Chapter 12 Evi
EVI
I sip my coffee slowly, letting the warmth anchor me. The bitterness is familiar, grounding, even though my stomach is a restless knot. Anika watches me with that serene little smile she always seems to wear, like she knows things I don’t. It’s comforting and unnerving all at once.
“Do you need help with anything this morning?” I ask finally. My voice comes out soft, tentative. “In the kitchen, with the house, anything. I’m not really used to…” I trail off, unsure how to finish.
She tilts her head, the motion graceful. “Used to what?”
“Being idle,” I admit with a small shrug. “There’s usually something to do—event planning, running errands, making sure the staff at home stay on top of everything, organizing meals, little tasks…” I swallow and fold my hands in my lap. “I’m not used to sitting around.”
Anika’s smile grows, but there’s warmth behind it, not mockery. “I understand. But you’re newly married, Evi. You don’t need to jump into responsibilities right away. Give yourself a few days to settle in, adjust. Trust me, you’ll have plenty to handle soon enough.”
I nod, though the words don’t quite soothe me. I’ve spent years feeling like I had to earn my place. Sitting still feels wrong. “You’re probably right,” I say anyway.
“I am,” she says with a playful lilt. Then her eyes soften again. “Take the time to find your footing. You’ll be grateful you did.”
I manage a small smile and take another sip of coffee. The warmth doesn’t fill the hollow space in my chest. “I guess I’ll wander a bit,” I say at last.
“That’s a good idea,” she says, rising from the table. “The house is large. You might as well get familiar with it.”
She pats my shoulder on her way out, and I sit there for a moment longer, the echo of her touch a small anchor in the strange, vast space I now occupy.
Despite last night’s activities, I haven’t found my appetite yet—probably just the residual nerves of being in a foreign home. So, when I finish my coffee, I push back from the table and wander out of the breakfast room.
The Novikov mansion is big enough to swallow me whole. I trail my fingers along the walls as I go, cataloging doors, stairways, windows. The house smells faintly of cedar and polish, overlaid by the rich, lingering scent of last night’s feast.
There’s a small sitting room near the back of the house, a library with shelves that reach the ceiling, a corridor lined with old portraits of stern-eyed men and women whose gazes follow me as I move. I imagine them whispering among themselves, Who is this girl? Does she belong here?
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and keep moving.
I end up near the back terrace, where sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden patterns onto the floor.
I stop there for a moment, soaking it in.
In the broad light of day, without a major life event looming on the immediate horizon, the house doesn’t look as cold and unwelcoming today.
It feels a bit less like a fortress and more like a home.
Maybe I can learn to love this place, if I give it time.
A sound draws my attention—a door opening down the hall—and I glance up just as Sandro strides into view.
My heart leaps before I can stop it. He moves like a force of nature, his broad shoulders square, his head held high despite the sheen of perspiration that coats his bare, tattoo-covered chest and dark hair dripping with sweat.
He’s freshly bruised from his sparring session with Miko, his knuckles red, and yet he’s still impossibly beautiful, radiating a coiled, dangerous energy that makes my breath catch.
I freeze, like a deer in the headlights, unsure of whether I should even be in this part of the house or if he’ll think I was following him. “Good morning,” I say, my voice mortifyingly shy.
He glances at me, eyes dark and unreadable, and my stomach knots.
Gone is the man from last night, the one who touched me like I was something precious.
This is Sandro Chiaroscuro, the man the world calls a mad dog.
I can see the violent fury in the storm that brews beneath his hazel gaze.
His face is all hard edges and shadows, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Morning,” he mutters, already moving past me.
The small warmth in my chest flickers. I force a smile. “Did you have a good workout?”
He stops, just for a beat, then turns enough to look at me over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says flatly.
The sharp edge to his single-word response stings more than it should, and I clasp my hands together tightly, trying to steady myself. “I just wanted to know if there’s anything you’d like me to do today,” I say quickly, oddly desperate to keep him there. “To help, or—”
“Just… stay out of the way.” His tone is clipped, distracted, like my question alone is drawing his attention from far more important matters. “That’s the best thing you can do.”
It feels like a slap. My throat closes, but I force myself to nod. “Of course,” I say softly, keeping my voice steady, though my eyes start to burn. “Have a good day.”
He doesn’t answer as he continues on down the hall, his shoulders stiff, his presence like a stormfront receding.
I stand frozen for a moment, hands trembling, heat crawling up my neck.
Stupid. Why did I expect anything different?
Last night was last night. This is reality.
When it comes down to it, I know next to nothing about my new husband aside from his reputation, and men like Sandro earn those through a lifetime of acting a certain way around people. Why should I think I’m special?
A movement at the edge of my vision draws my attention.
Raf stands at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, having apparently caught the end of our exchange. He shakes his head faintly, then walks over and gives my shoulder a brief, almost pitying pat. “Don’t take it personally,” he says, his voice low and rough. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
I swallow hard and manage a faint nod. “I know,” I whisper.
Raf hesitates like he wants to say more, but then he just squeezes my shoulder once and follows his brother down the hall.
I’m left standing alone again, the house suddenly feeling too large, too quiet.
Then Miko appears. He’s taller than the twins, his shoulders somehow—impossibly—wider than Sandro’s even.
He’s a behemoth of a man, and his sharp blue eyes, so different from Sandro’s rich hazel ones, remind me that he’s the adopted Chiaroscuro brother.
Though, I suppose he’s not even that anymore.
Now he’s the Russian Novikov heir. And he has the formidable presence of a man worthy of the title.
I find it somewhat astonishing that a man so inherently intimidating could be such a perfect match for a petite young woman like Anika.
When they’re apart, I could easily mistake Miko for being as dangerous and unpredictable as Sandro.
But when I see him with Anika, when I see the connection they share, it makes my heart ache with longing.
Clearly, Sandro and I are never going to reach that place.
But after last night, I’d hoped—at least momentarily—that we might find something of an understanding.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Miko gives me a small smile as he approaches. “Rough morning?”
I laugh weakly. “I just feel a bit… useless,” I admit, glancing around as if searching the immediate area will give me a purpose.
His gaze is kind, but sharp too—like he can see the desperation I’m trying to hide.
“If you’re looking for something to do, my great-grandmother, Svetlana, always welcomes company.
The old woman has a sharp wit. You might find her entertaining if you’re feeling charitable enough to push her wheelchair through the garden. ” His smile turns a little wry.
The suggestion sends a flicker of purpose through me. “Where can I find her?”
“East garden,” he says, gesturing toward the terrace. “Follow the steps down. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I say earnestly.
He tilts his head, studying me for a moment longer. “Don’t let Sandro’s mood scare you off,” he says finally. “He’s not easy, but…” He shrugs. “You might find there’s more than meets the eye with my brother.”
Why do people keep saying that?
Before I can answer, Miko heads off in the direction Raf and Sandro went, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat. Whatever the reason, my marital struggles will have to wait until later, when Sandro is less opposed to my company.
Squaring my shoulders, I inhale deeply, glad for a chance to make myself useful, to feel like I belong. And if I’m lucky, this will help me keep from spiraling into the feeling that I’ll never be enough.
I follow the terrace steps down toward the east garden, the air growing warmer as I inhale the scent of freshly cut grass.
Sunlight spills across the garden that’s still in full bloom despite the late-summer heat.
It’s a riot of color—roses, peonies, lavender—and in the middle of it all, a fountain that casts glittering water into the air.
That’s where I find Svetlana. Even seated in her wheelchair, she radiates presence.
Her white hair is coiled into a perfect bun, her gaze, milky and clouded with cataracts, still cuts through the sunlight like ice.
A shawl of deep burgundy drapes over her narrow shoulders.
Her hands, though lined with age, grip the armrests with strength.
Her gaze snaps to me as my feet crunch over the gravel pathway. “You must be the new bride,” she says in thickly accented English, her voice as sharp as the edge of a blade.
“I am,” I say, smoothing my dress with nervous fingers as I approach. “I’m Evi.”
“Evi.” She tests my name like she’s tasting it. Then she tilts her head. “Well, come closer, child. Don’t hover like a frightened bird.”
I do, my pulse hammering as her eyes sweep over me. It feels like she can see straight through me, like she knows all my secrets—the ache in my chest, the fears I carry.
“You’re prettier than I expected,” she says at last. “Prettier than he deserves.”
I blink, startled into a small laugh. “Thank you?” I say uncertainly.
Her mouth twitches like she’s suppressing a smile. “Do an old woman a favor and push me?” she says, gesturing to the handles of her chair. “I don’t like to sit still.”
Neither do I. Moving behind her, I grip the handles and roll her forward. The metal is cool under my palms.
“Do you come out here every morning?” I ask as we make our way slowly down the gravel path.
“Every morning I can,” she says. “I like to see the flowers before the men fill the house with their schemes.”
I glance down at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, her expression unreadable. “It’s a beautiful garden,” I offer.
She snorts. “It used to be my husband’s pride. Now it’s mine. He’s dead, and the flowers are still here. That tells you everything you need to know about men.”
I bite back a smile. “Maybe.”
She twists slightly to glance up at me. “Why are you here, Evi?”
The question catches me off guard. “Because I married Sandro,” I say automatically.
Her eyes narrow like she’s waiting for something more. “That’s what you did,” she says. “Not why you’re here.”
I look away, focusing on the path ahead. I don’t have an answer that wouldn’t make me sound weak. Because my family wanted it. Because I had no choice. Because I thought maybe, somehow, I could belong.
Svetlana chuckles softly, the sound as dry as autumn leaves. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “Or you won’t. But don’t expect anyone else to give you purpose.”
Her words settle heavy in my chest, but not unpleasantly. They’re like a spark catching tinder—painful but warm.
I push her farther down the path, into the dappled shade of a towering, ancient tree, and for the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a small sense of direction, a fragile thread of purpose.
Even if Sandro doesn’t want me at his side right now, I can still find my footing. I can prove useful. If I don’t, I’ll likely end up back at my family’s home, forever my brothers’ burden because I won’t be able to provide Sandro with children. But I refuse to be a burden. Not if I can help it.