58. Chapter 58

58

Leonid

S he freezes. Lips press tight.

I wait for the fight. The denial. Instead, her hands drop from my shoulders. Trembling.

“Look at me,” I say.

"Leonid..." Her voice cracks. She won't meet my eyes.

She’s trying to escape, but I don’t let her. I grip her chin, forcing her head up, “Look at me, Krasotka. ”

She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. When she meets my eyes, they're empty.

" … I don't know what I'm supposed to do now." A whisper escapes. Her brows draw together as if she’s bracing for impact, her lips parting just enough for a shallow, uneven breath.

"You don't have to know." I say. I pull her closer, closing the small space between us, my hand still holding her chin.

"That's over. Let me take care of everything."

Her breath catches.

I hold her face, her eyes on mine . “You and Elijah are staying. I’m not gonna let you go.”

Her eyebrows furrow with frustration, but no words come out. My grip on her tightens as I make my intentions clear: “He’s my son.”

Her lips quiver, her eyes glassy, and I feel her body tense under my grip. She’s trying to summon the fight I know she has in her, but it’s buried too deep right now.

“What am I supposed to say to that?” she whispers, “What do you expect me to do?”

I tilt my head, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “Say what you want. But you already know you’re not leaving.” My thumb grazes her jaw, a small movement that’s more instinct than thought.

“You’ve spent years trying to keep him from me, Clara. Now, you’ll spend the rest of your life making sure that never happens again.”

Clara narrows her eyes, studying me like she’s trying to decide whether to fight or fold.

She doesn’t look scared, which is annoying. She should be—she’s backed into a corner—but instead, she looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m bluffing.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yes,” I reply, deadpan.

Her lip quirks. “A tyrant.”

“Obviously.” My thumb brushes the edge of her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, despite how tense she is. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” she says, tilting her head slightly, just enough to make me wonder if she’s going to slap me or kiss me. “You’re also incredibly full of yourself.”

“I’m Russian,” I say, like it explains everything. It kind of does.

She snorts. Nothing ladylike about it. A second later, she curses under her breath, one hand pressing to her side as the laugh makes her ribcage ache.

“You know,” she says, her lips curving in a way that’s half smile, half sneer, “I don’t even know who you are.”

“You’re like… I don’t know. Like Cinderella, maybe?”

I blink at her. “ Cinderella ?”

She shrugs, her hand brushing her ribs as she shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, except with fewer glass slippers and more… surprises .”

My brow creases. “What do you mean by Cinderella?”

“I mean, I didn’t even know who you were back then. How was I supposed to tell you about…?”

Her words trail off. I brush hair from her face, fingers grazing her cheek. “I'm not Cinderella. I'm your Prince Nightmare. The one you can't escape.”

Her eyes find mine. Half-smirk. “Right. The big bad wolf in a fancy suit.”

“Exactly.” My hand slides to her jaw. “Big house. Deadly charm. And instead of a glass slipper...” The playfulness dies in my throat. “… I’ll promise to burn everything they built. Make sure they know who sent them to hell."

The first tear falls before she can stop it, streaking down her cheek. She flinches, reaching up to swipe it away, but I catch her wrist, holding her hand still.

"Don't." My lips find her tear before it falls. She goes still under my touch. I kiss the corner of each eye, taking my time, letting her feel how gentle I can be.

When I pull back, her lips part.

She wants to speak… but I do not let her.

My mouth finds hers again. This time I don't claim—I ask. My lips brush hers, light as a whisper. She stills, breath catching. When her fingers drift up to my hair, they don't grab or pull. They explore, threading through, learning the texture.

I trace her bottom lip with my tongue, memorizing her taste. Her pulse jumps under my thumbs as I cup her neck. She sighs into my mouth, and I swallow the sound, wanting to keep it. Her body melts into me. No space left for secrets.

Her tongue meets mine, and we forget about revenge. About dead brothers and family empires. About all the reasons this can't work. Right now, there's just the way she trembles when I stroke her spine. The soft sound she makes when the kiss deepens, her tongue brushing against mine in a slow, deliberate motion that stokes the fire already burning in my veins.

Our lips move in sync, soft and eager, but there’s an edge of desperation in the way she grips my hair, the way she tilts her head to give me more access. My hand slides up her back, steadying her as I shift the angle, claiming her deeper, tasting her fully.

The chair creaks beneath us, the leather warm against my ass as I hold her closer, deeper.

Her breath hitches as I nip at her bottom lip, just enough to make her gasp before soothing it with another kiss. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer like she can’t get enough, and I know I can’t either.

When I finally pull back, just enough to let us breathe, her eyes flutter open, dazed and half-lidded, her lips swollen and glistening. I press my forehead against hers, catching my breath as my thumb brushes the curve of her waist.

“We’ll make them pay,” I murmur against her lips, my voice steady, my hand sliding lower to rest on the small of her back. “You and I.”

I can see the strain in her eyes, the exhaustion she’s trying to hide, but also something else—acceptance.

“You’re done sitting here,” I say, wrapping one arm around her back and sliding the other under her legs. She winces as I move her, her body stiffening for a moment, but she doesn’t protest when I lift her from the chair. Her arms loop around my neck instinctively, her head resting briefly against my shoulder as I carry her across the room.

The skyline glimmers through the floor-to-ceiling window, casting soft light onto the wide bed with its rumpled black sheets. The city is alive beyond the glass, the faint hum of traffic below barely audible against the stillness of the room.

I lower her to the bed, mindful of her ribs. Her hair spreads across the pillows. She glances at the window before finding my eyes again. Silent understanding passes between us.

I settle beside her, pull her close. Her head tucks against my shoulder.

Then a small voice breaks the quiet.

“Mommy?”

Clara's head snaps to the doorway. I follow her gaze.

Elijah stands there, clutching his Pokémon toy in one hand, his blanket draped over his arm. His free hand rubs sleep from his eyes. His hair sticks up wild, small frame swallowed by the doorway.

"Baby, go back to bed," Clara whispers.

Elijah shuffles forward, the blanket dragging on the floor behind him. Sleep-heavy steps bring him to the bed. His eyes find mine before he curls in the space between us, one soft, sleepy sigh.

Clara draws him close, hiding her wince. One hand strokes his hair, the other stays near mine. Her eyes meet mine over our sleeping son.

I ease back, let his foot rest against me. The quiet fills with something new. Something whole.

My family. Here. Mine.

And I'll kill anyone who tries to take this away.