Page 18 of Beautiful Ruin

That’s not how this works.

“Moving you through the city to see him would paint a bullseye on our backs. You don’t understand what is in motion right now. The less people see of you, the better.”

I can see her mind shifting gears, recalculating the new information. The quicker she learns that this city is not Italy, the better. One leaked route, one pair of eyes catching her face through a CCTV feed, and suddenly, we’ve turned a contained threat into an open hunt.

She doesn’t understand yet how quickly exposure becomes opportunity here, never mind the fact that Ivan wouldn’t want her to see him like that, anyway.

He has spent years keeping her above the crude mechanics and ugly truths of this world. Dragging her into a hospital room where he looks pale beneath fluorescent lights and stitched back together by surgeons would shatter more than the illusion of safety. It would shatter the version of him he’s preserved for her all these years.

And maybe if I’m being honest, it would shatter something in me too.

Remembering him on that road, blood pouring through my fingers faster than I could contain it, that brief and terrible emptiness in his eyes when I thought the next breath might not come, I don’t need Sofia carrying that image too.

She rises from the chair in one smooth motion, the oversized cream sweater slipping down one shoulder before she shoves it back into place with barely restrained irritation. Her bare feet are quiet against the wooden floor.

When she reaches me, she folds her arms over her chest. “Then help me understand.”

My eye nearly twitches. “No. I have better things to do.”

Her expression flickers, hurt at first. Then anger burns over it so fast it almost erases the first part entirely. Her arms drop, hands curl into fists at his sides. “You are impossible.”

“You’re not going to see him today,” I say, stepping back from the doorway. “Accept it now and spare yourself the argument tomorrow.” I stop right before I turn on my heel to leave entirely. “And keep your attention off the watchtowers. The guards are there to keep threats out, not entertain you.”

By the end of the next week, the irritation I’ve been carrying has started to twist into something else. Though at this point, I’m too exhausted mentally to put a name to it.

That is probably for the best.

Names give legitimacy to things that do not deserve so. There are enough concerns weighing on me without indulging whatever this new, unwelcome distortion is.

Irritation I know how to handle.

Its razor-sharp edge keeps me distant and exactly where I need to be to remain objective. A familiar weapon with a grip molded to my hand from years of use. It keeps people at arm’s length and my judgment sound, stripping situations down to nothing but function and utility.

That is how men like me survive.

By refusing to let the world become more complicated than orders and outcomes. The second you start adding softer things into the equation, the whole structure begins to rot. Those things blur the line between duty and desire until one starts wearing the other’s face. I have seen it too many times not to recognize the trap.

Attachment is fatal and something I absolutely refuse to nurture.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t help that Sofia has settled into the estate too quickly for my comfort. She has adapted well to her new life here, and every time I notice, that nameless thing under my irritation twists a little tighter.

It isn’t until Ivan is finally discharged from the hospital and brought home that I finally get a chance to breathe.

The convoy that escorts him is heavier than usual, additional trucks flanking the lead car, medical staff riding shotgun in case anything goes wrong. Two advance vehicles swept the route twice before anyone left the hospital’s parking lot, and even then I still had men posted along the drive an hour before the gates opened.

Overkill, maybe. But I don’t care.

I stand on the front steps, arms folded behind my back as my breath fogs the morning air. Frost still clings in thin veins running along the hedges and the stone landing under my boots. The estate looks almost beautiful from here in the pale gray light, a fitting welcome to our leader finally returning home.

Sofia is already beside me, close enough that I can smell the faint traces of her shampoo when the wind shifts. Something clean and a little floral, wildly out of place in a place like this one. I can feel the heat of her standing near me even through layers of wool. The realization annoys me on instinct. I shouldn’t be registering details like that.

Her hands are tucked into the pockets of a thick coat I had brought in for her from one of Ivan’s preferred shops. Her hair is loose again, pale against her collar, the ends lifting faintly in the wind.

She hasn’t asked a single question since stepping outside. That alone puts me on edge. Silence from her means observation, that same restless intelligence turning inward and working through what she’s seeing.

Engines roll up the drive in a disciplined formation. The lead SUV pulls beneath the portico first, the second braking just behind it. The medical staff’s vehicle hovers off to the side, idling on stand-by just in case.

I’m already moving before the rear passenger door opens.