His eyes finally meet mine, pale and shattered and beautiful in their destruction.
"You're not him," I say firmly.
"I AM…"
"You stopped." I keep his face trapped between my palms. "You're here, on your knees, sobbing and apologizing. Did Viktor ever apologize?"
"Nikogda." Never.
"Did he ever recognize what he was doing as wrong?"
"No.He thought it was his right."
"Then you're not him." I shift closer, our foreheads touching, his breath hot against my mouth. "You saw what you were becoming and stopped. That's the difference."
"How can you forgive me?"
"I forgive you because I choose to," I say.
We stay there on the porch until his sobs quiet to shuddering breaths. When he's empty, wrung out and hollow, I help him to his feet.
Inside, I make him eat. Badly cooked eggs that would make Maria weep, but he chokes them down anyway. We sit on the old couch while afternoon light slants through dusty windows.
He tells me about his mother before Viktor broke her. Her laugh, her terrible violin playing, the Russian lullabies she'd sing. The woman she could have been.
"She would have liked you," he says suddenly.
"You think?"
"She always hoped I'd find someone strong enough to fight back."
He takes my hands, grip desperate. "I will never treat you that way again. Never. You'll never kneel unless you choose to. Never fear me. I'll spend whatever time we have earning what you've given me."
The promise settles between us, heavy and real.
That night, we make love in the bed that was never Mikhail's but feels haunted anyway. It's nothing like before. No violence, no games. His hands tremble as they relearn my body without possession. When he enters me, it's with a gentleness that makes me cry.
After, tangled in sheets, I check the windows one more time. Still unsecured, still vulnerable. Tomorrow we'll have to face Moscow, funerals, consequences. But tonight, in this lakehouse full of ghosts, we're just two broken people holding each other together.
My knife rests under the mattress where I transferred it from my thigh holster when we arrived, muscle memory from all those nights in Alexei's bedroom. Even in his arms, even feeling safer than I've ever been, I'm still who Nico trained me to be.
It's terrifying and perfect and completely fucked up.
Which makes it exactly right for us.
His hand slides up my thigh in his sleep, fingers tightening possessively even in dreams. My body responds instantly. Nipples hardening, pussy clenching with that familiar ache. I realize with dark satisfaction that his promise to never make me kneel again doesn't mean he's stopped being dangerous.
The thought makes me wet, makes me press back against him until I feel his cock hardening against my ass. He stirs, not quite awake, but his hand moves higher, fingers brushing the heat between my legs. Even unconscious, even broken by grief and guilt, he still owns my body's responses.
"Sofia," he murmurs, half-asleep, and there's something in his voice. Possession, need, that edge of violence that will never fully disappear.
Good. I don't want it to.
Because the truth is, I need him dangerous. Need that threat always lurking beneath his tenderness. It's what makes my heart race, what makes me feel alive in ways nothing else can.
His teeth graze my throat, and I arch into him, already imagining tomorrow. How grief might sharpen his edges again, how his promises might bend but not break, how I'll let him take me apart and put me back together in ways that would horrify anyone who claims to love me.
My fingers drift to the mattress edge where my knife handle rests, not for protection but for the reminder. I'm choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing to kneel when he inevitably asks again, despite his promises.
