Ch 23: A Place Beside Him
Elena woke to warmth.
She was on her side, facing the window. The blanket was pulled to her chin. Behind her, Kazimir's chest pressed against her back. His arm lay across her waist—loose, not gripping. He must have moved in his sleep.
She went still. Her heart began to hammer.
He's still here. He stayed.
She remembered inviting him into the bed out of compassion.
But now, in the grey morning light, his arm was around her. His breath was slow and even against her hair. His body was warm—too warm. She should pull away. She should slide out from under his arm and put distance between them.
But she didn't move.
The anger was still there, coiled in her chest. It had not left during the night. But it was quieter now, exhausted without anything to fuel it.
Then his breathing changed. A slight shift. A deeper inhale.
He was awake.
Neither of them moved.
Elena felt his thumb brush against her side—once, unconscious, then still. He was waiting, letting her decide what happened next.
She could push his arm away. She could climb out of the bed and go to the window. She could refuse to acknowledge that he had been here at all.
She did none of those things.
Instead, she lay there, staring at the wall, feeling the warmth of him seep through the fabric.
"Elena." His voice was rough with sleep. His hand flattened against her stomach, pulling her back more firmly against him.
She said nothing. She never said anything to him anyway. But she didn't push him away.
They lay like that for a long moment.
Then Kazimir sighed and withdrew his arm. He rolled onto his back, giving her space. "You should eat," he said. "I'll have breakfast brought up."
He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood. His back was to her. He rolled his neck to work out the stiffness.
"I'll be in the study today. Anna will come."
Then he left.
Elena lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her body was still warm from his. The empty space beside her felt suddenly cold.
After a moment, she pressed her palm to the mattress where he had been. It was still warm.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
An hour later, Elena sat in the bathroom, staring at the filled tub.
Anna had arrived as promised, helped her from the bed, and drawn the bath. Now she was gone.
The water was hot. Steam rose from the surface. Elena dipped a finger in, then pulled back—too hot. She sat on the edge, waiting for it to cool. Her reflection stared back from the surface—pale, dark circles under her eyes, cheekbones too sharp.
She remembered Kazimir's neglect. Marco's hands. Valentina's words. The weeks of hiding. And then Kazimir staying to feed her, to clean her hands as if he didn't want to leave her alone.
She did not know what to do with any of it.
The water cooled slightly. She stepped in, hissing at the heat, and sank down until it reached her chin. The lavender scent rose around her.
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She washed methodically. Her hands—he had cleaned them last night. The raw cuticles were still pink, but the blood was gone. She looked at her fingers, turning them over. She stared at them thoughtfully for a long time.
When Elena finally finished the bath, she dried off and dressed in the clothes Anna had left: soft gray pants and a long-sleeved black sweater. She caught the cedar scent—his clothes. Her cheeks warmed, but she quickly pushed the thought away.
When she opened the bathroom door, Kazimir was already there. He sat in the chair by the window, a folder open in his lap. He looked up when she entered, his grey eyes sweeping over her once, then returning to his papers.
Elena walked past him to the bed and sat on the edge. She did not know what to do with herself. The room felt different now. Smaller. Or maybe just less empty.
The maid from yesterday arrived with a tray. Kazimir took it, set it on the table, and gestured to the chair. "Come."
She crossed to the table and sat. She picked up the spoon. Ate. The oatmeal was warm, sweet with honey. Her stomach accepted it greedily. Halfway through, she glanced up.
Kazimir was still watching. "You're eating slower today," he observed. "Good."
She looked down at her bowl, then at the tray. There was only one serving. Just like lunch and dinner yesterday, he had brought nothing for himself.
She frowned.
He hasn't eaten. Not once. Not since yesterday.
The thought settled in her chest, uncomfortable. He was the one who had failed her. He was the one who should be making amends, not the other way around. She did not owe him anything. But she couldn't ignore it.
Elena pushed the bowl toward the center of the table. Then she pointed at it, then at him.
Kazimir's brow furrowed. "What?"
She pointed again and mouthed, 'You. Eat.'
He stared at her for a long moment. Surprise softened his features. "You want me to eat."
She nodded.
He looked at the bowl, then back at her. "There's only one. It's yours."
She shook her head. She was hungry, but the thought of eating while he watched with empty hands made her stomach clench for a different reason. She pushed the bowl closer to him.
Kazimir hesitated. Then he picked up the spoon Elena had used, scooped a small amount, and ate.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Elena watched him. The sight was strange—the wolf, eating from a bowl she had offered. She looked away. Her cheeks were warm. She didn't know why.
He ate a few more bites, then pushed the bowl back to her. "Your turn."
She looked at the remaining oatmeal, then at him. He was watching her with an expression she could not read. She hesitated for a moment before picking up the spoon and finishing the rest.
When she set it down, Kazimir reached across the table and took her hand. Elena stiffened. Her fingers curled instinctively, but he did not tighten his grip. He just held her hand loosely, his thumb resting against her knuckles.
She stared at their hands. The warmth of his palm seeped into her skin. She should pull away. She should not let him touch her.
But her fingers uncurled, one by one, until her hand lay flat against his.
Kazimir said nothing. He simply held her hand for a long moment, then released it and stood. He gathered the tray and took it to the door. When he returned, he sat back down in the chair by the window. He picked up his folder and began to read.
Elena remained at the table, staring dumbfoundedly at her hand.
The warmth of his touch lingered.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
That day followed a new rhythm.
Lunch and dinner had two sets of dishes this time.
Kazimir sat across from her and ate beside her, not just watching. Between bites, his hand would find hers on the table. A brief touch. A brush of fingers. Then he would pull back.
She did flinch, at first. But by the second time, her hand stayed where it was. By the third, her fingers twitched toward his before she caught herself.
He noticed. She saw the corner of his mouth lift, just slightly.
That night, Kazimir did not ask.
When Elena climbed into bed and lay on her side facing the window, he dimmed the lamp and lay down behind her. The mattress dipped. She felt him hesitate—then his arm came around her waist.
She tensed. But she did not pull away.
He pulled her back against his chest, her spine fitting against the curve of his body. His hand rested on her stomach. His breath was warm against her hair.
Then she felt it—his lips, pressing gently against the top of her head. A kiss. Soft. Brief.
"You're mine now, Elena. I will protect you," he murmured.
Her heart stuttered. No one had ever kissed her like that since her mother died. No one had given her promises. She lay frozen, unsure what to do with the feeling spreading through her chest.
Sometime later, Kazimir fell asleep.
Elena lay awake, staring at the wall. She had not forgiven him. She did not trust him completely. But that tender kiss had softened her anger.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to see his face in the dim light. His eyes were closed. His jaw was relaxed. He looked younger in sleep. Less like the dangerous man he was when awake.
She looked down at his hand resting on her stomach. His fingers were long, calloused. The cuts on his knuckles had scabbed over. Carefully, slowly, she reached down and touched his hand.
He did not wake.
She ran her thumb over his knuckles, feeling the raised scabs. She turned his hand over, examining his palm—rough, worn. These were the hands that had killed the men who hurt her. The hands that had held a cup to her lips when she was delirious with fever.
What do you do all day? she wondered. What does your work look like? Who are you, really?
Elena held his hand for a long time, tracing the lines of his palm, the ridges of his fingers.
The heat of his body seeped into her back. His breath was slow and even against her hair. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy. Her body relaxed.
She fell asleep still holding his hand.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/6/26