"You asked me once why I was helping you. Why I'd risk everything for revenge that wasn't mine." I cup her face, careful of the bruises. "The truth is, it stopped being just about revenge the second night. It stopped being about Troskoy or the Bratva or any of it."
"Then what's it about?"
"You." The word comes out fierce. "It's about you, and the way you make me feel alive again. It's about waking up next to you and thinking maybe I'm not just a weapon. Maybe I'm still human. Maybe I deserve something good."
Tears shine in her eyes. "Konstantin..."
"I love you." I've never said those words to anyone. Never thought I'd mean them. "I love you, and I'm not letting anyone take you from me. Not Troskoy, not Leonid or the Vasiliev’s, not God himself."
She launches herself across the console, kissing me hard enough to bruise. I kiss her back just as fiercely, pouring six years of emptiness and three days of purpose into it.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I love you too," she says against my mouth. "Even though you're dramatic as hell."
I laugh, surprised by the sound. "Says the woman who spent six years planning an elaborate revenge and landed on poisoning."
"Fair point." She grins, then winces, hand going to her throat.
The reminder of Troskoy's hands on her kills my amusement instantly.
"Let's get you inside," I say. "I have medical supplies. I'll take care of those bruises."
The cottage is small but well-stocked. I've kept it maintained over the years, just in case. Now I'm grateful for the paranoia that made me prepare for the worst.
I settle Emilia on the couch, then retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. When I return, she's looking around the space with curiosity.
"How long have you had this place?" she asks.
"Three years. Maybe four." I kneel in front of her, opening the kit. "Tilt your head back."
She does, exposing her throat. The bruises are worse in the light, dark and vicious against her pale skin.
Rage threatens to choke me.
"Konstantin." Her hand covers mine. "I'm okay."
"He had his hands on your throat." My voice comes out rough. "Another minute and..."
"But he didn't. You got there in time." She guides my hand to her pulse point. "Feel that? I'm alive. We both are."
I press my fingers against her pulse, feeling the steady beat. Alive. Safe. Mine.
I lean forward, press the gentlest kiss to the bruises. Then another. And another. Marking each place Troskoy touched with something softer. Something that says mine, not in violence but in worship.
Emilia's breath hitches.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"No." Her voice has gone breathless. "Feels good."
I look up at her, and the heat in her eyes nearly undoes me.
"We should rest," I say, even though rest is the last thing I want. "It's been a long day."
"I don't want to rest." She slides her fingers into my hair. "I want you."
"Emilia..."
