in my bed.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you?”
“I won’t touch you,” I say. “You have my word.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I hold her gaze. “I can take the chair.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to call me on my bullshit.
“I don’t want you watching me like I’m—” She stops.
Like you’re mine.
She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to.
I nod once. “I’m working,” I say with a soft smile.
Her stare is a blade. She measures the angle, the risk.
Then she walks past me into my room like she’s walking into a cage she chose.
She climbs into the bed and turns away from me, back rigid under the duvet.
I retake my seat and just pretend to look at my tablet, but instead, I just watch her as she falls asleep in the middle of the afternoon, like she hasn’t slept in forever.