Ch 54: The Missing Piece
The grey light of late afternoon filtered through the bedroom windows, soft and diffuse as ash. Dust motes drifted in the still air—tiny, suspended stars. Elena stood at the glass, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the sea churn against the cliffs below. The sea was restless and indifferent—the same as it had been on her first evening in this house.
Elena turned from the window at the sound of the door opening.
Kazimir stopped just inside the doorway. The house doctor had cleaned the bullet graze and wrapped it in fresh white gauze—she could see the bulk of the bandage beneath his loose shirt. His grey eyes found her and softened, some tension in his jaw releasing all at once.
"You should be resting," he said.
‘So should you,’ she mouthed as she crossed the room toward him.
"Fair."
He reached for her at the same moment she reached for him. His good arm came around her waist, pulling her against his chest with a careful, measured strength. She pressed her ear to his sternum and heard his heart—steady, strong, alive.
She pulled back just far enough to look at him. His face was drawn with exhaustion—shadows carved deep beneath his eyes, a new tension around his mouth. But his gaze on her was steady, searching, as if he, too, was still convincing himself she was here, solid, unharmed.
‘Let me see your shoulder.’
"It's fine."
Elena gave him a look—flat, unimpressed. The kind of look Greta gave her when she tried to skip meals.
Kazimir blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. "Elena—"
‘You're moving like an old man. You flinched when you put your arms around me. Don't think I didn't notice.’ She pointed at the bed. ‘Sit, or I'll push you. You know I'll do it.’
A sound escaped him—rough, amused chuckle. He sat.
She stepped between his knees and began working the buttons of his shirt. Her fingers were quick and sure, nothing like the trembling girl who had fumbled his coat. This time, she did not flee into the bathroom.
The shirt fell open. The white gauze wrapped his left shoulder in clean, precise folds, but the bruising bloomed around it—purple and black and sickly yellow at the edges. A graze, the doctor had said. A few inches lower and it would have shattered bone. A few inches lower and she would be a widow before she ever truly became a wife.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her fingertips to the uninjured skin beside the bandage. ‘Does it hurt?’
"Only when I move."
She gave him the look again.
He sighed. "It aches. But I've had—"
‘If you say you've had worse, I will be very upset with you. Very, very upset,’ she mouthed, crossing her arms. ‘I'll—I'll hide your whiskey!’
His eyebrows rose. "You wouldn't."
‘Try me.’
They stared at each other. Then his expression cracked—not the mask slipping, but something deeper, something tired and tender breaking through. He shook his head slowly.
"You've changed," he said.
‘You said that before.’
"Not like this." His grey eyes searched her face. "You’re more expressive now."
She considered this. Then she pushed the shirt off his shoulders and climbed onto the bed behind him. Before he could ask what she was doing, she pressed her thumbs into the hard knot of muscle between his shoulder blade and spine.
He made a sound—a grunt of surprise that melted into a low groan. His head dropped forward.
‘You're all knots,’ she mouthed against the back of his head.
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"Are you scolding me?"
‘Yes. Someone has to. Leo won't. Nikolai won't.’ She dug her thumb deeper. ‘So it's me. I'm the one who scolds you now. That's my job.’
"Your job."
‘Yes, my job. I've decided.’
"Have you?"
‘Yes. And I'm very good at it. You should be grateful.’
Another rough sound escaped him—closer to a laugh this time. His shoulders eased beneath her hands, the tension slowly unspooling. She worked in silence, finding each knot with her thumbs, pressing until it released. His skin was warm. Alive. She could feel his heartbeat through her fingers and the heels of her palms—steady, real, the rhythm she had clung to in her mind during the darkest hours on the ship.
"Before, you would have waited for me to come to you."
Her hands stilled. She set her palms flat against his shoulder blades, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath.
‘A lot has happened in the past few days,’ she mouthed, though he couldn't see the words. She stopped. Swallowed. ‘I ran out of patience waiting.’
He twisted to look at her over his uninjured shoulder. For a long moment, he said nothing. His grey eyes were dark with something she couldn't name—something raw, unguarded.
"Good," he said quietly.
Then he caught her wrist and pulled. She tumbled forward against his back with a surprised huff, her cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.
‘Kazimir! Your shoulder!’
"It’s fine."
‘You'll pull the bandages—’
"There are no stitches. Just a graze." His voice rumbled through her hair. "Don’t fuss."
‘I am not fussing!’
"You're fussing. It's—" He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "It's nice."
She went still. Then she wrapped her arms around his chest from behind, careful to avoid the bandages, and pressed her face into the warm space between his neck and shoulder. She breathed in. Cedar. Gunpowder. The faint, sharp tang of antiseptic. Him.
They stayed like that as the grey light through the window faded from silver to charcoal. His breathing steadied. Her hands, still pressed to his chest, tracked the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart.
Eventually, she shifted, tugging at his arm until he turned to face her.
‘Lie down with me,’ she mouthed.
He raised an eyebrow. "Bossing me around again?"
‘Yes. It's my job. I told you.’ She said, already pulling back the covers and reaching for him with one hand extended.
Kazimir took her hand and lay down beside her, careful of his shoulder. Elena tucked herself against his uninjured side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. His arm came around her, holding her close.
‘The meeting,’ she mouthed after a long silence. Her brow furrowed. ‘I didn't understand most of it. But there's something I can't figure out.’
Kazimir's thumb traced slow circles on her arm. "What do you mean?"
‘Anna wasn't herself. She was afraid during her testimony. And Dante—he never looked at her. Not once,’ Elena mouthed, shaping the words carefully. ‘But he just acted like she wasn’t there.’
She paused, trying to find the right words.
‘And Valentina. She was different too. She's always sharp, but today she was really outspoken. She wanted Dante dead.’
Kazimir was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced slow circles on her hip, thinking.
‘Something's missing,’ Elena mouthed. ‘I don’t know what it is. I just have this feeling.’
Kazimir turned his head to look at her. His grey eyes were unreadable now—the mask settling back into place—but his hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the curve of her jaw.
"You see things other people miss," he said quietly. "If something's wrong, we'll find it. But not tonight."
‘Kazimir—’
"Tonight, you rest," he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. "Both of us rest. We've earned it."
She wanted to argue, but his reminder loosened her grip on the moment. The exhaustion she’d been holding at bay seeped in, then settled, heavy as wet sand. It pulled at her, insistent and patient.
But just as she let her eyes close, a knock came.
"Come in," Kazimir ordered, already sitting up.
Leo stepped inside. His suit was immaculate, but he was breathing hard—as if he had run through the mansion.
"Dante is dead," he announced.
Kazimir was on his feet. "What?"
"The maid brought his dinner. She found him on the bed. A dagger in his chest."
Elena's blood went cold.
‘What kind of dagger?’ she mouthed, a flicker of unease settling in her chest.
Leo's eyes met hers. "A red dagger."
Valentina. The room tilted. Elena gripped the edge of the mattress. Did she… killed him?
But before she could open her mouth to ask, the door burst open a second time.
Greta stood in the doorway, her round face pale and splotched with tears. Her hands were pressed to her mouth, and she was making a sound—a low, keening wail that Elena had never heard from her before. It was the sound of a child who had found something terrible.
"I went to call Anna for dinner," Greta choked out. The words came in gasps, broken by sobs. "I knocked and she didn't answer. So I opened the door, and she—" Her voice shattered. "Anna. She's—she's—"
She couldn't finish. She didn't need to. Even if she did, Elena could not listen.
The world went very still. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against her skin, muffling every sound except the roar of blood in her ears.
Before she realized it, Elena was already pushing past Greta and running.