14. Chapter 14

14

Clara

“ W hat… did you just say?” The words barely come out.

Fuck. They don’t even sound like mine.

My chest heaves, and I hate that I’m still pinned between him and the wall, body betraying my mind.

Too close. It feels too fucking good .

NO.

“I didn’t kill him.” His voice is steady, but it feels like a sledgehammer to my brain.

I blink, my mind stalling.

No . He’s lying. He has to be.

This doesn’t make sense.

His hand tangles in my hair, holding me still. Trapping me against the wall while his breath fans across my skin.

“Clara, I didn’t kill Jake.”

The words hit like smoke—everywhere and nowhere, impossible to grasp. My brain shorts out, caught between his body pressing closer and the ground crumbling under everything I’ve believed.

“Stop.” It comes out broken. Desperate.

I need my anger.

Without it, there’s just… him . The mint-coffee heat of his breath. The grip that’s more promise than threat.

His thumb traces my throat, and something molten pools low in my stomach.

“I didn’t kill him.” His lips ghost along my jaw, each word a brand against my skin. “Listen! I. Didn’t. Kill. Jake.”

Everything narrows to points of contact—his chest against mine, fingers controlling my head, the dangerous brush of his mouth.

Wrong. This is wrong.

My hands betray me, pressing against his stupid hard chest—whether to shove him off or pull him closer. I don’t even fucking know anymore. Hard muscle beneath expensive fabric; his heartbeat thuds under my palms like it’s calling out a challenge. Mine picks up pace, falling into rhythm with his, our bodies synced in ways I don’t want to understand.

I never thought this is how I would feel.

Relief, confusion, more anger… when my brain snaps back to me thirty seconds later.

“Liar,” I hiss in a whisper.

His teeth catch my earlobe. “Am I?”

Not the killer.

Not the killer.

Not. The. Killer.

Fourteen years of hating him. Fourteen fucking years of seeing The Raven’s face every time I think about Jake.

If he’s telling the truth… My head spins.

What if it’s all been—? No . He has to be lying. Has to be.

I look into his eyes again, but those eyes—rich, dark brown, like freshly brewed coffee, deep enough to drown in. Fuck. My stomach twists.

No. The killer had blue eyes. Blue.

But what if…? What if I’m wrong? What if it wasn’t blue? What if it was brown?

Shit, what if I’ve been wrong this whole time?

The memory flickers, hazy at the edges now, and doubt creeps in like a poison.

No. I saw it. But the more I look into his eyes, the harder it is to hold on to that certainty. Everything’s starting to blur, and I hate it.

His hands are still on me, one in my hair, the other resting on my neck. It’s looser now, not strangling, but… holding me. I should be paying attention. I should be pushing him off, but my head is spinning like I’ve been yanked underwater.

When the fuck did the hallway start tilting?

“Breathe, krasotka.”

“Don’t.” The word scrapes my throat. “Don’t call me that. Don’t touch me. Don’t—”

Everything tilts sideways. Left becomes down. Up becomes wherever the fuck my stomach went. The only solid thing is his chest against mine, and I hate that I’m grabbing his shirt to stay upright.

“Let go of me.” But my fingers won’t unlock from the fabric.

Hallway walls blur past. Or maybe I’m the one moving. Following? Being led? The world’s gone fuzzy at the edges, like someone dumped static in my brain.

If he didn’t kill Jake, then who—

The ding of the elevator pulls me back.

Where the hell am I?

Before I can process my thoughts, my body is already reacting. I feel the warmth of his hand on my back, gently prodding me forward.

When did we leave the third floor?

I take a hesitant step, then another, my feet moving of their own accord. It’s as if my body has taken over, leading me away from the crumbling truth.

Each step echoes with questions I can’t process yet.

A door opens.

Sunlight hits my face, and the air changes—thicker, warmer, alive with the smell of wet earth and growing things. Glass walls stretch overhead, green shadows dancing across Leonid’s face as he… says something? His lips are moving, but the words don’t compute.

Fourteen years of wrong.

Fourteen years of lies.

Fourteen years of—

“Mommy!” Elijah’s voice slices through the chaos. My head snaps up, vision finally focusing on—

What the actual fuck?

Dmitry is holding my son. No, not holding—my 4-year-old is perched on his massive shoulders like the world’s most dangerous piggyback ride. And in front of them…

I close my eyes for a second, then open them again

“Is that a… peacock?”

Joker, lounging on a stone bench like he owns it—barks out a laugh.

“She speaks! Thought we lost you there for a minute, printsessa. You were doing this whole zombie walk thing—”

“Shut up, Maksim.” Leonid’s hand settles on my lower back, steadying me. When did I start swaying?

Maksim. So that’s Joker’s real name. Add it to the growing pile of weird shit going on here. Like the peacock strutting past my feet, dragging its tail like royal robes. The marble fountains everywhere like some kinda ancient palace. Like Leonid not being—

I suck in a breath. Count to three with my eyes shut.

No . Can’t go there yet. Focus on the bird. The ridiculous, impossible bird that my son is trying to…

“Elijah, don’t pull his feathers!”

“It’s fine,” the mountain holding my child says. “Pavel likes the attention.”

“Pavel,” I repeat numbly. “The peacock has a name.”

“They all do, yes.” Kayla appears from behind a massive fern, carrying what looks like a tray of food. Because of course she does. Of course there are multiple named peacocks in this glass castle where nothing makes sense anymore.

I press my fingers to my temples. “How many?”

“Seven!” Elijah’s voice bounces off the glass ceiling. “Uncle Bear says they’re all named after dead people who made pretty music!”

Uncle Bear now. The monster has a nickname. And peacocks named after composers. And my son on his shoulders.

A peacock—Pavel? Igor? Fucking whatever—waddles between my feet, and I have to grip the nearest plant stand to stay upright. The metal digs into my palm, grounding me just enough to notice Leonid and Maksim having some silent conversation over my head.

“Mama, look!” Elijah’s standing barefoot in the grass, tiny hands full of seeds, tossing them out like confetti. Completely unfazed by all this insanity. “Pavel does a dance when you feed him!”

“That’s… great, baby.” The words come out automatic. Mechanical. Like I’m running on backup power while my brain’s still processing the nuclear bomb Leonid dropped upstairs.

Leonid Kuznetsov not Jake’s killer.

All these years of wrong. And now peacocks .

The space starts spinning again.