Page 152 of Fierce Pursuit

But I knew exactly why I was in it.

That first night, I sat in silence, breathless, waiting for the inevitable. I expected him to storm through the door, expected his fury, expected him to remind me exactly why running had been futile.

But he never came.

Night after night, I sat there, waiting for him. Dreading him. Hoping for him.

And still—nothing.

By the end of the week, my nerves were shredded. The waiting was unbearable. The silence was worse. Kostya was out there, watching, circling, and I had no idea when he would strike. Or if he even would.

At some point, I forced myself to stop living in limbo. If he wasn’t going to come for me, then I had to keep moving. I returned to my old job, not because I needed the money. He hadn’t even cut off his card. No, I went back because I needed something, anything, to hold onto. The restaurant had always felt safe, familiar. It was something normal.

For a little while, I let myself pretend.

But then, on my third shift, I felt it.

A presence. A change in the air.

Not the sharp, crawling sensation of a threat. This was different. It wasn’t someone hunting me. It was someone watching over me.

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Kostya.

I didn’t know how I knew…I just did.

But the strangest part wasn’t that he was there. It was that he was still keeping his distance. He hadn’t stormed into my life, hadn’t dragged me back to wherever he thought I belonged. He hadn’t even spoken to me.

Why?

The question ate at me, gnawed at the edges of my resolve.

At first, my anxiety was unbearable. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment he would finally decide he’d had enough of the game. But the longer the days stretched without him making a move, the more that fear twisted into something worse.

I missed him.

At night, lying in that massive bed surrounded by luxury, I stared out at the glittering skyline and imagined him there beside me.

The Chicago winter arrived early, bringing brutal winds and heavy snowfall, but I barely felt it. The cold had settled inside me long before the temperature dropped.

No matter how high I turned up the thermostat, no matter how thick the blankets—without Kostya, I was freezing.

Two weeks passed before he finally appeared.

He sat at a table in my section as if it were just another night. His presence commanding and utterly unmoved.

I felt him before I saw him.

The moment my eyes met his, my stomach twisted into a knot so tight it hurt.

I forced myself forward, my head low, waiting for thestorm. I was ready for his anger, for the inevitable punishment, for the moment he reminded me that I was his.

But all he did was look at me calmly and ask, "What do you recommend?"

It had to be a game.

I didn’t like being toyed with.

So I brought him borscht. The thick, rich soup should have been a jab, a reminder of home, of something deeper.

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