The studio apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old wood, the windows open just enough to let in the scent of the fading city and a cool breeze that made the curtains sway lazily. Elara stood by the stove, her small, chipped pot bubbling gently as she stirred the spaghetti noodles. She'd found some affordable meat at the corner store that morning and decided on spaghetti and meatballs—something simple, cheap, and comforting.
Her body still carried the exhaustion of travel and stress, but there was a strange sort of calm settling over her shoulders now. Even if only temporary, this small space she'd claimed as hers felt like the first breath of freedom she'd had in weeks. The entire apartment was just one open space—a kitchenette, a bed, a narrow bathroom, and a tiny table pushed against the wall near the window—but it was hers. There were no guards stationed outside the door. No surveillance cameras. No locked doors or cold threats whispered in the dark.
She plated the food, steam curling up around her face, and walked over to the small wooden table beside the window. The sunset painted Lisbon in gold and tangerine, soft shadows curling across the terracotta rooftops and stone streets below. She let the view hold her for a while, eyes tracking the slow drift of clouds and pigeons, the distant laughter of children, the muffled clink of dishes from neighboring apartments.
Here, there were no echoes of slammed doors or shattered vases. Just life. Ordinary, beautiful life.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite. The food was plain, a far cry from the gourmet meals at Nikolai's penthouse, but it filled her belly and warmed her from the inside out. She needed that right now. Needed something to feel good.
Once her plate was clean, she rinsed it with cold water and left it to dry beside the sink. The sky outside had darkened into a deep navy blue, stars beginning to peek out behind the clouds. She turned off the main light and turned on the dim lamp beside the bed, casting a golden glow around the room.
With a quiet sigh, she crawled onto the single bed and pulled the blanket around her waist. It wasn't soft or luxurious. The mattress creaked slightly when she moved, and the sheets were a little rough against her skin—but it felt safe. And safe was all she needed.
She opened the worn notebook she'd packed before leaving and flipped to a blank page. Her fingers picked up the pencil, muscle memory taking over as she began to sketch. Lines became curves. Curves became shapes. Shapes became silhouettes of dresses and gowns, some dramatic and ethereal, others modest and soft. She drew sleeves of lace and skirts that flowed like water, collars that brushed delicate collarbones.
Sketching helped her breathe. It silenced the noise in her head. She didn't know if she would ever get the chance to design again—not truly, not professionally—but it kept her soul intact. It reminded her of who she was before him.
Every few minutes, she would pause and glance out the window again, making sure no one strange loitered on the street. Lisbon was peaceful, yes—but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. She couldn't afford it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Still, for the first time in a long time, Elara felt the weight of fear lighten just enough for her to smile.The suite was too quiet.
Nikolai sat on the edge of the velvet couch, fingers laced together tightly, elbows resting on his knees. His black shirt was wrinkled from travel, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and Lisbon's nightlife had begun to pulse just outside the hotel's thick windows, but he didn't hear it. Couldn't feel it. His mind was a thousand miles away—and yet only a few blocks.
He heard the door open behind him. Sergei walked in, followed closely by Ivan.
Ivan handed over a slim folder. "We found her."
Nikolai snatched it before the last word even left his mouth. He opened it with sharp fingers, eyes scanning the documents, surveillance snapshots, and typed-up summary.
"She's staying in a run-down studio apartment," Ivan explained. "Cheap part of town. Building is owned by some old deaf man who doesn't ask questions and doesn't check passports. Probably rents by cash under the table. Smart move."
Nikolai clenched his jaw, staring at the grainy photo of the building. "And she's there now?"
"Yes. She came back before sunset. She made food, turned off most of the lights, hasn't left since. We've got eyes on her window from across the street. If she moves, we'll know."
He was already standing, grabbing his coat. "I'm going now."
Sergei stepped in front of him. "No."
Nikolai's eyes narrowed. "What did you just say?"
"I said no. Not tonight." Sergei folded his arms. "You're running on fumes. You were drugged last night, Kolya. You're still not thinking straight. If you barge in there now, she'll run again. She'll bolt into the streets barefoot if she has to."
"I can't sit here while she's out there—"
"You have to." Sergei's tone was firm, but not cold. "We're not losing her again. The men are watching her. They'll alert us the moment she tries anything. Go to sleep. We go in the morning."
Nikolai looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Sergei's eyes gave him pause. That unshakable calm. That subtle authority of someone who'd watched more blood spill than Nikolai had ever tasted.
He turned away with a sharp breath, fists clenched. "Fine. At sunrise."
Sergei nodded.
"And when I find her…" Nikolai muttered under his breath, "I will never let her out of my sight again. I don't care what I have to do. I'm done playing nice."
Sergei gave him a long look but said nothing. He didn't have to. The fire in Nikolai's eyes said it all.
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The sun had barely begun to rise over Lisbon, casting muted gold streaks across the hotel windows, but Nikolai Volkov had been wide awake for hours—though truthfully, he hadn't slept a second. His bed was untouched, the covers undisturbed. He'd spent the night pacing the floor like a caged animal, sitting then standing, trapped in a storm of quiet rage and aching longing. Elara haunted every corner of his mind. Every time he blinked, he saw her again—sitting across from him, smiling softly, lying through her perfect lips as she fed him poisoned peace.
He should have seen it. The softness. The surrender. It had all been a performance. A perfect, calculated escape plan.
And it had worked.
Until now.
He wasn't going to lose her. Not like this. Not ever.
He walked into the bathroom, turned the shower to ice-cold, and stepped under the punishing spray. It didn't matter that it chilled him to the bone—it made him sharper, colder. Focused. He welcomed the discomfort. It reminded him he was alive. Alive and ready to retrieve what belonged to him.
When he stepped out, water dripping from his hair and sliding down his back, he didn't bother drying off fully. He dragged on a crisp black shirt, tucking it into tailored slacks. His sleeves rolled up, his holster strapped beneath his jacket—just in case. He couldn't afford mistakes.
Out in the suite, Sergei stood by the tall windows, the Lisbon skyline stretching beyond him, sipping black coffee like he hadn't been part of a manhunt for the past twenty-four hours.
"Eat before you leave," Sergei said, not even turning around.
Nikolai's lips curled. "Stop ordering me around, Sergei."
Sergei took another slow sip. "I once changed your diapers. You bark, but I've heard you cry in three octaves."
Nikolai arched a brow. "If you weren't my most trusted man, I'd put a bullet between your eyes."
"And yet, here I stand. Unshot. Imagine that." He turned, calm and weathered, as if he'd seen a thousand versions of Nikolai in a thousand fires. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
With a sharp exhale, Nikolai rolled his eyes but didn't argue. When room service arrived—eggs, toast, coffee, and fruit—he sat and ate quickly, the food mechanical in his mouth. His eyes flicked to the clock every few minutes. He didn't need flavor. He needed fuel. He was going hunting.
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Elara stirred to the soft chirping of birds and the golden light streaming in through the narrow window of her studio apartment. Lisbon's morning breeze, cool and gentle, wafted through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers from a nearby market.
For a brief, silent moment, she felt free.
The room was small—barely a corner of what she used to have—but it was hers. A kitchenette, a single bed, a rickety table by the window, and enough sunlight to pretend she was far from all the pain.
Stretching her arms above her head, she let herself breathe. Really breathe. No guards, no surveillance, no luxury prisons disguised as penthouses. Just... her.
She had gone to bed late, past midnight, her sketchbook keeping her company when sleep refused to come. Now, the table was scattered with her drawings—rough sketches and detailed elevations of interiors, snippets of color palettes, swatches of fabric textures she had jotted down from memory. Her pencil had etched tiled walkways she'd seen in the street market, antique doors, and sunlit archways. She was designing again. Conceptualizing a bohemian café layout, a sunlit studio workspace. Spaces with soul. Spaces with freedom.
It grounded her. Reminded her she was more than what he had turned her into.
After a warm shower in the tiny tiled bathroom, she slipped into a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts, pulled her damp hair into a bun, and moved to the kitchenette. Breakfast was modest—toast with soft cheese, scrambled eggs, and a cup of lightly steeped black tea. She sat by the window, curling her legs beneath her on the chair, watching the city slowly stir to life. The bakery across the street opened its shutters. Pigeons pecked at crumbs on the sidewalk. Somewhere down the alley, a child laughed.
It felt so different. Not safe, maybe. But peaceful.
She washed her dishes and tidied the space, wiping down every surface as if organizing her external world could help her sort out her internal one. She was methodical—folding, stacking, aligning. Then she returned to the window seat with her sketchbook and began drawing again.
This time, it was a compact living room layout—open shelving, organic textures, layered textiles in neutral tones with vibrant accent pieces. She added a small lofted bed above a built-in bookshelf, then shaded the curves of the window where sunlight would naturally fall.
It was something she would love to bring to life one day. If she stayed here. If she could stay free.
She had just begun adding a set of hanging pendant lights to the corner of her sketch when a knock echoed from the door.
Her pencil slipped.
She froze, pulse stalling.
Kiara. It had to be Kiara.
The sweet neighbor from down the hall who had brought her muffins on her first day. Maybe she was coming to invite her for coffee or to show her around. The thought calmed her. Her heartbeat slowed to something manageable.
Without checking the peephole—God, why didn't she check the peephole?—Elara rose, walking barefoot across the warm wood floor.
She turned the lock. Unlatched the chain.
Pulled the door open.
And froze.
Her breath hitched. Her heart stopped. Every fiber of her body turned to stone.
Nikolai stood there.
Framed in the morning light, he looked like he had been carved from shadow and steel. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Jaw tense. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes—those terrifyingly unreadable eyes—locked on hers like heat-seeking missiles.
Not a smile. Not a snarl.
Just a storm.
"Elara," he said.
Her lips parted in a silent gasp. Her hands trembled at her sides.
She took one step back.
He stepped forward.