He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and pulled my hands away from my face, holding them in his.
"Survive," he said. "Is that what you think you're doing?"
"Nothing else makes sense."
He kissed my forehead. It was a strange gesture—almost paternal, almost tender—and I felt tears prick at my eyes.
"I love you, Monika." The words were soft, barely audible. "I know I shouldn't. I know I'm too old, too broken, too dangerous. But I love you."
"Aleksander..."
"Don't say it back." He pulled away, stepping out of my reach. "Not unless you mean it. Not unless you're sure."
He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the handle.
"Stay in your room tonight. I'll have dinner sent up."
"Aleksander—"
"Don't," he said. "Please. Just don't."
He left. The door closed behind him, and I was alone in the study, surrounded by the ghosts of all the things we'd said and all the things we hadn't.
He came to my room that night.
I heard him in the hallway—the soft footsteps, the pause outside my door, the click of the lock turning. I lay in my bed, the sheets pulled up to my chin, the dark pressing in around me.
The door opened. He walked in, his figure silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He closed the door behind him and stood there, waiting.
"Turn on the light," I said.
"No."
"Please."
He turned on the bedside lamp. The light was soft, golden, casting shadows across his face. He looked older than he had this morning—tired, worn, the lines around his eyes deeper than I remembered.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to punish you. That's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here?"
He walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. Reached out and touched my face, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "Because I've spent my whole life building walls, and you walked right through them. Because you're the only thing in this world that makes me feel human."
"Aleksander..."
He kissed me. Not tender, not gentle. The kiss was fierce, desperate, full of everything he couldn't say. I kissed him back, my hands tangled in his hair, his body pressed against mine.
He pushed me down onto the bed, his weight settling over me. His hands were rough, tearing at my nightgown, pushing it up over my thighs. He didn't ask permission. He didn't wait.
"Tell me you want this," he said.
"I want this."
