Chapter 4
ISABELLA
T he sound of fists hitting padded gloves echoes through the room like gunfire in a cathedral—clean, sharp, brutal.
Kellan grunts as he absorbs the impact, his feet braced, hands steady in front of him. “Again.”
I breathe through my nose and launch forward, two jabs, one hook, followed by a low, hard kick toward his thigh. He shifts at the last second, just enough to block it.
“Better,” he mutters, voice flat. “You’re loosening up.”
I roll my neck, wiping sweat from my temple with the back of my glove. “I’m not tight.”
He arches a brow. “Your shoulders are locked up like you’re waiting to be shot.”
I don’t respond. Because he’s not wrong.
But it has nothing to do with the fight.
And everything to do with him.
It’s been a week since I first stood behind his chair. Since he looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now refuses to let go of.
And in that time?
He’s only called me twice.
Both nights the same—quiet table, no incidents, no commands beyond “Stay.”
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t ask my name again.
He just watches me.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because I don’t know what he’s looking for.
And I don’t know what he’s already found.
Ash is off to the side, sitting on a bench with one ankle propped on his knee, sipping something from a metal bottle and pretending not to watch like a hawk.
Kellan circles me again, raising his gloved hands.
“Come on,” he says. “Get out of your head.”
“I’m not in my head.”
“You always say that when you’re too far in.”
I launch forward again, faster this time. My fists slam into the gloves, heat building in my chest with every strike. It’s not about power. It’s about control.
Control of my pace.
Control of my rage.
Control of the thoughts that won’t shut off at night when I picture Rafael in that black shirt, one hand on his glass, the other resting too casually on the table like it wasn’t a throne.
Kellan absorbs my hit. “Still locked up.”
I grit my teeth. “Say that one more time.”
“Still lo?—”
I move faster. Kellan stumbles back with a grunt, laughing under his breath as he steadies. “There she is.”
Ash speaks from the corner. “Finally pissed her off.”
Kellan lowers his gloves and steps back, nodding toward the water bottles near the bench. “Take five.”
I drop down onto the mat, dragging the band from my hair and shaking it out as sweat clings to the back of my neck. My muscles burn. My breathing slows.
And still… his face sits in the back of my mind.
Rafael’s voice.
His calm.
The way he said “You’re mine” like it wasn’t a threat, but a fact.
Like he meant it.
Kellan drops down beside me, stretching one leg out in front of him. “You’re waiting for something.”
I don’t look at him. “Aren’t we all?”
“Not like you.”
Ash tosses a towel my way. I catch it midair, wiping the back of my neck before slinging it over my shoulder.
I don’t say anything else.
Because I am waiting. But not just for a call. Not just for an assignment. I’m waiting for the moment he slips. The moment I see behind those eyes and find the truth buried beneath them.
And I know it’s coming. Because men like Rafael Romanov don’t watch someone like me for nothing. They watch because they’re already caught.
The gym feels quieter now.
Not because the music’s stopped or the gloves are off. But because I’ve spent the last hour bleeding out the tension that’s been sitting just beneath my skin since the last time I stood behind Rafael Romanov’s chair.
I’m stretched out on the mat, arms loose at my sides, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The burn in my shoulders has finally started to fade, but the rest of me is still on edge. Always.
Ash is messing with something on his phone. Kellan’s twisting a towel, his eyes flicking toward me every few seconds like he thinks I’m going to implode if left alone too long.
I don’t. I never do.
But the silence between us is familiar. Comfortable in the way only shared purpose and too many years together can be.
I sit up, rolling my neck out once.
“That’s it for me,” I say, rising to my feet.
Kellan raises a brow. “You calling it early?”
“I need to shower. Unless you want to sit next to me smelling like blood and sweat all day.”
“I mean… it’s kind of your aesthetic,” Ash mutters.
I shoot him a look. “Funny.”
He grins but doesn’t push. Kellan tosses me a fresh towel from the bench. “You’re quicker when you’re pissed. We’ll work on control next time.”
“I am in control,” I mutter under my breath.
But the words don’t feel as solid as they used to, still I move and grab my phone off the bench.
“I’ll be there to pick you up at six-thirty,” Kellan says behind me, tone already shifting into mission mode.
I nod without turning around. “I’ll be ready.”
Ash whistles low. “Don’t get lost in there too long.”
“I never do.”
But I don’t tell them that lately… and staying at Anna’s feels like the only place I can breathe without thinking of him.
The cold air outside bites, slicing across my skin as I step onto the street.
It’s not unbearable. It’s cleansing.
The city is already moving, but I don’t rush. I walk with purpose, hands in my coat pockets, eyes scanning out of habit—faces, cars, reflections in windows.
I’m trained to notice everything.
But this part of my routine?
It’s not about surveillance. It’s about her.
Anna doesn’t ask for much. Never has. But I’ve made it a point to visit at least every other day. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just sit in silence, sipping tea like the past doesn’t haunt either of us.
But I know it does.
In different ways.
She thinks I’m just a kind girl with a troubled past who brings food and company. And maybe that’s what I am.
To her.
I slip into the small market on the corner of the block—local, quiet, the owner always nodding with tired eyes and barely a smile. I don’t need directions. I know what she likes.
Roasted chicken. Olives. Soft bread rolls. Sliced cucumber with a drizzle of oil and lemon. The simplest comforts.
I grab a small box of pastries too—she’ll pretend she doesn’t want them and then eat two before I even sit down.
The warmth of the store fades fast once I step outside again, plastic bags dangling lightly from one hand, the wind curling around my ankles.
The sun’s already beginning to set, casting a burnt orange hue across the buildings like the city’s holding its breath.
Same as me.
By the time I reach her apartment building, my steps slow. Old bricks. Ivy curling around rusted bars. A chipped buzzer that never worked properly.
I press the door open with my shoulder and start up the stairs. My pulse evens out as I climb, because for the next few minutes…
I don’t have to think about Rafael Romanov.
I don’t have to be anything but me.
The noises outside fade—the horns, the chatter, the chaos of the city. In here, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that feels lived-in, like secrets have settled in the walls and no one bothers to chase them out.
I climb the three flights without thinking, the bag swinging lightly at my side. My footsteps echo faintly up the narrow staircase. The familiar peeling wallpaper with rose patterns greets me on the landing.
Apartment 3B.
I raise my hand and knock once.
Then again—three soft taps.
The lock clicks after a pause.
And when the door opens, Anna is already smiling, soft and warm, wrapped in a long knitted cardigan that falls to her knees, her silver-streaked hair tied loosely at the back of her neck.
“There’s my girl,” she says, voice always touched with that faint Russian lilt. “You’re late.”
I smile. “By six minutes.”
“Still late.” She steps back and waves me in. “Come, it’s cold. You’ll freeze.”
I step into the apartment, and the scent hits first—lavender, lemon, and something deeper… like old books and dust and memories.
I shut the door behind me as she walks back toward the small kitchen, the floor creaking under her bare feet.
“Did you bring me something edible this time?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
I lift the bag and grin. “Roasted chicken, cucumbers with lemon, and your favorite bread.”
Her eyes narrow. “And sweets?”
I hold up the white paper box, smug.
She snatches it like she hadn’t been waiting for it all along. I trail behind her, setting everything down on the table while she pours hot water into two ceramic mugs.
“You’ve been working too much,” she says without looking at me.
“I have to pay for all these pastries somehow.”
“Hmm.” She hands me a mug. “I know that tone.”
I take a sip. Chamomile. Warmth unfurling through my chest.
“What tone?”
“The one that says, ‘I’m fine, stop asking me questions.’ ”
She walks to the table and sits, legs crossed at the ankle, pulling the bread open with graceful fingers.
I join her slowly.
“Work’s just been quiet,” I say. “Not what I expected.”
She looks at me then—really looks. Like she’s searching for something in my face I don’t know how to hide.
“You were hoping for noise?”
I shrug. “I was hoping for purpose.”
Anna hums, tearing a piece of bread and placing it in her mouth before speaking.
“Sometimes purpose waits quietly. Not every war starts with fire.”
Her words hit something soft in me. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I nod. And for a while, we eat in silence. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t press or prod. Just exists.
And I think that’s why I keep coming back.
Because she lets me sit in my silence. Because she doesn’t ask who I used to be, or what I’m really doing out there. She doesn’t try to fix me. She just makes sure I’m not doing it alone.
And I… I care about her.
More than I should.
After we’ve cleaned up and she’s scolded me for not wearing thicker socks, I glance at the time on the small clock above the stove.
5:55 p.m.
“I should go,” I say, rising from the chair. “My shift starts soon, and I still need to change.”
She watches me, eyes warm.
“Don’t forget to eat something yourself.”
“I won’t.”