Entire hours passed with me left alone in the room—just me and my thoughts, which never seem to know how to fall silent when I most need peace. I sat on the windowsill, my knees drawn to my chest, staring through the cold glass at the white expanse that looked as though it would never end—the Siberian tundra stretched beneath a pale sky, silent and unmoving, as if nothing evil could ever have happened in this world. I felt small before it, almost irrelevant, suspended somewhere between fear and a hope I did not dare to name.
At some point, the light began to change. The day slowly dimmed, and I remained there, numb, until the door opened softly and Clarisse stepped in, a tray in her hands.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it at noon," she says from the threshold, her voice tired. "It was madness at the Volkovs' castle. I barely had a moment to breathe."
The first thing that slips from my mouth isn't about me.
"Is the Duke all right?"
Only after I ask do I realize how deeply that worry had gnawed at me all day.
Clarisse nods.
"He's recovering. The wound was bad, but he's not in danger."
I feel my shoulders loosen without meaning to.
"What happened?" I ask at once.
She avoids looking at me directly.
"Those are things I'm not allowed to speak about," she says calmly. "All I can tell you is that none of the masters were seriously harmed and, thank God, it ended without losses on their side."
On their side. I notice the phrasing, but I do not press her.
"How is it that I didn't hear anything?" I ask after a moment.
Clarisse tightens her hands around the tray and looks at me with a mixture of guilt and care.
"Last night I put something mild in your tea—just enough to let you sleep deeply. No, nothing serious," she adds quickly. "You were swaying from exhaustion, and I was afraid you'd collapse. You needed the rest."
I remain silent for a few seconds, then nod.
"It's all right," I say softly.
And it truly is. For the first time in a long while, I don't feel that someone meant me harm—only that they wanted to protect me.
I eat almost mechanically, my mind elsewhere, and when I'm done I glance at the clock. It's nearly eleven at night.
I slip beneath the soft sheets, still tired down to the bone but calmer than I've been in days, and close my eyes with an almost childlike hope that this time sleep will come simple and clean—without dreams that drag me back into the arms of the past.
I don't know how long I sleep. Time dilates when you're exhausted and the mind finally gives in.
At first it's a faint scent that wakes me, then sharper, clearer—stealing my breath before I even open my eyes.
Cigarette smoke.
My eyes fly open and I jerk upright, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that for a moment I'm certain the sound of it fills the entire room.
It's nearly dark. Only the pale moonlight slips through the window, sketching long shadows across the walls. But in one corner I notice a reddish ember flickering slowly, and beyond it, through the thin veil of smoke drifting in the air, two blue eyes shine intensely, fixed on me.
The Duke sits in the armchair, motionless, as though he belongs to the shadows.
He's still shirtless, the white bandage slashing across his shoulder and chest in stark contrast against his skin, while the cigarette smoke wraps his face in a light, almost unreal haze. He watches me in silence, his gaze deep and heavy, as if he has been watching for a long time and was only waiting for me to open my eyes.
For several long, taut moments, neither of us speaks. The only sounds in the room are our breathing—slightly uneven—and the faint crackle of the cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
"How are you?" I ask at last, my voice softer than I intended.
He takes a drag, leans his head back against the chair, and answers simply:
"Still alive."
He smokes for a few more seconds, and then the silence grows thick, almost suffocating.
Suddenly he lets out a short laugh, devoid of warmth.
"Was that your only question? About me? Should I hope you still have feelings?"
I clutch the bedsheet in my fists.
"No. I don't," I say with fierce conviction. "I want to go home, and I never want to see you again."
He lifts an eyebrow slightly.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "That's exactly the opposite of what I want."
He lets his head fall back against the armchair and takes a long drag from his cigarette.
"Artem's men found the original footage from the hotel," he says calmly, though I can hear the tension barely leashed beneath his voice. "Not the edited version. Not what we were shown."
I look at him without breathing, with the strange sensation that if I inhale too sharply, the fragile thread of this moment will snap.
Then he explains—slowly, clearly—step by step, what happened that fateful morning. How Ivar entered the room with a confidence that now seems suspicious. How the altercation spiraled out of control in a fraction of a second. How everything is visible on the recording—no shadows, no doubt. He tells me the bullet did not come from me. That I was already out of frame when Gaston was shot. That every detail proves my innocence in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.
"Ivar knew he would be exposed," he continues, his jaw tightening slightly. "He tried to run—but not before fighting. Him and five of his men."
I instantly remember the chaos in the salon—the blood, the screams, the bodies collapsing.
"The two who died…" I murmur, my voice almost lost.
"They were his," the Duke says bluntly. "Fortunately, none of ours died. Unfortunately, Ivar managed to escape."
Tears fill my eyes before I can stop them, and my chest tightens so painfully it almost aches.
I am no longer accused.
I am no longer a traitor.
"I'm sorry about Gaston," I say through sobs, feeling grief tangle with relief. "I liked him. I really did."
I fall silent for a moment, gathering what courage I have left. Then I look at him directly, no longer hiding.
"And now? Are you going to let me go?"
He finishes the cigarette and slowly stubs it out. The room is left with only the faint scent of smoke and the moonlight sketching long shadows along the walls.
"A good man would let you go," he says quietly, almost to himself. "And I've been sitting here for hours trying to understand whether I am a good man or not."
My heart begins to pound harder, because in his voice I hear something I have never heard before: doubt.
"I should release you," he continues. "You're such a good girl, and my world has a special talent for breaking good, sweet things like you. As if the darkness were jealous of the light."
He falls silent for a moment, and the silence feels loud.
"And yet I can't make peace with the thought that I will never touch you again. That I will never taste you again. It's a thought that hurts in a strange way—and love has never hurt me before."
I let out a short, bitter laugh.
"Love, you say? Where was your love when I was down in the basement—beaten, humiliated, starving, alone with that fear that eats you alive?"
He looks at me for a long moment.
"Alla, little love, if you think what I did to you is the worst thing men like me do to traitors, then you're more innocent than I thought. It was precisely my love that kept you alive. Whole."
I frown and turn my gaze away.
"I don't want to hear that."
"Oh, little love, what am I going to do with you? I can't keep you tied, because I care too much about you. And I can't let you go for the very same reason. My desire for you consumes me."
"Yeah, I'm sure," I say dryly. "I saw the way Yelena was clinging to you."
He laughs softly.
"Jealous?"
"No. Never."
Silence falls between us again—heavy, strained, alive with everything we are not saying.
The Duke rises and walks toward the bed. I tremble, but I don't pull away. I look him straight in the eyes, even though my knees feel weak.
He lifts his hand and brushes my cheek with warm fingers, his touch so familiar it aches. Then he winds a strand of my hair around his finger, studies it for a moment, and offers the faintest hint of a smile.
"Tomorrow we're going home, and I'll give you back your freedom," he says softly. "But I want you to know that you are my only regret in this life. I will regret forever that I didn't believe you."
He leans down and kisses me, and for a second the world stills again—caught between desire, fear, and a goodbye that has not yet been spoken.
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