I kissed him. Soft. Gentle. The way I kissed Gabriel, the way I'd never kissed Nathan.
"Then protect me," I said. "Do what you have to do. But don't lie to me again."
"I won't."
We stood in the dark, holding each other, and I felt something shift between us. Something that might have been trust.
Or maybe it was just the beginning of the end.
22
The Confrontation
Ididn't sleep that night.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word Aleksander had said. Every confession. Every lie. Every moment of tenderness that had been tainted by calculation. The photograph was burned into my mind—Elena's face, her smile, the way she'd looked at the camera like she had all the time in the world.
She hadn't had time.
Neither would I, if I stayed.
By dawn, I'd made a decision. I dressed in jeans, a sweater, the boots I'd worn on the farm. I packed nothing—there was nothing I wanted to take from this house. I walked down the stairs, my footsteps silent on the marble, and I headed for the front door.
He was waiting for me.
Aleksander stood in the foyer, his back to me, his hands clasped behind him. He was wearing the same clothes as last night, rumpled and tired, like he hadn't slept either.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"Don't try to stop me."
He turned. His grey eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them darker than I'd ever seen. He looked old. Broken. Like a man who'd been carrying a weight for too long.
"I'm not going to stop you," he said. "I'm going to ask you to stay."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
I walked toward him, my boots echoing in the silence. The house was quiet—the servants weren't up yet, the sons still in their rooms. It was just the two of us, the way it had been in the beginning.
"Last night," I said. "You told me you loved me. You told me I was the first person since Elena who made you feel alive. And then you told me you were using me as bait." I stopped in front of him. "How am I supposed to trust anything you say?"
"You're not supposed to trust me. You're supposed to trust that I love you."
"Those are the same thing."
"No." He stepped closer, his hands reaching for mine. I pulled away. "Love and trust are not the same. I love you, Monika. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. But I don't trust myself. I don't trust my instincts. I spent twenty years hunting the man who killed my wife, and I'm so close I can taste it. And I'm willing to do anything to finish it."
"Anything? Even if it kills me?"
"It won't kill you. I won't let it." His voice cracked. "I've had men watching you since the moment you walked into this house. I have guards on the perimeter. I have eyes on the Volkovs. I have a plan—a plan that's been in motion for years. And you're part of it. But you're also—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're also the only thing keeping me sane."
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"Maybe they're the same thing."
I felt the tears building, hot and sharp, behind my eyes. I blinked them back. I wouldn't cry. Not in front of him.
