Chapter 7 – Sofia
It’s late at night, and I can’t sleep.
I’ve tried everything: turning over the pillow, counting backward, pretending I’m somewhere else entirely. Nothing works. My mind keeps circling back to the same thing until it becomes impossible to ignore.
It’s been a week.
A whole week of being married to Lukyan Rusnak.
And my life… hasn’t really changed.
That thought should be comforting. It almost is. Almost.
The only reminder I’m married is this giant ring Lukyan slipped on my finger the day we got married. I roll slightly onto my side and lift my hand into the dim light filtering through the curtains. The ring catches it immediately.
The diamond is absurd—too large, too bright, too heavy with meaning I didn’t agree to.
It probably costs more than my life.
I stare at it for a long time, then let my hand fall back onto the sheets.
If I’m honest, I don’t know what I expected.
Maybe noise. Maybe pressure. Maybe him deciding I was now part of his life in a way I didn’t get a vote in.
Instead, there’s nothing.
He doesn’t look for me. He doesn’t try to pull me into his space. He doesn’t ask questions that don’t need answering. Most days, I only see him at the dining table, and even then, it feels more like we’re two people occupying the same schedule rather than anything resembling a marriage.
I should be relieved.
And I am.
I think.
But there’s something else underneath it that I don’t have a name for.
I exhale and sit up, the sheets slipping off my legs as I swing them over the side of the bed. I tie the sash of my robe tighter around my waist and step into the hallway barefoot.
I don’t know where I’m going at first.
I just need movement.
The corridor is dimly lit, stretching farther than it should, lined with doors that all look the same in the dark. My steps are soft against the floor as I walk, fingers brushing lightly along the wall for orientation.
Eventually, I end up in the living room. The largest window looks out over the gardens.
The estate grounds stretch beyond it—carefully kept lawns fading into darker shapes of trees and hedges, broken here and there by soft garden lights. Everything is still, curated, untouched. I stop in front of the glass.
My reflection stares back faintly, layered over the garden beyond. For a moment, I just stand there, watching the quiet space outside as if it might answer something I haven’t fully formed into a question yet.
Then, almost without thinking, my mind drifts.
If he isn’t coming to me… where is he going?
The idea arrives before I can stop it. I push it away immediately. I absolutely do not care. It’s not my business. It never was.
I stay standing there longer than I mean to, staring at nothing in particular, telling myself the same thing over and over until it almost sounds convincing.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I really don’t care.
I mean it.
The door opens behind me.
I turn too fast.
My stomach drops instantly when I see him.
Lukyan steps into the living room. Dressed in black, as always. Expensive without trying. Controlled in a way that makes the air feel tighter just by him being in it.
He gives me a brief nod, already moving past me toward the stairs. And I almost let him. Almost. He doesn’t have to speak to me if he doesn’t want to.
Until I see his hands.
I freeze.
There’s blood on them.
Not a little. Not an accident you ignore. His knuckles are split open, skin torn, dried and fresh blood mixed across his fingers like he didn’t even think to stop whatever caused it.
A sound slips out of me before I can stop it.
“Lukyan—wait.”
He pauses at the foot of the stairs.
He doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t look at me.
I move toward him before I can overthink it, eyes fixed on his hands.
“Your hand,” I say, sharper now. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” he answers, already stepping up again.
That does something irritating in my chest.
I follow him.
“You can’t say it’s nothing,” I snap. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
He keeps walking like I’m background noise he’s chosen to ignore.
That makes me angry enough to reach out.
I grab his hand.
He stops.
I hold his hand up between us, forcing him to look at it whether he wants to or not. “This isn’t fine,” I say. “You need to clean it and treat it.”
His eyes finally shift to me. Cold. Flat. Annoyingly calm.
I glare right back at him without blinking.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
It feels less like silence and more like a standoff neither of us is willing to name.
Then he exhales. A small, restrained sound. “There’s a first aid kit in my bathroom,” he says.
His bathroom.
I hesitate for half a second too long.
But it’s already too late to pretend I didn’t hear him.
I nod once, tight. “Fine.”
I release his hand reluctantly and follow him up the stairs.
I step into his bedroom for the first time, not knowing what to expect. But as I take in the space, I immediately conclude I don’t like it.
It’s dark, lit only by the faint spill of light from the hallway behind us. The space is almost aggressively bare—no warmth, no decoration, nothing soft enough to suggest someone actually lives here. Just clean lines, expensive furniture, and a cold order that makes my skin tighten.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second at the threshold.
Then I follow him in anyway.
He moves straight into the bathroom without speaking.
I trail behind him, suddenly aware of how private this feels in a way I don’t know how to name. The bathroom is just as minimal as the rest of the room, all marble and glass and sharp edges. He opens a cabinet, takes out the first aid kit, and sets it down on the floor without ceremony.
Then he sits on the closed toilet seat like this is routine.
Like I’m not standing here.
Like this isn’t strange at all.
I swallow, crouching in front of him before I can think myself out of it.
“Give me your hand,” I say quietly.
He does.
I take it carefully, turning his palm upward. The damage is worse up close—split skin across his knuckles, dried blood at the edges, fresh cuts underneath that look like they came from force rather than accident.
I focus. On the task. On the movement. On anything except the fact that I am in his space, in his room, with him sitting still and letting me do this.
I clean the wound first.
The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t empty. It feels charged in a way I don’t understand. Like something is happening underneath it that neither of us is acknowledging.
I keep my eyes on his hand as I work. I can feel his eyes on me. Guarded and assessing. Like he’s observing patterns. Not just what I’m doing, but how I do it. The way I hold his hand steady. The way I hesitate before pressing the antiseptic too hard. The way I try not to look up at him.
It’s worse than being ignored.
It feels like being studied.
I wrap the bandage tighter than necessary just to give my hands something to do.
Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t look away either.
When I finish, I tie off the bandage and finally let his hand go.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The bathroom feels smaller now, like the air has condensed around whatever just happened between us.
I stand slowly, suddenly unsure of what I’m supposed to do with myself.
He flexes his hand once, testing the bandage. Then his gaze lifts to mine again. Still unreadable. But different somehow.
And I don’t know why that makes my heartbeat shift the way it does.
I clear my throat. “Can I ask you something?”
His brows lift slightly, but he gives a single nod. Permission granted. Simple. Controlled. Like everything else with him.
I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to stay steady. “I need my things,” I say. “From my old apartment.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. He just watches me, waiting for me to continue.
I swallow, then add, quieter, “Especially my books.”
That part matters more than I want it to. I can hear it in my own voice. Not everything. Not clothes or furniture or anything that would make this place feel more like mine. Just my books.
A pause stretches between us.
His eyes stay on mine for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s deciding something I’m not part of.
Then he nods once. “Ben will handle it.”
That’s all.
No questions. No resistance. No interrogation about why it matters.
I blink, slightly thrown by how easy it was. “…That’s it?”
His gaze shifts back to my hand for a second.
“If that’s what you want,” he says simply.
I don’t know why that unsettles me more than if he had refused.
I nod slowly anyway, because I don’t trust myself to say anything else. “Okay.”
Silence settles again, filling the space between us.
But this time it feels different. Softer.
I stay where I am for a moment, still standing near the bathroom counter, watching him as he adjusts the bandage I just wrapped. He tests his hand again, flexing his fingers slowly, like he’s checking whether I actually did it right.
“You end up like this often?” I ask before I can overthink it.
His eyes lift again. “What?”
“Do you get injured like this often?” I clarify, folding my arms loosely. “Or is this just a hobby of yours?”
That earns the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite amusement. Not irritation either. Something in between.
“Occasionally,” he says.
I tilt my head slightly. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be, Sofia.”
Of course it isn’t. I let out a small breath through my nose, then glance down at the first aid kit still open on the floor.
“Thank you for helping me,” he said sullenly.
“You can thank me by doing me a favor.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m already doing you a favor by getting your books.”
I scoff. “I have a question.” He sighs, but before he can tell me to shove my question, I spit it out. “Is this marriage truly about protection?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer.
And in that pause, I notice something I don’t want to notice.
The distance between us isn’t as wide as it was when I started speaking.
It makes my throat tighten, so I look away first, focusing instead on the sink behind him.