Losing you, he says, without hesitation.
What’s your favorite memory?
He tells me about a night in Saint Petersburg, a boat ride with his mother when he was three. Before everything went dark.
What would you be if you weren’t strong?
He smiles. “Yours.”
Eventually, we fall asleep there, tangled together on the couch, warm from wine and words and things unspoken.
And for once, in a life built on tragedy and trauma—
It feels like a dream we might still outrun.
Chapter 71
The Last Quiet
Isabella
Tomorrow, the house won’t be quiet.
By 8 AM, the others will arrive; Ada, Dominik, Karpov, Sawyer, Malik and his men. The final pieces of the revenge puzzle falling into place like blades locking into a machine. Brighton Beach will be ready. The Bratva will move. The ghosts will rise.
And Aslanov will no longer be just mine. He’ll become something else again, something terrible and necessary.
But today it’s our last day.
The cold stings my cheeks as we walk into the woods behind the house. It’s dry but biting, the kind of chill that creeps in slowly until it owns you. The trees are skeletal, their black-boned branches reaching for the pale sky like ribs. The wind slides between the trunks in whispers, threading through the bare silence.
He’s wearing a thick charcoal sweater that clings to the breadth of his shoulders, black tactical pants tucked into heavy boots, a beanie pulled low over his ears. He looks like he’s ready for war, even blindfolded.
And he is blindfolded.
My doing.
A strip of black silk wraps around his head, knotted behind his ears. He walks beside me without resistance, though I canfeel the tension in him, the need to see, to know, to control his surroundings. It goes against every instinct he has. But he lets me lead. He trusts me.
“I let you tie me up once,” he mutters, that edge of dry humor curling at the edge of his mouth. “And now it’s tradition? And to my defense, I was psychotic back then. That was why it was allowed.”
“Shut up,” I say softly, taking his hand. “Just walk. Trust me.”
His fingers squeeze mine once.
“I do.”
The trail is uneven, lined with brittle underbrush and the crunch of frost beneath our boots. My own hands are buried in the pockets of a long wool coat, his coat actually, thick, warm, and too large for me. The sleeves fall past my wrists. My hair is braided and wrapped loosely under a scarf, strands still escaping in the breeze. We walk in silence, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. It’s not awkward. It’s reverent.
The clearing opens up suddenly, framed by thick pines. Dappled sunlight breaks through in long golden slants. I slow to a stop, heart thudding in my chest, and look at him.
“You can take it off now,” I whisper.
His fingers rise to the blindfold. He unties it slowly, carefully.
It falls into his hands, and then—
He sees.
