I washed my hands at the fountain by the roadside. I took her hand. But this was not just holding hands—it was forming a bond. It was like a vow.
Her fingers slipped tightly between mine. We continued walking toward the crowded parts of the market.
As our footsteps echoed on the pavement stones along the way, a battle raged inside me that couldn't be put into words.
Irina's hand was still in mine. Thin, delicate, but surprisingly warm.
But somewhere inside me... there was something else lurking like a shadow.
A fear.
Like a caged animal.
It wasn't a feeling I couldn't name, but rather one that was very familiar: The Fear Of Loss.
I knew this came from my childhood.
After I kill my father, during those cruel nights... I learned that everything could be taken away from me in an instant.
And now, that feeling had returned.
But this time, what I didn't want to lose was more than just a simple woman.
This woman... Irina... was My Woman.
And this feeling of possession was intensifying to the point that it would sometimes turn into an unhealthy obsession.
Lost in my thoughts, I felt Irina's lips touch my cheek.
My face turned to her. She had lifted her head and was looking at me.
Her cheeks were flushed. In her beautiful red eyes, there was a sparkle of both embarrassment and affection, and a hint of mischief.
There was such a smile on her face... it carried the complex excitement of a woman being loved sincerely and deeply for the first time.
"My Wolf-eyed Handsome One..."
Her voice was like a whisper, but it held a confession.
Then she suddenly buried her face in my chest, shaking me with her hands.
"The way you claim me... that look in your eyes..."
Her breath hit my throat.
"...is so seductive."
I froze.
It was the first time I had seen her so embarrassed, so... openly sharing her intimate feelings.
She was blushing to hee ears.
But my eyes could clearly see the fire burning inside her.
She had surrendered herself to me.
Not just her body—her heart, her pride, her honor... She had given me everything.
I reached for her hair.
Silky white strands slipped through my fingers.
I began to stroke them gently, as if I wanted that moment to last forever.
This woman was my destiny.
It was true what she said. Wolves have only one mate throughout their lives and protect them to the death. If their mate dies, they stop eating and die within a few weeks. Moreover, wolves are the only creatures that pursue revenge until the end of their lives.
Walking together, we came to a restaurant that was clearly newly opened, its exterior carefully designed. Red and white ribbons were still attached to the stone walls next to the entrance door. Traces of the war were visible here and there; it was clear that the opening had taken place a few days ago. A yellow brass sign gleamed above the door: "Pavlyuchenko Restaurant — A Modern Interpretation of Traditional Flavors."
Irina leaned into my arm even more tightly. The excited smile on her face showed how much she had missed places like this.
As we entered the door, a soft jazz melody accompanied by piano filled our ears.
The restaurant was even more beautiful inside:
Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a golden light, creating an elegant atmosphere along with the white tablecloths on the tables.
Half the tables were occupied. Mostly middle-aged couples, elderly spouses, families with small children...
But everyone spoke quietly and politely. This place was truly peaceful.
Just then, a smartly dressed, gray-haired man approached. He wore a dark navy vest, a white shirt, and perfectly pressed trousers.
The man stood upright, taking each step deliberately.
He looked us up and down, but did so with a polite smile and professionally.
"Good evening, sir, ma'am. Please allow us to seat guests as distinguished as yourselves in our most exclusive area."
He politely gestured the way and led us to the back of the restaurant, to a more private area with semi-enclosed booths.
As we walked silently along the way, I felt the brief but admiring glances of the other guests around us.
The table he led us to was in the farthest corner of the restaurant. It was surrounded by dark walnut-colored, carved wooden panels.
There was even a glass window extending from inside to the sky with a semi-open booth system.
On the table were crystal glass carafes, silver-edged menus, and a pair of flickering candles.
Two large, soft leather armchairs were positioned on either side of the table.
It was, in every sense, a private dining area.
After the man gave a slight nod and walked away, I pulled out my chair and sat down.
Irina also bowed her head gracefully and sat down, adjusting her flowing skirt. She was across from me, and my eyes were on her.
A soft candlelight surrounded the table. The dark walnut surface shone beneath the crystal wine glasses, silently reflecting every glance between us. The silence wasn't profound—the melody from the piano still reached our ears from afar, but it was distant enough not to interfere with our conversation.
Just then, a young waiter in a black jacket with neatly combed hair approached our booth with deliberate steps. His uniform was spotless, the silver buttons gleaming slightly. In one hand, he carried an elegant menu with a hard cover.
"Good evening, sir," he said in a polite tone, bowing slightly as he handed me the menu.
My eyes scanned the menu, and I slowly turned the pages. The dishes offered were both traditional and modern in their approach. The edges of the pages were decorated with mother-of-pearl patterns, and the prices were written small but legibly on the side of the page—most were valued in wine, lead, or bullets. The new world's trade language was no longer gold, but ammunition.
"I'll have..." I said, glancing at the menu once more.
"...lamb liver cooked on the grill. With a classic Russian salad on the side. And—"
My eyes slowly turned to Irina.
"...a bottle of red wine. For us."
Irina adjusted the collar of her silk dress, then gently took the menu offered to her. She glanced at the menu for a few seconds, then placed her order with a soft smile on her lips:
"I'll have the fried chicken breast. And... Russian salad on the side."
The waiter quickly jotted down notes in his small notebook. Then, bowing his head, he said, "Thank you. Your orders will be ready shortly," and turned away with professional grace.
We were left alone. The flame of the candle on the table flickered slightly. Irina looked at me. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the depth of her gaze leaving a silent echo within me. She gently caressed the stem of her glass with her fingertips and spoke almost in a whisper:
"You know... Sitting here with you... feels like a miracle amid the war and destruction. It's as if the outside world doesn't exist. It's just us."
Hearing her words, a slight smile appeared on my lips. I reached my hand across the table and touched hers.
"The moment I hold your hand, it really feels that way. No matter what's going on outside, everything falls silent when I'm with you. Maybe you're my only refuge, Irina."
After my words, she bowed her head slightly, her eyes darting to her glass. The blush on her cheek was even more pronounced in the candlelight. Then, in a low voice, shy but sincere, she continued:
"Sometimes I think... Maybe this world is trying to consume us. But if I hold on to you, I'm not afraid of anything. Because when I'm with you... I feel safe for the first time."
Then, narrowing her eyes slightly, she added with a seductive smile:
"And... it's very selfish, but... I don't want to share you with anyone."
Her words spread warmth inside me. Smiling, I took her hand in mine, intertwining my fingers with hers.
"It's not selfishness. I feel the same way. You are my everything, Irina. Even if the candle on this world goes out, your light will always burn inside me."
Irina slowly raised her head and fixed her eyes on me again. She wrapped her fingers more tightly around mine.
Just then, the waiter returned, this time carrying a large silver tray with both hands. Behind him was another, slender assistant waiter.
The first waiter carefully placed the tray on the table and began arranging the plates one by one with great care.
He placed the plate of liver on the hot griddle in front of me. The liver smelled wonderful, mixed with finely chopped onions; it was perfectly seasoned, and the parsley sprinkled on top made it even more appetizing. The Russian salad next to it had a creamy texture and was chilled to perfection.
The fried chicken breast placed in front of Irina was golden brown. It was lightly glazed with butter and served with slices of boiled potatoes. The Russian salad was also carefully placed on her plate.
Finally, the red wine.
The waiter carefully opened the bottle. The soft pop of the cork from the bottle showed the waiter's training. Then he bent down and elegantly poured the wine first into my glass, then into Irina's.
Everything was just as it should be.
Nothing missing, nothing extra.
Then he made eye contact with us again, said, "Enjoy your meal, sir," and slowly left the booth.
I cut a piece of liver, slowly picked it up with my fork, and brought it to my mouth. With the very first bite, I felt the meat melt on my palate. The flavor, combined with the lightly roasted onion, gently enveloped my palate. The salt level was just right, the spices neither lacking nor excessive—the soft texture was so beautiful that it almost reminded me of the meals my mother cooked when I was a child.
Just then, Irina also cut a piece of chicken from her plate. She carefully brought it to her mouth, her eyelids closing for a moment as she chewed slowly.
When her eyes opened again, there was a small sparkle in them—a mixture of satisfaction and surprise.
"This meat tastes... truly excellent," she said slowly, her voice almost a whisper. Then she tilted her head slightly to the side and turned to me with a mischievous smile on her face.
There was a tiny piece of chicken on the fork in her hand; she extended the fork toward me, her lips curving.
"Say 'Aaaah,' My Handsome Lord," she said, her voice carrying a sweet playfulness.
I chuckled softly, but didn't take my eyes off her.
"At your command, Lady Irina," I said. I opened my mouth slightly and took the morsel from the fork.
The outside of the chicken was crispy, but the inside... the inside had an almost creamy texture. It had been marinated in a light, onion-based sauce; it was so balanced that I didn't feel any excess on my tongue.
It wasn't food, it was a feeling—a satisfaction mixed with longing.
I looked into her eyes, and with the same playfulness, I cut a piece from the liver.
"Now it's your turn," I said, extending the fork toward her.
Irina tilted her head slightly forward, extended her lips, and took the meat from the fork. She closed her eyes as she chewed, turning her head slightly to the side.
"Hmm... this is really delicious," she said, leaning toward me:
"I wish every day could be like this with you. Separated from the outside world, a peaceful place reserved just for the two of us."
After laughing together, we locked eyes for a few seconds. Then my hand slowly reached for the wine glass. As I lifted the glass slightly, my eyes were fixed on hers—there was both warmth and mystery in the crimson sparkles.
Irina raised her glass too. Her fingers gracefully grasped the glass body, and the light reflecting softly in the wine gave her cheekbones a delicate tone. When our glasses clinked together, there was an elegant, resonant "clink"—as if the world had stopped for a moment and we were only in that moment.
I took a small sip from my glass. The taste began with a sharp tartness, but then a fruity, deep flavor flowed down my throat. It was a quality wine; there was no cheap bitterness, no excess.
Irina took a sip too, then placed her glass back down, lightly licking her lips. I slowly placed my glass on the table and locked eyes with her again.
"Irina," I said, my voice a little slower, a little deeper. "I want to get to know you better. I'm interested not only in who you are today, but also in your past. Will you tell me about your childhood?"
Irina bowed her head. Her eyes darkened for a moment, she placed her finger on the rim of her glass and began to trace it lightly across the glass—as if redrawing her past with her fingertips.
She was silent for a moment. Then her voice rose, almost a whisper, but each word heavy and laden with meaning:
"I don't know... Where should I start?" she said. Her eyes were still on the glass. "I don't have very clear memories of my childhood. My earliest memory is waking up in a cold bed. The smell of dampness on the walls and the dark, gray windows..."
Her voice didn't tremble, but there was a coldness in it, like traces of the past—she was neither a crying child nor someone complaining about life.
She was just telling her story. Calm but profound.
"I never knew my mother or father," she said, her shoulders dropping imperceptibly. "They left me when I was very young... or maybe I should say they abandoned me. I don't know. There weren't even any documents."
She looked at her glass again, then raised her eyes to me. This time there was strength in her gaze.
"I was sent to an orphanage. Concrete walls, heartless fake mothers who only cared about money, and the same food every day... At first, I cried every night, thinking my mom and dad would come back. Then I forgot how to cry."
After a short pause, she continued:
"I was good at school. Very good. My teachers always praised me. Maybe I thought the best way to be loved was to be 'Perfect'. I never caused any trouble. Always top marks. Always at the front. But inside I was empty".
Irina lowered her eyes. Her fingers traced the edge of the table for a moment, then stopped. When she turned her eyes back to me, there was a bit of the coldness of the past in her gaze, and a bit of anger that still lived there.
"When I moved up to ninth grade, the orphanage director called me into his office," she said slowly. "There was an envelope in front of me. Sealed, it was clearly official government business. He told me a recommendation letter had been written for me and that my future would now change. I had been selected. I was to be included in a so-called 'Special Education Program'. They took me to Moscow... but there was no school and no promise of a future. Only gray walls, barbed wire, military discipline, and absolute silence..."
A faint, bitter smile appeared on her face—there was a hint of mockery mixed with pain in that smile.
"It was just a GRU camp where women were trained. There were over a hundred girls behind those walls. Just like me... homeless, directionless, and easily manipulated."
Her eyes drifted into the distance, her words becoming a little heavier.
"In the early days, they put us to the test. Mind games, memory tests, scenarios based on logical decision-making... It was all very cold, very mechanical. They measured our spoken language, even looked at our accents. Those who couldn't speak Russian properly were sent away immediately. Half the group was eliminated in the first selection. The rest of us... were sent straight to the military barracks."
She paused. She took a short breath through her nose, her fingers reaching for the wine glass but not touching it.
"After that day... hell began. We would get up before sunrise. Even our shoes would be freezing cold. We were made to run for hours. Those who fell behind had their food cut off, they weren't even given water. Then the close combat training began. They taught us how to punch, how to choke, how to kill silently with a knife. At first, it just seemed like self-defense. But after a week, the instructors started standing in front of us with looks that said 'Kill Or Be Killed'."
Her eyes locked onto mine. There were no tears in them, but they said so much...
"Then the weapons came. Pistols, rifles, sniper rifles. We memorized every part, how to take them apart in any situation, how to attach a silencer, how to sabotage them... Even if you were sleep-deprived, hungry, or exhausted, you couldn't make a mistake with your weapon. Because it wasn't a school; it was a selection camp. Anyone who showed weakness wouldn't be seen again."
There was a brief silence. The candle flame on the table flickered, as if the air grew heavier with every word she spoke. Irina's voice remained steady, but the tension in her body was evident in her trembling hand. Her eyes were fixed not on me, but on the wine glass in front of her. But she wasn't even there anymore; she was in the past.
"Years passed… When the first assignments came, the targets were simple. Smugglers, arms dealers, former soldiers. We were cleaning up those walking the edge of justice. But then the edge disappeared. Women talking to their children, journalists saying the wrong thing in the wrong place, scientists critical of the government were added to the lists. We were no longer soldiers, but the state's silencing mechanism. Our hearts were silenced. Those who objected were eliminated."
She took a sip of her wine. Her hand no longer trembled. Her face was expressionless; it was the face of someone who had been forced to bury her emotions for years.
"The missions grew heavier. Anti-terror operations, intelligence surveillance, secret executions, political raids... I was in Europe many times. Germany, France, Sweden... Our goal was not to draw maps, but to mark strategic targets before the nuclear hell. The pieces for the final war had already been laid out in those years."
Irina took a deep breath. It was as if the part she was about to tell was one of the heaviest burdens she carried. Her eyes fell to the table, her voice low but determined.
"Before the nuclear attack, I was assigned to protect a general in the GRU's underground shelter in Torzhok. That man... someone who had given me orders for years, someone I had followed... That night, he dropped his mask. He tried to take me."
Her voice cracked, but not a single tear fell from her eyes. Before me stood a woman who was still tough, still standing tall.
"I gave him the sharpest punishment of his life," she said. There was no tremor in her voice; her words were cold and sharp as a dagger. "Silently... calmly. I didn't let him scream, nor did I let him beg for mercy. I silenced everything. When I left the shelter, I was alone. I burned my identity. I buried my past in the ground."
Irina paused briefly, then continued, her gaze drifting slightly into the distance:
"I found a small surviving village near Staritsa. There were thirty or forty people, and I lived a relatively peaceful life. Until Federov came to our village. At first, they acted friendly, offering food, goods, bartering... But one day he came and said he would protect the village. In return, he demanded payment from us. This was clearly extortion."
She pressed her lips together, a cold glint reappearing in her eyes.
"We resisted him. But he had too many men. They burned the entire village, killed three people. The rest of us had to flee. I started hunting down Federov's men. That's why Federov started doing everything he could to kill me."
When she finished speaking, the stern expression on her face slowly softened. Suddenly, it was as if someone completely different from that unbreakable woman hidden inside had emerged. A sincere smile settled on her lips.
And then she turned to me. She winked, her gaze playful.
"Then I met my handsome prince. It was a rather PASSİONATE encounter, or Bloody..."
Her smile was seductive; her eyes held both the shadows of the past and a new sparkle dedicated to me. Then she silently raised the glass in her hand and drained the red wine in one gulp. Her fingers lightly touched the crystal glass's body. She raised her eyes. Her gaze pierced mine; it was as if she wanted to reach my deepest core.
"Now it's your turn, Aleksey," she said. "I want to know your past. Who My Handsome Prince is..."
The words echoed in my mind. My true self, the blood coursing through my veins, was trapped inside a body that did not belong to me at this table. This era, this city, this body... None of it belonged to me. The memories my soul carried were foreign to the time I found myself in. But I would never tell him the truth. I was happy as I was now, and I wouldn't do something as foolish as losing that happiness.
I looked at my glass. The red liquid glowed like a dark ruby in the candlelight. It was as if every drop inside was words I couldn't swallow. I took a silent sip. In the tartness of the wine, there was the shadow of the past I had suppressed within myself.