I grunt, more amused than offended. “Thinking of you. Of making sure they never come back.”
She rips the fabric away from the wound, wincing at the sight. The gash isn’t deep, but blood runs bright and insistent. She glances up at me, jaw clenched, lips trembling. “You’re an idiot,” she says. “You should let a doctor see this.”
I tip my head, letting her see the smile I don’t give to anyone else. “Why would I, when I have you?”
She scowls, but her hands are gentle as she dabs the blood away. The touch is careful, almost reverent. Each press of the cloth binds me tighter than any chain I’ve ever worn.
I could have called for a medic, barked an order, let my men tend to me. Instead, I sit motionless, watching the way her hands tremble, how she bites her lip in concentration. She is furious and terrified and so alive. The sight of her, so close, eclipses the pain.
The room fades to nothing but her. I watch the flutter of her pulse in her throat, the wet shine in her eyes, the way she refuses to look away even as she peels back the ruined shirt. She’s muttering now, half curses, half prayers. “You think you’re invincible. You’re not. You bleed like everyone else.”
I reach for her wrist, stilling her hand.
“Not like everyone else.” My voice is quiet, and for a moment, her anger softens. She lets me touch her, lets my thumb trace the line of her jaw. Her skin is cool, fevered from fear.
When she pulls back to tear open a packet of gauze, I memorize her face: the mixture of fury and worry, the stubborn set to her chin, the way she draws strength from rage. I have seen her fight for her life, scream my name into the dark, curse me to hell and back. Now, with the blood of my enemies drying on my hands, she binds my wound as if stitching together what’s left of both of us.
I watch every detail. The quick, efficient way she cleans around the edges. The way she presses the bandage, a little too hard, just to see if I’ll flinch. I don’t. I give her nothing but silence and the steady weight of my gaze.
Her hands slow as she tapes the bandage in place. She lingers, palm flat over the wound, as if to reassure herself I’m real, alive, here. I let her. I let her linger as long as she needs. My men could never do this. They’d patch me up and send me out to war again. She treats the pain as if it matters.
When she finally meets my eyes, I see something new. Not just worry, not just anger but something softer, rawer. I see myself in her reflection—not the monster she’s come to fear, but the man willing to bleed for her, to burn the city for her safety. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
I lift my hand, catching her wrist, pulling her closer. She hesitates, breath catching. “You don’t have to—” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “I want you to.”
She sags, tension leaving her all at once. I guide her to sit beside me. Our bodies brush. Her hair smells of soap, of the house we share. The house I’ve filled with violence to keep her safe.
She leans into me, her forehead pressing lightly to my shoulder. My own heart stutters, the pain in my side forgotten. This moment—her warmth, her fear, the bond in her trembling touch—is more binding than any vow I’ve spoken in my life.
For the first time, I do not see her as prey. She is not just mine to possess or punish. She is the reason for all of this. The blood, the risk, the war. She is the one person who makes it all make sense.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, careful not to press too hard. My strength fails me in that small, quiet way. I let her hold me as if she can keep me alive by will alone.
The mansion settles into silence around us, chaos finally receding. She breathes against my neck, heartbeat slowing as she realizes the danger is past, at least for tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Seraphina
I wake tangled in his sheets, sunlight prying at my eyelids. My hand finds the dip in the mattress beside me—warm, empty. My mind drifts to the night before: blood on my hands, anger in his eyes, the desperate gentleness with which he let me care for him. I sit up, hair a snarl, heart thudding harder than I’d like. The wound on his side is the first thing I think about, worry flooding me despite myself.
When I pad into the adjoining bath, I see him at the mirror, shirtless, fresh bandage blooming white across his ribs. He meets my gaze in the reflection, something unspoken passing between us. I busy myself with fussing over the first aid kit, pretending not to notice the way he watches me. The silence is thick, but not cold. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t bark orders. He just… waits.
I peel back the bandage, slow and careful, my fingertips brushing his skin. I study the wound longer than necessary, memorizing its angry edges, willing it to close. He’s far too still, letting me touch him in a way that feels intimate, even possessive. I try to look anywhere but his face, afraid he’ll see the mess inside me—the worry, the confusion, the tenderness I can’t smother.
When I finally risk a glance, his eyes are on me, clear and sharp. I flush, heart racing. I look away quickly, mumbling something about needing clean gauze. He says nothing, just lifts his arm a little higher, making it easier for me to work. There’s no smirk today. Only that quiet intensity, as if he’s memorizing my every move.
After I’ve finished, I linger a little too long, smoothing the tape, trailing my fingers over his skin. The urge to stay is a pulse I feel in my throat. Finally, I force myself to step back, clutching the first aid kit to my chest.
“I’ll, um, check it again tonight,” I say, my voice thin. He nods once, solemn. That’s it. He leaves to take a call, the door clicking quietly behind him.
For a while, I don’t move. I stand in the middle of his room, letting sunlight creep over the carpet, trying to remember who I was before I landed in this strange, gilded cage. The girl who would have run from all of this, who would have turned away from danger and never looked back. She feels impossibly far away.
Eventually, I make myself dress and slip out into the halls. The mansion hums with quiet life. Guards stand at attention, rifles slung across their chests, eyes trained on every doorway and window. When Miron passes, their posture straightens. Some nod respectfully, others just bow their heads as he sweeps past. I catch his name whispered in Russian, the words threading through the air like smoke. Some voices carry fear, others awe.
The staff moves with silent efficiency. Maids disappear around corners as soon as Miron enters a room. The chef brings meals to his study without ever meeting his eye. When I ask for something—fresh towels, coffee, even a book—someone appears, always polite, always a little wary. No one questions me. Not anymore. I walk through this house with his protection wrapped around me like a cloak.
I see it now in ways I hadn’t before. This isn’t just a house. It’s an empire. Miron isn’t just a man with power; he’s a ruler. His word turns wheels I can’t see, his anger makes men tremble,his favor is a currency everyone here seems desperate to earn. Even in his silence, he commands. Even in rest, he rules.
