Chapter 111 – Ten Months in Transit
POV: Anastasia Celeste Volkov
She didn't count time in days anymore.
She counted it in flights taken. Cities crossed. Codes cracked. Minutes spent watching him out of the corner of her eye while he dozed off beside a rain-slicked window somewhere in Prague, or Cairo, or Buenos Aires.
Ten months.
Ten months since she told him to stay.
And he had.
Without complaint. Without question.
Even when she didn't speak for hours.
Even when she moved through airports like a ghost in a storm.
Even when she pushed him away with silence or analysis or impossible expectations—he stayed.
And that… disturbed something deep inside her.
He had no reason to still be here. No title. No contract. No binding force.
Just choice.
Just him, and the way he looked at her like she was worth burning for.
Right now, they were in Lisbon.
The sun dipped low behind the old stone buildings. Her apartment here was all sharp lines and hidden compartments—like her. High ceilings. Black floors. A coded door he couldn't crack even if he tried.
He was in the kitchen, humming softly as he poured tea.
She was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.
Watching him.
"You're quieter than usual," he said, not looking up.
"I'm deciding," she said.
He raised an eyebrow, sliding her a mug. "About?"
"If I want to kiss you before or after dinner."
That made him smile—softly, faintly.
"Before is riskier," he said. "Might not make it to dinner."
"And after?"
"Might not make it to dessert."
She smirked, walking forward until she was close enough to feel the warmth of him—fresh from the kettle, bare feet on cold tiles, hair slightly messy from the wind.
"After, then," she murmured, taking the cup from his hands without breaking eye contact. "But only if you don't burn the risotto."
He leaned down—his voice brushing her ear.
"I never kissed anyone else but you, you know."
She sipped the tea slowly, watching the steam curl.
"I know."
"You sound unconvinced."
"You're a global celebrity."
"And?"
"I find it statistically improbable."
He tilted his head. "You think I lie to you?"
"No," she said simply. "I think you feel too much, too quietly. I just didn't expect you to feel that way… only for me."
She said it without pride.
Just truth.
Just data.
And when he kissed her that night, slow and hungry and with the reverence of a man who knew no other altar but her—she understood.
She wasn't just his first.
She was going to be his last.
Even if they never crossed the line.
Even if this tension became permanent.
It didn't matter.
Because she had let him stay.
And he had turned her silence into something holy.