My hand moved before my head agreed, and I pressed my palm to the cut. His hair grazed my knuckles, and his skin wasn't cold like I'd thought it would be. He watched me like a man gauging how much he should trust.
"Don't be reckless," I said, my voice shaking. "You could've been hit."
"I know," he said. Then, "And you could stop praying." I was almost amused.
"I'm not praying, I'm helping." I grabbed a napkin, tore it, though my hands were clumsy.
"You're touching me without being ordered. Progress," he said, smirking.
"Don't be an ass." I dabbed. The napkin shredded. The blood wasn't much, but it felt like an accusation. He'd risked himself for me. And something in my chest tightened.
"You're impossible," I muttered.
"And you're stubborn," he said. He leaned close. His breath brushed my face, and I felt pulled toward him like a tide.
"Why keep me if it draws fire?" I asked. "If it hurts people?"
He didn't answer at once. But when he did, his voice was a dangerous whisper. "Because I don't let go of things I want."
"You want me?" I asked, though scared to hear the answer.
He looked at me like it was the only fact he needed. "You're mine."
I pressed the napkin harder, trying to breathe. He reached up, slowly and deliberately brushing the corner of my lips with his thumb. My heart tripped.
"Don't," I breathed.
He gave a soft predator smile. "You're finally touching me without throwing a fit; it’s new."
"You enjoy tormenting me," I snapped.
He closed the space between us. "
I enjoy making you feel wanted, safe, and if you let me," he said, "making you feel alive."
I pushed his chest, and he let me. He wanted the fight, but I wanted to believe I didn't need his kind of safety.
Then his thumb traced my lower lip. And he kissed me. It was harsh and demanding. "Stop," I said, but he laughed in my mouth. "Let me," he breathed.
Then something inside me broke, the armor slid away, and I let him pull me closer.
**********
The room felt too small after the kiss… too fragile. Like, even breathing might shatter it. I lay on the edge of the wide bed hours later, staring at the ceiling, the words ‘you're mine’ running in endless circles through my head.
His claim clung closer to me than the sheets. Was this captivity? Or was it something darker, something I didn't want to name? The safety I'd felt when his arms had been around me and the world was breaking outside confused me.
I turned onto my side, watching the faint glow from the broken window where the curtains swayed in the night air. The city outside was restless, and I could hear cars, distant sirens, and the occasional shout that carried through the streets. Every sound made my pulse jump.
Viktor sat in a chair near the window, his jacket was off, and a gun was resting on his thigh. He hadn't moved for an hour, maybe more. His eyes flickered to the window every few minutes, as if expecting another bullet to pierce the night.
"You should sleep," he said without looking at me.
I swallowed, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted. "And you?"
"I don't sleep when the walls are open." His eyes cut toward the broken pane, shards still clinging to the frame. His jaw flexed. "That shot wasn't the end. It was a message."
A chill ran down my spine. "From whom?"
