We stepped outside into the cold, the early morning air sharp against my skin. Dawn was just beginning to break—pale light creeping over the horizon, soft and gray, like the world wasn’t fully awake yet.
He pulled me close, his jacket wrapping around me, shielding me from more than just the wind. Together, we stood in the driveway, the quiet of morning settling around us.
Flames flickered in the windows in front of us. And then, with a low whoosh, they roared to life.
My home, my cage—was burning.
And we watched it fall.
He faced me, firelight flickering in his eyes.
Ash drifted between us as he pulled me close and kissed me, fierce and final—like he was sealing our future in the ruins of our past.
36
Under My Protection
—Maksym—
It had been two months since we moved in. Two months since the girl who once wrinkled her nose at my “tiny” apartment somehow made it feel like a home.
She didn’t just settle into it—she took it over.
Dropped the university without a second thought. Said she never wanted it in the first place, just something her father pushed on her like everything else. I didn’t argue. The moment she said it, I knew she was right.
As long as she was like this—bright, alive, finally choosing for herself—I didn’t give a damn what it cost or what came next. Shecould do whatever she wanted. I wouldn’t let anything take that light from her. Not again.
Instead, she painted.
Constantly.
The guest room turned into her studio in less than a week—canvases stacked against the walls, paint on the floor, on her hands, sometimes on my clothes when she got careless. The whole place smelled like turpentine and something softer underneath it.
She was good.
No—she was fucking exceptional.
I’d catch myself standing in the doorway longer than I meant to, just watching her work. Focused. Quiet. Alive in a way I hadn’t seen before. Like she finally belonged somewhere.
She kept drawing me.
Didn’t matter how many times I told her to stop.
“Find another subject,” I’d say.
She never listened.
Every version different. Every version still me.
I didn’t like it—having that much attention on me, that much of myself laid out like that—but I never made her stop.
We were finally free.
No more shadows, no more bullshit sneaking around corners like rats. We walked everywhere hand in hand—open, like normal people. I took her places—good restaurants, those overpriced spa things, short trips out of the city. I used to think all that couple shit was for weak men, but for her? I did it. Sat there looking like I’d rather be breaking kneecaps, but the truth was I liked seeing her smile. Some evenings we just lay there under a blanket, watching Dexter. I kind of liked the bastard. Smart. Calculated. Didn’t waste words. Reminded me of someone.
It had also been two months since I found out she was pregnant. Two months of trying to figure out what the fuck it meant to be anything close to a father. And if I was honest, I’d been furious at first—really fucking furious. She’d stopped taking the pill without telling me and let her body decide something that would change our lives forever. I wanted to stay mad longer, but then I’d look at her—mouth parted in sleep, her belly rising and falling softly under my hand—and the rage would shift into something else. Something terrifying. Something tender.
But don’t get the wrong idea—I hadn’t let her off easy. She’d been “paying” for it every single night. Gently, of course. She was pregnant, and I wasn’t an animal. Still, she always gave me that sharp little look when I reminded her, like she was about to argue—until I had her under me, legs shaking, mouth slack, eyes gone soft and glassy, and the attitude disappeared just as fast as it came. Then she was quiet, pliant, mine, with no interruptions. One upside of pregnancy—no periods. I wasn’t wasting a single night.
