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“My business has me keeping odd hours,” I tell her, improvising. “And you need your rest. For the baby.” I glance down. It’s a sketchy explanation but it will have to do.

She nods, absorbing the information without comment. Her eyes drift over the artwork, the furniture, searching for something familiar and finding nothing. I watch her carefully, trying to read her thoughts as she takes in the opulence around us. The way her gaze lingers on certain pieces— the Russian artwork, the antique grandfather clock— tells me she’s processing more than she lets on.

“It’s beautiful,” she says finally, her voice soft with what might be awe or apprehension. I can’t quite tell which.

“I’m glad you think so.” The words come out more sincere than I expected. For some reason, her approval matters, which bothers me. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of my home, yet I find myself studying her face for any hint of genuine appreciation.

I lead her through the manor, pointing out rooms and spaces she should know intimately by now. The kitchen where I once prepared a meal for her, watching her eyes widen in surprise that a man like me could handle a knife forsomething other than violence. The library where I’ve built up a small selection of science books for her and Bobik, texts on neuroscience and experimental treatments that she devoured in days. The pool where I’ve seen her swim, her body gliding through water like she belongs there, the sunlight catching the droplets on her skin in ways that made my chest tighten.

Each memory cuts deeper than the last— they’re mine alone now.Alone.The weight of them settles in my gut like stones, reminders of moments I didn’t appreciate enough when they were happening.Blyad, when did I become this sentimental? This weak? Yet I can’t stop the flood of images, each one more vivid than the last.

When we reach her bedroom door, I pause. Images flash through my mind— Stella beneath me, her hair spread across the pillows, her nails digging into my back. Stella reading by the window, her face peaceful in the morning light. The scent of her skin after a shower, that mixture of vanilla and sweet woman that I’ve found myself seeking in empty rooms. The sound of her laughter— rare at first, then more frequent as she settled into life at Blackwood. The way she looks at Bobik, with such genuine care that it makes something in my chest constrict painfully.

I remember her curled up in my bed, vulnerable in sleep, her guard completely down. The thought sends a surge of possessiveness through me that’s becoming dangerously familiar.

I push the door open. “This is your room.”

She steps inside, her movements hesitant. Her eyes scan the space— the king-sized bed with its silk sheets, the antique dresser, the bookshelves filled with science volumes she selected herself.

“It feels… like I should remember it, but I don’t,” she mumbles.

A spike of something dangerous runs through me— relief mingled with guilt. Her confusion means my secrets remain safe. She doesn’t know my role in her parents’ deaths. Doesn’t realize how much she should hate me for what I’d done. Perhaps I’ll carry my guilt to my grave.

I watch as she explores the room, running her fingers over unfamiliar possessions. Every object holds a story she’s forgotten— a story that ultimately paints me as the villain.

“You should rest,” I say, noticing the fatigue in her eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders. “The doctor said not to overwhelm you with too much at once.” My voice sounds gentler than I’m used to, a weakness I rarely allow myself to show.

She nods, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I am tired.” Her fingers curl into the silk sheets— sheets I specifically ordered because I wanted her to come home to complete comfort. Another strange gesture I’d never expect from myself.

“There are clothes in the closet. Bathroom is through there.” I point to a door on the right, watching how her gaze follows my gesture. There’s a wariness when she watches me that I wish wasn’t there. “If you need anything, just press the intercom button by the bed. Someone will always answer.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— too soft, too concerned.

She looks up at me, her expression a mixture of gratitude and caution. Her eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her. “Thank you.”

I nod and turn to leave, my hand lingering on the doorknob.

“I’ll check on you later.” I hesitate, fighting the urge to say more, to stay longer. Instead, I step into the hallway, allowing myself one last glance at her sitting on the edge of the bed before I close the door behind me.

You’re getting fucking soft, Tarasov.

I shake myself to get rid of the unfamiliar feeling.

When I return an hour later with a tray of food, she’s asleep. The medication they prescribed at the hospital has knocked her out, her breathing deep and even. I set the tray down silently and approach the bed.

She looks peaceful in sleep, though her brow is slightly furrowed, as if her body remembers what her mind cannot. My fingers hover near her face, almost brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, but I pull back. Even unconscious, she seems to sense my presence, shifting slightly away.

“Tak krasivo.” For one unguarded moment, I allow my expression to soften into something few have ever witnessed— vulnerability, tenderness, regret. Then the mask slides back into place.

“Aleksei?” Diana’s voice in the hallway startles me. I move away from the bed and step outside, pulling the door nearly closed behind me.

My sister stands in the corridor, her posture rigid as always. Her eyes flick to the bedroom door, then back to me.

“How’s she doing?” Diana asks.

“Resting. The medication makes her drowsy.”

“And her memory?”

“Still gone. Dr. Malhotra still says it should be temporary.”