Chapter 35
2526words
Lucian Sinclair's Estate
The house was still.
Outside, the snow lay untouched, heavy and perfect in its silence. The sun had just begun to rise, pale light bleeding through the frost-laced windows. Inside, everything remained hushed—as if the world itself had decided to hold its breath.
Kristina was already awake.
She sat in the sunroom, knees drawn up beneath her, Lucian's coat draped around her shoulders. Her coffee had gone cold, untouched on the table beside her. But her eyes weren't on the cup. They were fixed on the distant curve in the road—the place where trees thickened and shadows blurred.
The car was gone.
It hadn't moved all night.
But now, it was no longer there.
She didn't relax. Not yet. Her body remained still, but her thoughts were moving fast. If they—whoever they were—had left, they'd done it before dawn. If they'd stayed, they'd found better cover. Either way, it meant the same thing: movement. Intention.
Her fingers curled slightly.
The warmth of the house, the softness of the previous night, had not vanished. But they were now layered over something sharper.
The quiet had changed.
Lucian found her an hour later. She was in the kitchen now, wearing one of her sweaters, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled. Eggs sizzled on the stove. Toast. Cut fruit. Hot coffee.
"Merry Christmas," he said, voice low.
Kristina glanced over, a smile ghosting across her lips. "Morning."
His eyes swept over the room—everything just slightly too precise, too intentional. He moved closer.
"You cooked," he observed.
"Don't sound so surprised."
He tilted his head. "Should I be worried?"
Kristina plated the eggs. "Only if I offer to sing carols."
Lucian allowed a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a sip from the mug she handed him.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Kristina didn't deny it. "I rested."
Lucian studied her. Movements fluid, calm. But beneath it, she was braced.
"Something's wrong."
"Not yet," she said. "But maybe soon."
He set the mug down. "Tell me."
She met his gaze. "I saw a car yesterday. Parked past the bend. Didn’t move until this morning."
Lucian's expression darkened. "You think it's a threat?"
"I think it's a shadow. One we can't see the end of yet."
Silence passed between them. This time, it wasn’t warm. It was measured. Preparing.
Lucian finally nodded. "What do you need from me?"
Kristina blinked. She hadn’t expected the question. The offer.
"Trust me to handle it."
He stepped closer. "I already do. But if they come for you, they come through me."
Something shifted in her face—almost imperceptibly. Gratitude. Tension. A flicker of something deeper.
She reached for a knife to cut the bread. "Then eat. While we can."
Later that afternoon, she walked the perimeter.
She didn’t trip alarms or call for backup. The guards were on holiday. This was reconnaissance, not escalation.
Near the back slope, where the fence met the trees, she found it: a shallow indentation in the snow. Not clear, but unmistakable. Someone had been there. Watching. Testing.
Kristina crouched, eyes narrowing.
No fear. No anger. Just clarity.
This wasn’t random.
It was a warning.
Not for Lucian.
When she returned, the house was quiet again. Lucian had gone to the study. A fire burned.
Music low.
She didn’t join him.
In her bedroom, she unlocked the case hidden beneath the bed.
Inside, tucked under folded sheets: two blades, a burner phone, a collapsible rifle, and field gear.
Black Harrow never traveled light.
She didn’t take everything. Just enough.
"You're preparing," Lucian said.
Kristina stood in the doorway, coat half-zipped, expression unreadable.
"It's probably nothing," she said. "But if it is, I won’t be caught flat-footed."
Lucian nodded. "Do you want me to call Maxim?"
She crossed the room, pausing beside his chair.
He looked up—something close to worry in his gaze.
She touched his shoulder.
"I'm staying," she said. "Whatever this is. Whoever they are. I'm not leaving."
Lucian turned his hand over, catching hers.
"Then neither am I."
Kristina leaned in—slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He didn’t.
Their foreheads brushed first, breath mingling in the hush between them.
Then she kissed him. Soft. Certain. Not rushed. Just... real.
When they parted, she stayed close, eyes steady on his.
"Good," she whispered.
The silence that followed was different.
Not tension. Not fear.
It was resolve.
And outside, beneath the darkened sky, the shadows waited.
The fire had burned low. Only embers now—dim and red and steady.
Kristina sat on the edge of the armrest beside Lucian’s chair, his hand still loosely cradling hers. She hadn’t moved in a while. But her eyes had. Watching the shadows. Measuring the distance between what she felt… and what she knew was coming.
Then, quietly, she rose.
Lucian didn’t stop her. He didn’t ask. He only said, “I’ll stay here.”
She gave a faint nod, then stepped into the hallway.
In her bedroom, the burner phone lit up with a soft blue glow as she powered it on. A number already lived in the memory slot. She didn’t need to look. Her thumb pressed it with the quiet familiarity of muscle memory.
It rang once.
“Kristina.”
Maxim’s voice came through with a slight delay—faint static layered beneath the low timber. Switzerland. Timezones. Distance. But the sharpness in his tone cut clean through it.
“I thought I told you to rest this week.”
“I did, Papa,” she said. “Until I didn’t.”
She didn’t need to explain. He didn’t ask why.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Not bad yet,” she replied. “But a car parked past the bend yesterday. Didn’t move until this morning.”
“How long was it there?”
“Too long to be an accident. Too far for plates. No direct line of sight, but close enough to mean something.”
Maxim was quiet.
Then: “Did Lucian see it?”
“But he knows.”
“He does now.”
Another pause—longer this time.
“You want me to send someone from The Legion?” he asked.
“No,” Kristina said. “Not yet.”
“I could be on the next flight.”
She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. “You left for a reason. I’m not pulling you back unless I have to.”
A quiet exhale. “You’re sure?”
Kristina’s voice was steady. “Yes.”
She could hear him pacing now—soft footsteps over something expensive and unfamiliar.
“You have support?”
Kristina hesitated. “Not the team. But… yes. I’m not alone.”
There was a silence that almost cracked at the edge. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“Good,” Maxim said. “But remember what I told you before I left—comfort doesn’t mean safety. Not for people like us.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then trust your gut. Not the silence.”
“And Kristina—”
He paused. The delay in the line made the space feel heavier.
“Stay warm. But don’t let it soften you.”
Kristina blinked. “I’m not the one who needs reminding.”
A faint chuckle—dry. Fond.
“You’ve always known the difference.”
Then the line went quiet.
She returned to the study a few minutes later. Lucian looked up, expectant but calm.
“What did he say?” he asked.
Kristina crossed the room, her voice level.
“That he trusts me,” she said. “But he’s listening now.”
Lucian nodded once.
And for a moment, the room felt like a breath before a storm.
That night, she stood at the window again. This time, she wasn’t waiting.
She was done being hunted.
Kristina dressed in black—nothing tactical, nothing flashy. Just quiet. Practical. Fast.
She slipped through the side exit without a sound.
And then she hunted.
It didn’t take long to find them. They hadn’t moved far—just deeper into the woods, waiting for a weakness. A blind spot. A night like this.
There were two. Muffled voices. Cigarette smoke. Shadows with teeth.
They didn’t see her coming.
The first never had time to shout. A blade through the ribs. Swift. Precise.
The second lunged—bigger, trained. But Kristina moved like a ghost. She dodged low, twisted beneath the swing of a pipe, struck hard. Bone cracked. He swung again. She ducked, then drove her elbow into his throat. A second blade met its mark.
But the silence didn’t return.
Two more emerged—silent, strategic. One aimed high from the tree line with a rifle. The other circled low.
Kristina dropped and rolled. The shot missed. She sprang toward the shooter, closing the distance before he could fire again. They struggled. Her shoulder slammed into his chest, knocking him back. Snow kicked up. The rifle skidded across the ground. She used his moment of disorientation to drive her knee up—then flipped him down and out cold.
The fourth came from behind. Nearly caught her.
They fought—fast, brutal. He was stronger, but she was faster. They crashed through low branches, over a fallen log. Kristina’s breath burned, but she didn’t stop. She pivoted. Slammed her fist into his solar plexus. He staggered. She grabbed his collar, used his weight against him, and brought him down hard against a rock.
Blood spattered. Stillness followed.
Kristina stood amid the wreckage, panting. Blood on her. Blood in the snow. Her chest rose and fell—slow, steady. Her eyes flat. Measured.
She turned toward the estate.
Lucian heard the noise from the study. Muffled. Distant. Wrong.
He grabbed his gun.
By the time he reached the trees behind the estate, it was over.
Four bodies.
And Kristina—standing in the snow, her face expressionless, her hands soaked in red. Her coat torn at the sleeve. Eyes sharp..
Lucian ran to her, panic rising in his throat. He checked her arms, her ribs, her neck.
"You're not hurt?"
Kristina looked at him. Not like herself—but like the version he’d seen once before.
Back at the industrial site.
Back when everything changed.
Black Harrow.
Still. Cold. Unshaken.
Lucian’s breath caught. Not in fear. But in awe. In something else he didn’t dare name yet.
Behind him, voices called out—frantic.
Sebastian.
They skidded into view, weapons raised.
Lucian looked back at them, confused.
Sebastian lowered his gun.
“I’ll explain later,” he said.
Kristina still hadn’t moved.
And Lucian didn’t let go of her hand.
Lucian guided her back to the house.
The others followed. No one spoke.
Not even Kristina.
Inside, she didn’t stop.
She walked through the foyer, up the stairs, and down the hall to her room. She didn’t shut the door behind her. She didn’t need to.
Lucian hesitated.
Behind him, Ash’s voice was quiet. “We’ll check the grounds again.”
They didn’t need instructions. They just moved.
Lucian followed her.
In her room, Kristina said nothing. She walked to the bathroom. Light. Water. Steam.
Then, without ceremony, she stripped.
First her coat. Then her sweater. Her undershirt. Her pants. Socks. She peeled them off like layers that didn’t matter—damp with snow, streaked with blood that wasn’t hers.
Lucian stood at the threshold. Still. Silent.
He didn’t look away.
It wasn’t lust that rooted him there. It was something else entirely. A raw, unfiltered moment. Kristina, stripped down to nothing, body streaked with blood and cold water, not hiding, not flinching. Her back was to him. Shoulders squared. One hand lifted to the tiled wall as she stepped beneath the spray.
She didn’t scrub. Didn’t move to clean herself. She just stood there, letting the water hit her skin.
Minutes passed.
Lucian still hadn’t moved.
Torn—between giving her space and not letting her drown in the silence she’d wrapped around herself.
“Kristina,” he said, voice low.
No answer.
He stepped closer. Past the door now. Into the heat and the sound.
Steam clouded the air as water spilled over her skin.
Lucian hesitated just past the threshold—eyes on her, barely breathing. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. The stream glinted off the curve of her back, down the soft line of her waist. Blood diluted in the water, trailing down to the drain in faded ribbons. But it wasn’t hers. He knew that now.
“Kristina,” he said again, his voice low—careful.
She turned slowly.
No flinch. No shame.
Eyes locked on his. Skin bare, flushed from heat. Her hair stuck to her neck, her collarbone. One breath. Two.
Then she crossed the space between them and kissed him—harder this time, urgent. Her hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him in as if trying to erase the last hour. The last year. The space between who she had to be and who she wanted to be.
Lucian caught her hips. "Kristina—"
She kissed him again. Silencing the hesitation. Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, over his ribs. She was trembling—but not from fear.
“Please,” she whispered against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
Lucian’s heart slammed against his chest.
She meant it.
His control frayed like thread in water.
Clothes hit the floor. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her shoulders, the slope of her back. He kissed her like he’d wanted to for years—anchored and aching. Her hands clung to him, pulling him closer with a desperation that wasn’t panicked—it was need. Decided. Certain.
And then—something in the way she breathed. In the slight catch when his hand slid between her thighs.
Lucian paused. Just long enough to look at her.
She didn’t say it.
But he knew.
His thumb brushed her cheek, his forehead resting against hers.
“You’ve never…”
Kristina nodded, almost imperceptibly. “No.”
Lucian exhaled like he'd been punched.
Then kissed her again—slower now. Different. His hands softened, but didn’t stop. He guided her gently beneath the spray, tracing the outlines of her body like it was something sacred. His mouth found her neck, her chest, her hip—worshipful. He didn't rush her.
But she pulled him closer anyway.
"I'm not scared," she whispered. "Not with you."
Lucian’s breath caught. His eyes found hers again—searching.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, voice rough, reverent.
“You won’t,” she promised.
They moved together—water falling around them, hands and mouths and hearts colliding in a way that neither could pull back from.
And when he finally entered her, it was slow. Deliberate. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away. Her nails dug into his back, and he held still—giving her time, anchoring her there.
Then she moved.
Lucian groaned into her mouth, the sound low and broken. He kissed her harder now, thrusting deeper. Each movement laced with something raw—protective, possessive, reverent. His hands gripped her thighs, lifted her, pinned her to him with reverence and fire.
Kristina gasped, hips rising to meet his. It hurt—at first—but it also didn’t. Because it was him. It was this. Her body caught the rhythm. Her voice broke into a moan, soft and sharp and real.
He kissed her like he couldn’t stop. Like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again, until she came undone in his arms—soft cries swallowed into his shoulder.
And when he followed—shuddering into her, arms wrapped around her like he’d never let go—Kristina felt it deep in her bones.
She had never belonged to anyone.
But maybe, just maybe—
She did now.
Some silences are meant to be shattered. Others… to be shared.
—To be continued.
