Page 205 of Celestial Combat

That the man who trained him – the Yakuza Boss I’d heard stories about, Akihiko – had also loved his mother. Had forged a letter that turned Aleksandr Ivanova into a ghost of what might’ve been.

That this man… Could be his father.

I looked over at him.

The dashboard lights lit the edges of his jaw, the hard line of his mouth. He looked carved from stone, hands on the wheel like they were the only things holding him together.

But I could see the stillness in his eyes wasn’t calm. It was absence. A quiet implosion.

I reached over and rested my hand lightly over his on the gear shifter. I felt the tension in his knuckles, the tightness in his skin.

He didn’t look at me. But after a moment, he laced our fingers together. Like I was his anchor. Like if he didn’t hold something real, he might disappear.

I couldn’t imagine what it felt like – to realize your life had been orchestrated from the shadows by people you were supposed to trust. A mother who died young. A man you called your mentor. A stranger who still carried your mother’s picture in his wallet like it was sacred.

The trees thickened around us, the forest folding in. The road narrowed and vanished behind us in a haze of churned snow and exhaust. It felt like we were the only people left in the world – two shadows sliding through an endless winter.

The silence had weight.

It stretched between us like a live wire, humming with something raw and close to breaking. Zane hadn’t said a word since we pulled away from that goddamn bar, and I didn’t press. Not yet. His jaw was locked tight, muscle twitching in his cheek. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, fingers like iron. The headlights carved a pale tunnel through the Siberian dark, but it felt like we were sinking – no destination, just momentum.

And then –bing– something blinked on the dash.

A warning light, amber and pulsing low, glowed on the console. Zane cursed under his breath and let go of my hand to pull the SUV over, tires crunching through ice-packed gravel. He parked at the edge of the woods where the snow was thick and undisturbed, and killed the engine.

For five long seconds, we sat in complete silence. No hum from the heater. No lights. Just the creak of settling metal and the endless, eerie quiet of the Siberian night pressing in from every direction.

And then Zane exploded.

He slammed his fist into the wheel over and over again, curse after curse leaving him.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. I knew he needed to let it burn through. Make space for the rage or it would rot from the inside.

His chest heaved as he calmed down again and turned the key again.

The SUV purred back to life like nothing had ever happened.

Just a glitch; false alarm.

Zane sighed, bitter and hollow.

I reached over and slowly, without a word, ran my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

I didn’t say anything – just tugged gently until he leaned toward me. His body gave in like the weight had finally gotten too heavy to carry. His head dropped to my chest, face turned toward the hollow of my collarbone, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him like I could protect him from everything he didn’t want to say.

His arms settled around my waist, like he needed something to hold that wouldn’t shift beneath him. I kept one hand pressed to his back, rubbing slow, steady circles through the thick layers of his jacket. The other I wove into his hair, massaging gently.

The air was cold around us, but in that moment, inside the stillness of the SUV, it didn’t matter. The windows fogged slowly from our breath, turning the world outside to a blur of frost and shadow.

I listened to him breathe, deep and uneven at first, until it softened. Evened. Settled.

His eyes met mine, and I could see it – he looked tired. Not just from the night, or the revelation, or the road.

But from the kind of exhaustion that comes from years of carrying too much and being allowed to feel too little.

I cupped his face in both hands, letting my thumbs brush the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “I know you’re probably not in the mood to celebrate your birthday,” I said softly. “And I feel a bit awkward wishing you a happy birthday right now.”

A soft breath of amusement left him.

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