“You shouldn’t be on any rides right now,” he says. “Not in your condition.”
The air goes out of my lungs. I stare at him.
The stillness in his face. The way he holds my gaze. And I know — I know exactly how he knows; I know about the surveillance, I know about Daniil, I know about the folder that lives between files on a laptop—and the burning fury of being known without permission rises up and mixes with everything else I’m feeling until I can’t untangle any of it.
“I knew it.” My voice comes out flat. “Iknewthere was a real reason you came back. It wasn’t about me, was it? It was about the—“ I stop. Swallow it. ”Fine. Fine, you know. Congratulations, your surveillance network is very thorough. We can work out custody arrangements like adults. Lawyers. Schedules. You don’t have to be here for this part.“ I move to close the door. ”Leave. We’ll figure the rest out later.“
His hand stops the door.
“No.”
“Maxim—”
“I’m not here for the baby.”
“Then why—”
“I’m here because I drove four hours in the wrong direction six weeks ago and I’ve been trying to find a reason to turn around ever since and I ran out of reasons.” He steps inside. I step back, which is its own defeat, and he closes the door behind him. “I’m here because I have been sleeping on sheets from the safe house for six weeks like a man who has completely lost his mind. I’m here because I watched a couple in their home last week and I had to leave before I broke something because it should have been us.” He glowers. “I’m here because Viktor sent me a message and the first word that came out of my mouth wasmy son, and I didn’t correct it, and I wasn’t talking about the baby.“
The air in my apartment is very still.
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “You came because of the pregnancy. The rest is—”
“The baby made it faster.” He cuts through it. Clean. Certain. “Just like the wedding made it faster. You were getting married, and I couldn't let it happen, Laura — that wasn’t about protecting anyone, that was a man who could not physically let that happen. The baby is the same. It’s faster. It isn’t the reason.” He holds my gaze. “You are the reason. You have always been the reason. I just—I didn’t recognize it. I’ve never—” he stops. His jaw works, the same struggle I’ve watched a hundred times, the thing he holds back. He doesn’t hold it back this time. “I didn’t recognize it because I haven’t had a lot of it. Love. I didn’t have a lot of it, and I didn’t know what it looked like up close, and I have spent my entire adult life being very good at the wrong things and being very proud of that, and then you followed me down a hotel corridor and everything I was proud of became a problem.”
My eyes are burning.
I don’t move.
“I am a monster.” His voice is even. Not cruel, not self-pitying — factual. The same clinical delivery he gave me theworst morning of his life. “That’s not me being dramatic. That’s the inventory. I have done irreversible things. I will do more. I live in a world that has a body count, and I am a significant contributor to it, and that is never going to change.” He steps closer. “You better learn to love it. Because you are stuck with it.” Another step. “With or without this baby, you are stuck with me, and I need you to understand that before you make any more decisions about custody arrangements or roller coasters or any of the other ways you’re trying to manage the fact that you want me as badly as I want you.”
“You don’t get to just—”
“Tell me you don’t want me.”
My jaw tightens.
“Tell me, Laura.” He stops in front of me. Close. The closeness that my body has memorized and my brain has been trying to forget for six weeks. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me, and I will call Daniil and leave, and we will work out whatever arrangements need to be worked out through lawyers, and I will never set foot in your apartment again.”
The lie is right there.
Three words.
“I can’t say that,” I finally say. “And you know it. And Ihatethat you know it.“ My voice rises. ”I hate that you can show up at my door and sayyour conditionlike you’ve been watching me this whole time, like youknow,like nothing I do is mine because you’re always already—“ I stop. The anger crests and comes down. Underneath it: everything else. All of it. ”Tell me you love me.“ Quiet. Direct. ”If you’re going to stand in my apartment and tell me I’m stuck with you, say the actual word. Say it.“
He looks at me for a long moment.
“I love you.” No hesitation. No qualification. No footnotes. “Beyond reason. Beyond fear. Beyond every cowardly thing I’ve done to protect myself from knowing it.” His eyes hold mine. “Ilove you. And I’m done fighting it. I’m a fighter — that’s the job, that’s the whole job — but not this. Not you. No more.”
The apartment is very quiet.
“Okay,” I say.
Then: “And if you ever leave me again.” My voice comes out different. Quiet and certain and something he hasn’t heard from me before. “If you ever pack a bag for me while I’m sleeping. If you ever call Daniil while I’m in your arms and arrange my departure like I’m a problem to be managed—” I hold his gaze. “I will shoot you myself. You say I’m not cut out for this world but I will commit every act of violence available to me to make sure you cannot do it again.” I tick them off. Calm. Level. “Not walking out — no legs. Not opening the door — no hands. Not looking at anyone else — no eyes.” I watch his face. “I’ll make you stay.”
His expression shifts. Not fear. The other thing. The worse thing. The thing I’ve been watching build in him since a hotel corridor and a folder he wouldn’t name and a man who drove four hundred miles because he couldn’t physically let me marry someone else.
His jaw works once. Then: “You never asked.” His voice is different — stripped down, past every layer of control he has, down to the thing underneath all of it. “About other women. About anyone after you. You never asked but I’m answering.” His eyes hold mine. “I was never with anyone else after you. Not once. Not even close. Because you are irreplaceable and I have known it since the moment you stepped into my elevator and I have been furious about it every single day since.” His jaw works again, harder. “I have missed you every second. Every minute. Every hour—”
