“Yes, I am.”
“Try again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Dmitri—”
He moved before I could finish, not touching me, just crossing the space between us with a quiet, lethal calm that stole the strength from my knees. He reached out—slowly—and brushed a single strand of hair away from my cheek. Barely a touch. Soft enough to be mistaken for accidental. My breath stilled.
“If you step foot outside this house tonight,” he said, voice a low, dangerous promise, “they’ll try again, and I can't have that.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“You’re about to be.”
My pulse tripped over itself. “You say that like I don’t get a choice.”
“You do.” His thumb grazed my jaw. “You choose whether you sleep in the guest room or in my arms when you fall apart.”
My chest tightened. “I’m not falling apart.”
He tilted his head. “Aren’t you?”
I hated that my eyes pricked. I hated the comfort in his presence. I hated the heat curling low in my stomach just from his nearness. But most of all, I hated that when he touched me—even barely—I didn’t want to pull away. I stepped back because I had to, not because I wanted to.
“I’ll take the guest room,” I said firmly.
“Good.” He stepped away too, giving me space as if he could read the revolt happening inside me. “But you’re not closing the door.”
“Why not?” I snapped.
“Because I need to know you’re okay. See that you're fine. Someone tried to kill you. I won’t sleep unless I know you’re breathing. I don't want to break down the door to settle my curiosity that you're alive and well.”
My stomach twisted.
“You can crack the door, if you want,” he added. “But I’m not leaving you alone. Not tonight.”
I swallowed. Nodded once. Then turned and walked down the hall toward where I assumed the guest room was—heart pounding, hands still shaking, and every inch of me aware of the man who followed behind me like a shadow.
A protector.
A danger.
A promise I wasn’t ready to face.
Natasha
The guest room was too clean, too warm, too inviting to pretend this was temporary. The sheets smelled faintly like lavender and some deeper scent of a man who owned the space he walked through. I don’t know how long he’s been out, but everything in this apartment seemed to be saturated by his essence. How was that possible?
I sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around myself, trying not to let the shivers show. A soft knock sounded. Before I could tell him to come in, he already had. Dmitri stepped inside, holding a folded piece of black fabric in one hand.
“Here,” he said simply.
I hesitated. “What is it?”
“My shirt.” He unfolded a dark, oversized long-sleeve shirt that would fall halfway down my thighs.
