Ch 58: Take Me There
The shooting range smelled the same as always—oil, metal, and that faint chemical tang.
Elena stood at the firing line, feet shoulder-width apart, weight forward. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. She had been here for an hour. Maybe longer. Time moved differently in this room—measured in magazines, the crack of gunfire, and the slow rhythm of breath. The paper targets at the far end of the range had accumulated fresh holes: clusters in center mass, a few head shots.
She was so immersed in the drill—the deliberate hesitation between sight and trigger—that the rest of the world had fallen away. There was only the target, her hands, and the weight of the pistol.
Elena did not hear him enter. She only sensed him a while later—the subtle shift in the air, the warmth at her back, the familiar scent of cedar.
Her hands did not waver. She finished her drill, emptying the magazine into the remaining targets. Only then does she lower the pistol and remove her ear protection.
Kazimir sat on the stone bench in the corner—the same bench where she had rested after her first lesson. He was watching her, his hands resting on his knees.
She crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.
‘How long have you been there?’ Elena mouthed.
"Long enough." His voice was quiet. "You're slower than before."
She nodded. 'That's the point.'
"Explain."
Elena did not answer immediately. She looked down at her hands, turning them over. The calluses had thickened. She traced the ridge of her own palm, gathering the words.
'Before, I shot without thinking. My body moved before my conscience could catch up. It frightened me.'
She paused. The memory of the mill surfaced—Dante's revolver swinging toward Kazimir's chest, her finger pulling the trigger before she had even decided to fire. She could still feel the recoil in her bones.
'Now I'm learning to hesitate. To make sure I know what I'm shooting at. Not every threat is a target.'
Kazimir was silent for a moment. His grey eyes searched her face. "Most instructors would say hesitation gets you killed."
'Maybe.' She set the pistol on the bench. 'But shooting without thinking made me feel like I wasn't in control.'
He reached over and took her hand. His thumb traced her knuckles—soothing, familiar. The warmth of his palm seeped into her cold fingers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Elena could feel his gaze on her—not sharp or assessing, but lingering. She became aware of the space between them, of the way their shoulders brushed. A faint warmth crept into her cheeks. Her fingers shifted slightly in his hold.
A quiet, knowing curve touched his mouth.
"Come," he said, turning his hand beneath hers. "I have something to show you."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Kazimir led her upstairs to his study. Afternoon light slanted through the tall windows in golden rays. He closed the door and gestured for her to sit.
Elena chose the chair by the window. He pulled a chair to sit next to her, close enough their knees touched.
"Leo finalized the paperwork last week," he said. "The Zurich properties mentioned in Nadia's will. They're yours now."
She blinked. 'Mine?'
"Yours." He reached into the drawer and pulled out a leather folder marked with a rose emblem. He held it out to her. "The deeds. The account numbers. Everything."
Elena did not take it. She stared at the folder in his hands. This was the wealth Dante had killed for. The wealth that had gotten Nadia murdered.
'I don't understand,' she mouthed. 'This is very sudden.'
Kazimir set the folder on the desk beside them. His jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands for a moment before meeting her eyes.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
"I can't give you much," he said quietly. "This life—this house—has brought you nothing but suffering. The cellar. The kidnapping. The crate. You almost died because of me. More than once."
Her chest tightened. 'That wasn't your fault.'
"They were my enemies. My responsibilities. You were caught in the crossfire."
Elena rose from her chair and stood before him. She reached out and held his face in her hands. His stubble was rough against her palms. His grey eyes went wide—just for a moment—before they softened.
'Kazimir,' she mouthed, pressing her forehead to his. 'I’m your wife. You don’t owe me anything.'
He closed his eyes. His breath stirred against her lips. The tension in his jaw released.
They stayed like that for a long moment—her hands cradling his face, his hands rising to cover hers. The golden light shifted around them, painting them both in warmth.
When she pulled back, he guided her onto his lap. She went willingly, settling across his thighs, her knees tucked against the arm of the chair.
"The properties are yours," he said again, his arm around her waist. "No arguments."
'I don't want the money. I never cared about wealth.’
Kazimir's grey eyes searched hers. "Is there nothing you want?"
Elena thought about the question. She thought about herself, just months ago—the girl who had flinched at every shadow, who had made herself small, believing survival meant becoming invisible. She still remembered what it felt like to believe she deserved nothing.
'I want to protect,' she mouthed at last. 'I want to help women who have been hurt. Who have been made to feel small. A place where they can learn to defend themselves. Where they can find safety, training, and community.' She paused, her throat tightening. 'I want them to be able to choose their own lives. The way I learned to choose mine.'
Kazimir said nothing. His grey eyes were warm, steady—filled with pride.
"Then we'll build it."
Her breath caught. 'You mean—'
"I mean we'll build it." He interlaced their fingers. "Your foundation. Your safe place. Whatever you need—money, connections, security. I'll make it happen."
'But the properties—'
"Are yours. Use them. Sell them. Turn them into something new. Do whatever makes you happy, Elena."
The tears she had been holding back spilled over. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. His skin was warm, his stubble scraping softly against her mouth. She lingered there for a moment before pulling back.
Kazimir was watching her. His grey eyes had darkened—not with the cold calculation, but with something else. Something that made her breath shallow.
He raised his hand slowly, deliberately—giving her time to pull away.
She did not move.
His palm cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed the tear tracks beneath her eye. The touch was feather-light, reverent.
"Elena," he said, his voice husky. "May I kiss you?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Her throat tightened. He had always been careful with her. Even now, he was giving her the choice.
She didn’t need time. Her fingers curled into his shirt. 'Yes,' she nodded.
He leaned in.
The first kiss was light—a testing press of his lips to hers. It wasn’t doubt but restraint.
She pressed closer, steady and sure, her hand catching at his sleeve as the kiss deepened. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. A soft sound slipped from her, and she felt the shift in him—the faint pull of something warmer beneath all that control. His lips curved against hers, just slightly.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
Kazimir’s forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her lips. His thumb traced slow circles at the nape of her neck, sending a soft shiver down her spine. His breath brushed her lips, uneven now.
"We should continue this somewhere more private."
Color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. 'Where?'
"Our bedroom."
Her heart stumbled, then surged. She reached up and touched his jaw, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. She felt his breath catch.
She chuckled. 'Yes. Take me there.'
The shift in him was subtle but unmistakable. Something deeper surfaced—warmer, less restrained.
Then he moved. He bent and lifted her carefully, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back.
‘Kazimir!’ Elena gasped, her arms tightening around his neck.
The leather folder tumbled to the floor, its pages scattering across the carpet—forgotten.
Kazimir was already walking.
She clung to him, pressing her face into the warm curve of his throat. His pulse beat fast beneath her lips, strong and steady, answering her own. His hold on her was firm, unyielding.
He carried her from the study into the corridor, past the watchful portraits of the Volkovs. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, casting long bars of gold across the floor. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed.
And somewhere behind them, in the golden afternoon light, Nadia's legacy lay scattered on the floor, waiting to become something new.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/26/26