Chapter 26

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The night in Big Fox was unlike any Yuri had ever known. Something about it felt entirely different. It lacked the suffocating, mire-like heaviness of his nights in Saratov, yet it was not the hollow, desensitized void he had endured after escaping—those nights when he had severed every connection to his own senses.

Through the window, Yuri gazed at the vast lake, its surface softly rippling beneath the moonlight. A cool current drifted through the slight gap in the glass, carrying the crisp, earthy scent of the surrounding forest. The living room was steeped in the natural aroma of damp soil and ancient timber. At the edges of that stillness, faint, rhythmic sounds pressed in: the gentle lapping of the lake and the distant, persistent drip from the bathroom shower.

Cherriot, who had insisted on handling the dishes, remained in perpetual motion. He ferried every towel from the shelves to the laundry room, vacuumed the floor, and unpacked his suitcase, refusing to settle for even a second. Simply watching him bustle about was exhausting. In need of reprieve, Yuri stepped outside, partly to unload the tools he had picked up from the hardware store, and partly to clear his head. Sweeping the area with his practiced gaze, he found only profound, undisturbed quiet.

Apart from the persistent thread of vigilance he could never fully discard, the world felt tranquil—a quiet so deep it calmed his own heart before he realized it. Standing in the cool night air, strangely comforted, Yuri hesitated before recalling the book stashed in the car’s glove box. A prickle of guilt rose in him, as if indulging in such a luxury were undeserved. Still, if he was going to pull an all-nighter on watch, he needed something to occupy his mind. With that justification, he retrieved the volume.

It was a work by Tolstoy, not unlike the one he had found back at the repair shop. His father had grown up virtually illiterate, but his mother had been a woman of education and deep taste, favoring Tolstoy and Pushkin. Every book Yuri possessed had been an inheritance from her.

Her books were all in Russian. While Yuri could speak and write functional sentences, he had never achieved the fluency required to truly parse Pushkin’s complex poetry or Tolstoy’s sprawling, philosophical prose. Even the Russian he did command was a gift from her. A man who had spent his life butchering meat for survival could scarcely dream of literary pursuits, and Yuri often suspected he had inherited that practical side from his father. He knew how to dismantle a man with his bare hands, coax a dead car engine back to life, and survive on instinct. But the nuances of complex language had always eluded him.

He had scraped through elementary school before his life shifted into a relentless cycle of running errands and odd jobs for Igor in middle school. He learned to fight by taking blows, and he rose through the ranks by flirting with death. If not for his mother’s insistence on drilling basic grammar into him, he would have struggled with English as well. She had been clever enough to cross into an unfamiliar country, master a new language on her own, and pass that knowledge to both her husband and son. If only she had lived a little longer—if they had managed to live this sort of life—he might have developed the capacity to read those dense, beautiful books.

But his education had effectively stalled at a middle-school level. He had neither the cultured history nor the academic literacy that others considered basic common sense. Forced to rely on his body to survive, Yuri was at least grateful he hadn’t forgotten the essentials his mother had gifted him.

Those who possess nothing learn to find satisfaction in the smallest things. A bland meal, a drafty room—mere survival becomes its own gratitude. For Yuri, being able to read and understand his mother’s short stories was a quiet blessing. Thankfully, she had favored thin volumes of short fiction; with a dictionary in hand, he could painstakingly reach the final page. Anything more intricate remained beyond him. Russian, with its thicket of metaphors and figurative prose, was an impenetrable wall.

And English was little different. Whenever the grammar tangled, Yuri found himself wrestling each line against a dictionary. Slowly, discouragement would creep in until he snapped the book shut. Sometimes he entertained the thought of studying properly—but even that felt like an indulgence. Wasn’t study a pursuit reserved for personal enjoyment?

In the end, the books he already owned were enough. He kept Ivan the Fool in the garage where he worked, and in the car, he carried his mother’s favorite short story. These worn, dog-eared volumes—read hundreds of times until he could recite them without a dictionary—were the only small, permitted pleasures of his life.

Later, seated on the sofa, Yuri gazed at the old book resting on the table. He stared at the Russian script, debating whether to start reading. The urge felt idle, indulgent. With a sigh, he pushed himself up. Gathering the tools he had brought inside, he stepped back outdoors to rig traps.

These were not the gruesome, cinematic snares meant to maim or sever an ankle. They were simple, functional tripwires—minor deterrents that would rattle fixed nails against the window frames if an intruder loitered outside. He could craft deadlier devices, but this was someone else’s home, and this compromise felt sufficient.

Shhh.

The sound of the lake swelled and receded against the shore, a miniature beach breathing behind him. He became so absorbed in his work that he failed to notice the time until he straightened to stretch stiffening limbs. At that moment, Cherriot—fresh from a shower—pushed open the porch door. A long shadow stretched across the floorboards, and instinctively, Yuri lowered his head, feigning indifference.

He didn’t quite know why he felt the need to hide his gaze. Perhaps the earlier conversation had left his heart unsettled.

Cherriot, however, had no intention of granting him distance.

“Wolfie? Where are you?”

Yuri continued fastening the wire without a word. Cherriot wandered through the house until he spotted him outside the window.

“What are you doing out there?”

Since Cherriot had sought him out, Yuri couldn’t simply ignore him. He glanced up. There Cherriot stood, bold and unbothered, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist—practically nude. Ever since the hotel, he had seemed to treat casual exposure as a hobby.

Does he not care because we’re both Alphas? Well, I suppose there’s no reason to be embarrassed when our sex and designation are the same.

The thought immediately triggered the vivid memory of earlier that day. For someone who claimed no shame, Cherriot had flushed a deep, excessive red when glimpsing Yuri’s upper body. Yuri recalled him covering his eyes with his hands, then giving that fierce, lingering stare as he lent him a shirt.

Suddenly, Yuri found it difficult to maintain eye contact. As if Cherriot’s shyness were contagious, he bent forward, distracting himself with the prickly sensation in his chest.

“I’m making traps,” he said gruffly, “so we’ll know if someone prowls around the windows. Go to sleep first. And don’t come near the windows, either.”

Even after the warning, Cherriot deliberately moved closer. Drops of water fell from his wet, reddish-blond hair onto the floor.

“Aren’t you tired after moving all day?” Cherriot asked gently. “Let’s rest now.”

Yuri lifted his gaze toward his generous employer, who was now insisting that his bodyguard rest. Seeing that wet, handsome face ignited the same peculiar tension from earlier, and his eyes moved toward Cherriot of their own accord. He was merely looking at an Alpha who had just showered, yet it felt illicit. His gaze lingered on Cherriot’s damp, gleaming skin and the firm line of his Adam’s apple. He swallowed hard, belatedly returning to his senses.

Why am I like this all of a sudden? Is it because Cherriot mentioned his rut on the drive here?

“My job is to prevent anything from happening while you sleep,” Yuri said, voice low. “You don’t need to worry. Just go rest.”

“Nothing happened the whole way here,” Cherriot reasoned. “Shouldn’t it be all right? At least for today?”

“We don’t know that.” Yuri had entertained the same thought himself, but letting his guard down was a luxury he couldn’t afford. “There are people who tried to kill you, and the organization chasing you spans across North America.”

He hadn’t meant to frighten Cherriot, but the words might have struck harder than intended. He studied Cherriot’s expression carefully. Fortunately, the man didn’t look shaken. Since he wasn’t intimidated, Yuri could have left it at that—but an impulse urged him to say more. To be precise, he wanted to reassure him.

“But it doesn’t seem like they’ve found out we’re here yet,” he added after a pause.

Yuri, never one to comfort with words, agonized for several seconds before continuing with a tone that felt almost mortifying.

“So… you can sleep without worrying.”

Even as he said it, Yuri tensed. Could Alphas say such things to each other? Would Cherriot find him ridiculous or unpleasant? His concern proved unnecessary.

When Yuri finished speaking, Cherriot bent down. Tilting his head through the slightly open window, he brought his eyes level with Yuri, who was still crouched by the trap. His pink lips curved into a soft smile, and his gentle words followed.

“Thank you for saying that.”

At that warm, unguarded smile, Yuri wondered if Cherriot had lowered his defenses too quickly. Resting his heart with a piece of trash like Yuri after barely a day was genuinely dangerous. But Yuri had already warned him multiple times, and repeating the sordid truth of his life would offer no comfort now.

“…Go to sleep.”

“Will what you’re doing take long?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ll go to sleep when you come in.”

—I can’t sleep when you aren’t here, Vasya.

For a moment, an old ghost’s voice echoed in Yuri’s mind. The afterimage of his mother—whom he always carried in his heart—brushed past him, and he clearly envisioned that late night when she had waited for his father to return, going out to greet him. Goosebumps prickled along Yuri’s skin, perhaps from the biting night air. His skin suddenly felt itchy, and he rubbed his forearm with a dirtied hand.

“Do what you want,” he said bluntly.

Instead of scolding him to go to sleep and stop spouting nonsense, Yuri decided to let it be. He knew it was empty talk, but he did not entirely dislike the implication that Cherriot would wait.

It took about fifty minutes to secure the wire around the perimeter and hang the nails out of sight as markers. Absorbed in the task, Yuri lost track of time, and the night air chilled his skin. After catching his breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Cherriot’s back was visible as he sat on the sofa.

A small, hollow laugh escaped Yuri’s lips at the sight. Without acknowledging his own amusement, he walked toward the sofa. Even at the sound of his footsteps, Cherriot did not turn around. Yuri wondered briefly what he was doing, but instead of asking aloud, he silently approached his side.

Cherriot held the old book Yuri had left on the table, his eyes closed. Yuri couldn’t fathom why he’d bothered with it—he couldn’t read Russian anyway—but it appeared he had glanced at the first few pages and drifted off almost immediately. The soft sound of his breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest filled the quiet. Yuri paused, staring at the sleeping face—still and unmoving. Cherriot, asleep, was so beautiful that Yuri felt it wrong for his shadow to loom over him.

Yuri’s gaze lingered on the reddish-gold lashes casting shadows over pale cheeks and the smooth bridge of his nose. He carefully checked the room, then went to the bedroom assigned to him and retrieved a blanket. Suppressing his footsteps in case Cherriot stirred, he approached, draped the blanket over him, and quietly closed and locked the window against the cold. When he turned the lock on the front door, he moved it as quietly as possible.

Upon returning, he saw Cherriot still asleep. His posture looked uncomfortable, and Yuri considered laying him down, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to touch him. Thinking Cherriot might be startled by contact, he left him as he was. Instead, he gently retrieved the book awkwardly held in Cherriot’s hand.

Yuri settled his tired body into a chair at the kitchen table. The hour hand of the wall clock crept toward twelve. Only the faint, fading hum of the lightbulb filament lingered in the house. He had spent countless quiet nights, but none had felt quite like this.

Tonight was different.

Resting his chin on his hand, Yuri quietly observed Cherriot. He wondered what value there was in watching an Alpha sleep, yet looking at him was strangely calming. After a long while, Yuri’s eyes grew dry. Closing them briefly, a memory like an old photograph brushed through his mind.

He saw his mother sitting on the sofa, a shawl draped around her shoulders, reading, while his father hurried home, knowing she was waiting. His father would knock softly so as not to wake his sleeping son. Katya, waiting with quiet anticipation, would rise onto her tiptoes and creep toward the door to greet her husband.

Even in bed, Yuri had only pretended to sleep while waiting for his father. If he listened carefully, he could hear his parents’ tender voices drifting through the gap under the door. His father would ask after her with love, and his mother would laugh softly. Only then would Yuri finally fall asleep, relieved.

Sleep pressed in heavier than any fatigue. With eyes closed, Yuri tried to force his mind to cycle through one thought after another to stave it off: What reckless thing Alexei might be doing now, whether he should contact Valeri to stop him, why the Hell’s Watchmen were targeting Cherriot. Inevitably, his thoughts circled back to Cherriot.

Contrary to his first impression, he wasn’t a bad guy.

At first, Cherriot’s flirtations—despite Yuri also being an Alpha—had seemed endlessly frivolous. The fact that he had been involved in an affair with a gang boss’s lover had made Yuri dismiss him as trash. But after spending more than a day beside him, Yuri had observed a foolishly innocent side and an unnecessary kindness. His behavior might be light and careless, but considering he hadn’t intentionally become the other party in an affair, he didn’t seem like someone who went around causing pain. In fact, for someone with his fame, he knew how to say “thank you” and “sorry” with a generosity that could be called humble. Because of that, spending time with him was no longer uncomfortable. He could be dizzyingly chaotic—but honestly, that was amusing, too.

Could an impression of someone change this much in a single day? he wondered.

It was strange. All of Yuri’s relationships had been like bridges built over a lifetime, yet this was the first time his feelings toward someone had shifted so drastically, so quickly.

Opening his eyes, Yuri looked at Cherriot’s peaceful sleeping face for several more minutes before opening the book. The volume, read and reread, was worn on every edge, its thin cover long since faded. He ran his finger across the embossed gold letters.

What Men Live By.

His mother’s face flashed through his mind—her gentle voice, her clear pronunciation reading the title aloud. Noticing that he had grown bored while learning Russian, she had brought out a book instead of a textbook, read the title to him, and looked down with a mischievous smile.

“The first gift your father ever gave me was this book,” she had said. “Yuri, this is a secret I’ll tell only you—but the truth is, Mama had already read it. I didn’t want to disappoint your father, so I lied. I said I’d never read it and accepted the gift happily. Lying is bad, of course, but back then, I had no choice. Vasya’s face, smiling when he heard me, was too beautiful.”

Young Yuri had respected his father, though he knew his father was involved in bad things. He often could not understand how his mother, who worked to save people, had come to love him. Not wanting to sadden her, he hadn’t asked directly.

Instead, he had asked, “Mother, why did you come to like Father?”

At the question about their first meeting, his mother had smiled brightly. Thinking back, Katya had been only thirty then. It startled Yuri to realize that his parents—who had seemed so solid and permanent—had once been young.

He envisioned her innocent, smiling face as she recalled the moment. “I fell while walking down the street, and Vasya held out his hand to me.”

Katya’s arms had tightened around him, her warmth spreading. “The moment I saw the blue eyes looking down at me, I knew. Those blue eyes were the river I was destined to fall into.” Bowing her head, she had smiled down at Yuri’s own blue eyes, a mirror of his father’s. “Love comes in an instant. My little jewel, one day, you’ll know this feeling too.”

The air in the small cottage was cool, yet warm enough to invite sleep. Yuri withdrew his hand from the book and glanced at Cherriot on the sofa again. He wasn’t in the mood to read, so he slowly rose and turned off the living room light.

Click.

Yuri walked through the shadows and sat again at the darkened kitchen table. Moonlight seeped through the window, bathing Cherriot in a soft, silvery glow. His skin, like white silk, held a faint bluish sheen, making him look like an ethereal being from a myth.

Sitting in the darkness-laced silence, Yuri continued to watch him. The presence of this guest who had abruptly intruded into his solitary night felt immense. He thought of the strange experiences and sights they had shared today—and of how remarkably good that simple sandwich had been.

Strangely, he did not tire of looking at Cherriot’s face.

As he watched, replaying the memories that rose endlessly, Yuri eventually closed his eyes.

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