Fragile

Chapter 23

The single tear was a seismic event in the suffocating silence. Yakov watched it track through the smudge of her mascara, a dark river through pale sand. He felt the tremor in her body, the frantic flutter of her heart against his chest. So fragile. The word echoed in the hollow cavity of his own chest. Mine.

Her voice, when it came, was a shattered thing. “I…”

He waited, perfectly still, a predator anticipating the final, yielding shudder of its prey.

“…can’t do this anymore.”

The air  didn’t just grow cold; it solidified, becoming a pane of glass between them. The warmth of her body against his suddenly felt like a distant, forgotten memory. Yakov’s hands, which had been holding her with such possessive certainty, went slack. He didn’t step back; he simply unplugged. The intense focus in his green eyes, which had been pinning her in place, dissolved into a flat, emotionless void. It was more unnerving than any display of anger could ever be.

“Can’t,” he repeated, the word devoid of any inflection. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of a malfunction. A problem to be solved.

Amara shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s too much, Yakov. Your family… this house… the things I heard… I just want to go back. I want things to be normal.”

“Normal,” he echoed again, that same dead tone. He took a single, slow step back, his gaze sweeping over her as if she were a piece of furniture he was considering having reupholstered. The absence of his warmth was a physical shock. “Very well.”

The acquiescence was so sudden, so absolute, it stole the air from her lungs. This wasn’t the reaction she had braced for. She had expected fury, a more forceful persuasion, a demonstration of his infamous will. Not this… nothingness.

“Pack your things,” he stated, his voice clipped and efficient. “A car is waiting downstairs. It will take you to the airfield. The jet is fueled for London.”

She stared at him, her mind reeling. Why? The question bubbled up, a silent scream in her throat. But looking at his impassive face, the eerie calm that masked whatever storm—or utter lack thereof—raged beneath, she found she didn’t care enough to ask. The desire to escape this gilded cage, this beautiful, terrifying man, was all-consuming. She simply nodded, a jerky, terrified motion, and turned away from him.

She half-expected his hand to shoot out, to stop her, to pull her back into the orbit of his want. But there was nothing. Only the sound of her own hurried footsteps on the polished marble, echoing through the immense, silent house.

Upstairs, she threw her belongings into her suitcase with frantic, unseeing haste. Every sound from the hallway made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat. But he never came. The door remained open, the hallway beyond, empty. It was the most terrifying silence she had ever known.

When she returned downstairs, suitcase in hand, he was waiting by the grand front entrance. The same silent driver from the airport stood rigidly by the open door of a black sedan, its engine purring softly. Yakov’s hands were in the pockets of his dark trousers, his posture relaxed, but his eyes… his eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that felt surgical.

He moved forward and took the suitcase from her numb fingers, his own brushing against hers. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. He didn’t react. He placed the case in the trunk with a quiet thud that sounded like a coffin lid closing.

He turned back to her, standing so close she could smell the clean, cold scent of his skin. The emptiness in his gaze was gone, replaced by something else. Something focused and hungry. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with a gentleness that felt like a threat. He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he pressed his lips to her forehead. The touch was cool, possessive, and final.

He kept his lips there, his voice a low, chilling whisper directly into her skin, a secret meant only for her. “Ty skoro uvidish' menya snova, moya dusha.”

(You will see me again soon, my soul.)

The Russian words, smooth and dark as oil, slithered into her ear. She didn’t understand them, but the promise—or the threat—in their cadence was unmistakable. He pulled back, his green eyes holding hers for one last, endless second. A faint, unnerving smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes. It was the smile of a man who had already won a game she didn’t even know they were still playing.

He guided her firmly towards the open car door. “The driver will see you home.”

Amara slid into the cool leather interior, her body trembling. The driver closed the door with a soft, definitive click, isolating her in a soundproof bubble. As the car pulled away from the curb, she dared a glance back through the tinted window. Yakov stood exactly where they had left him, a stark, solitary figure silhouetted against the immense, dark doorway of his family’s fortress. He wasn’t watching the car leave.

He was just… staring. A statue of perfect, unhinged patience, waiting for the world to realign itself to his will.

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