Anna
She had never seen a body bleed like that.
Not in real life.
Not because of someone she knew.
The coppery scent of it clung to the warehouse air, thick as smoke. But Ivan didn't flinch. He stood between her and the corpse of the man who'd called him weak—who'd died without a final word, no slow fade or apology. Just a bullet. Just silence.
"I meant what I said," Anna whispered.
Ivan didn't turn. "I know."
"Then don't push me away now."
That got his attention. Slowly, he faced her, and in the stark wash of overhead lights, he looked older. Not in age, but in the way soldiers age—fast, from the inside out.
"You shouldn't love me," he said.
"I didn't say I did."
She walked toward him anyway. Bold. Barefoot in a place no warmth belonged.
"But you will," he added darkly.
Anna stopped inches from him. "Is that a threat?"
"No. A warning."
"You think I don't know what you are?"
"I think you're still deciding if that matters."
She reached out and placed her hand—bloodless, clean—against his chest.
"I already decided. The moment I stepped out of that room."
Ivan closed his eyes.
He wanted to deny her. To scare her back behind locked doors and clear lines. But the truth was brutal: he didn't want her to be afraid of him anymore. He didn't want her behind anything.
So instead, he said, "We can't go back now."
Anna nodded. "Then don't try."
And in the cracked heart of a warehouse that had buried one of his oldest ghosts, Ivan Astra kissed her for the first time.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't gentle.
But it was real.
---
Ivan
They didn't return to the compound that night.
Instead, they drove east. He let her sleep in the car, her legs curled beneath her, head resting against the window. She looked like something fragile in the moonlight—but he knew better now.
Anna wasn't fragile.
She was fury wrapped in calm. Fire dressed as snow.
He stopped just past the border into the mountains, where the safehouse stood cloaked beneath trees and stone. No guards. No watchers. Just silence—and them.
He carried her inside.
When she stirred, she didn't ask where they were.
She just said, "You're shaking."
He paused, her weight light in his arms.
"I'm not used to being chosen," he said.
She opened her eyes. "Then get used to it."
He didn't set her down. Not yet.
Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers, and for the first time, Ivan let the silence speak for him.
Because here, in the dark quiet, with everything they weren't saying pressing in—he didn't feel like a monster.
He felt like a man who wanted a different ending.
---
Anna
The next morning, she woke to birdsong.
No locked doors. No guards. No sharp-edged words.
Just coffee already brewed and a single note:
Gone to check the perimeter. Don't shoot me on sight.
She smiled.
Something had shifted. Not just in him—but in her.
She wasn't planning an escape anymore.
She was planning a future.
One that terrified her as much as it tempted her.
Because she knew the truth now.
She hadn't just fallen for her captor.
She'd watched him fall too.
And somehow, it didn't feel like a tragedy.
It felt like fate—messed up and molten and forged from fire.
But still fate.