Chapter Twenty-Three - Zoe
It’s been over five months.
Five months of living in this house with Lukin.
Five months of quiet mornings, guarded conversations, bruised silences, and strange moments of tenderness I still don’t fully understand.
But things have gotten better. Not perfect, but better.
This morning, I sit across from him at the table. The food smells amazing—eggs, toast, something with cinnamon—and for once, I’m not just pushing it around on my plate. I’m actually eating.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I speak.
“The baby kicked yesterday,” I say casually, like I’m talking about the weather. “First time. I was in the shower.”
Lukin looks up, caught off guard. His coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth. “Really?” His voice is low, like he doesn’t want to break something fragile.
I nod, watching the way his eyes narrow slightly, processing the words.
“It was weird,” I add, suddenly unsure why I brought it up. “Kind of like a flutter at first… then just this little thump. I wasn’t even sure what it was until I stopped moving.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then—
“Next time it happens,” he says, “can I feel it?”
The way he says it—it’s not a demand. It’s not even a request. It’s something in between. Careful. Hesitant. Human.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
He nods, eyes still on me. “You make a beautiful pregnant woman, and I hope she looks like you.”
I blink. “She?”
He nods. “I’ve changed my mind. I want a girl.”
And something in my chest—something small and scared—softens. I laugh softly and for the first time in a long while, I let the silence stretch between us without running from it.
That afternoon, I’m sitting by the window in the bedroom, sketchpad in my lap, pencil smudged between my fingers.
It’s one of the few things that calms me lately—drawing.
I lose myself in it, in lines and shadows, in the soft curve of a new dress design.
I can’t wait to go back to my fashion store after the baby.
The door swings open, sudden and fast.
Lukin strides in like a storm—sharp, direct, all business.
I watch him cross the room, already pulling off his shirt, grabbing another from the closet.
He’s getting ready for something—one of his Bratva meetings, I assume.
I’ve learned not to ask questions. Not because I’m scared, but because this version of him doesn’t leave space for them.
Still, I watch. I always do.
It’s strange how he changes so quickly. One minute, the man who made me blush over breakfast. The next, the Pakhan—dead-eyed and ruthless. It’s in the way he buttons his cuff with precision, the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his posture. Like armor snapping into place.
When he finishes, there’s a quiet knock. Lukin says, “Come in.”
I sit up, because he never lets anyone into our bedroom. Ever.
A man enters—older, grizzled, solid. He nods once to Lukin and doesn’t spare me more than a passing glance. He doesn’t need to. I can tell who he is by how he stands, the way his hand rests near his sidearm, his silence. He’s a bodyguard.
“This is your new bodyguard,” Lukin says. “His name is Ronan. He’s your personal shadow. He goes everywhere you go. Watches you like a hawk.”
This man would die for Lukin or me, I can easily tell. I look between them. There’s a language they speak without words, a kind of loyalty that runs too deep for comfort.
Lukin turns to me as he slides his watch on.
“I won’t be long,” he says and walks out with Ronan. I take a deep breath, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
Throughout the day, Ronan is a shadow.
I can’t take two steps without hearing the faint crunch of his boots behind me. Whether I’m going to the kitchen, the library, or just down the hall to get a glass of water, he’s there. Silent. Watchful. Unapologetically close.
By noon, I’m grinding my teeth.
I overhear two servants whispering near the back staircase. Something about threats. The Italian faction—the one the Bratva crushed months ago—has apparently started breathing fire again. Retaliation, they called it. Payback.
And Lukin? He’s responded by doubling security. Which, apparently, means sticking Ronan to my side like glue.
It’s infuriating.
I get that outside the estate might be dangerous, but inside? This house is a fortress. Steel gates. Cameras. Guards posted like statues at every corner. I’m not naive—I know Lukin’s world is brutal. But I also know fear when it’s overcompensating.
So when I tell Ronan I’m going to the garden to sketch, I don’t expect an argument.
He doesn’t give one—but he follows anyway.
I step onto the garden path, sketchbook in hand, and feel the sun hit my skin. Finally, something real. Something soft. I walk toward the bench beneath the rose arbor and sit, pretending he isn’t there.
But I feel his eyes, always.
“Do you have to hover?” I mutter under my breath as I flip to a clean page.
Ronan doesn’t respond. Of course not. He just shifts slightly, arms folded, scanning the garden like someone’s about to leap out from behind the hydrangeas with a knife.
I exhale sharply and put pencil to paper, trying to forget that every line I draw is being watched.
“I need to patrol the perimeter. I’ll be back in a few,” Ronan says and I can’t hide my breath of relief as he walks briskly away. Finally, space. Fresh air.
But it’s short-lived.
The quiet wraps around me for maybe three minutes before I hear fast, heavy footsteps pounding against the garden path. I look up just as Ronan charges back around the hedge. He’s pale, chest heaving, eyes wide.
“Get up,” he snaps, grabbing my arm. “The guards at the gate—they’re not ours. I think the Italians are inside. I’ve called Lukin, but we have to move. Now.”
The world shifts under me. He starts pulling me toward the house, and my feet barely keep up. But then, I hear footsteps that aren’t ours.
“Shit,” Ronan mutters, and before I can react, he shoves me hard into the hedges. “Stay down. Don’t move.”
I crouch low, thorns pricking my skin. My heart slams against my ribs so loud it drowns out the storm in my ears. I lay a hand on my stomach, praying my baby and I are safe.
A tall man in black steps into the garden, boots heavy against the ground, a snake tattoo curling up the side of his neck. His voice is thick with accent and menace.
“Where is she?” he asks Ronan. “Hand her over, and maybe you’ll live.”
Ronan doesn’t flinch. “Fuck off,” he growls. “Go to hell.”
It happens fast.
They clash, all fists and blood and snarling fury. I can’t tear my eyes away. Ronan fights hard—gosh, he fights—but the man is stronger. A flash of steel. A wet sound. Ronan stumbles. A knife deep in his stomach.
“No,” I gasp, covering my mouth. The stab is followed by a loud gunshot.
Ronan drops like a rag doll. Lifeless. Gone. My body shakes. The man wipes his knife clean, eyes scanning the garden like a wolf sniffing out prey.
“Little rabbit?” he calls, slow and mocking. “Come out, come out. Or I start with the maids.”
I gasp and this time it’s a little loud. He starts toward me. I try to scoot back, but the hedge presses in. Nowhere to go. He reaches for me, and I brace for pain, but bang! The sound cracks through the garden like lightning.
The man jerks once—then falls. A perfect hole between his eyes. I stare in shock as the body hits the ground, blood splashing all around me.
That’s when I see him. Lukin.
Standing at the edge of the garden. Gun still raised. Smoke curling from the barrel.
His eyes are locked on me. He doesn’t say a word as he strides forward. His steps are slow and careful, like I’m something fragile—shattered glass he’s afraid to step on.
But I flinch. Back away.
“No,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Don’t—don’t come near me.”
He freezes. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. My gaze drops to the body at his feet. Then to the blood on my arm. Ronan’s. The man’s. I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. It’s blood. And it’s real. And it’s everywhere.
My breath catches, sharp and panicked, and I look at him again.
For a second—just a second—I don’t see Lukin.
I see him. The man who murdered my parents.
The storm. The gun. The stillness after.
I see the same cold fire in Lukin’s eyes, the same lack of remorse.
Like this wasn’t someone’s life. Like it was just… business.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
It slips out cracked, broken, like something torn from my throat.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest.
Something flickers in his eyes—but it’s not guilt. It’s not pride. It’s nothing. Just silence. Stillness. Emptiness.
And maybe that’s worse.
I turn and run. Into the house. Through the halls. Past the stunned faces of the staff. I don’t stop.
All I can feel is the blood sticking to my skin. All I can hear is that single gunshot still ringing in my ears.
I don’t know where I’m going. Only that I have to get away before he kills me too.