She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
My arm found its way around her waist. I didn’t think. I just moved, pulled her a little closer, feeling her body melt into mine like it had always known how.
She didn’t flinch. She leaned in, like her bones had been waiting for mine to press against them.
And that was it.
That was the moment.
My pulse slowed to match hers, our chests rising and falling in time like some fragile rhythm neither of us had intended to share. I breathed her in—vanilla and sleep and maybe something sweeter underneath—and felt the tight coil of tension start to unwind inside me.
She made me feel like I could be gentle. Like I wanted to be.
Sleep pulled at the edges of my mind, but I fought it for a few seconds longer—just to memorize how this felt. The softness. The closeness. The unbearable rightness of it.
Then I let go.
Just for tonight.
Just this once.
I didn’t know how, but the nightmares didn’t come when she was beside me. The shadows stayed quiet; the memories stayed buried, and the violence that usually clawed its way into my sleep never showed its face.
With her curled against me, the darkness receded like it knew better—like her presence rewrote the script before it could start.
All that remained was warmth, breath, and the steady rhythm of a peace I hadn’t felt in years.
Chapter 11
Mina
I woke up slowly, the way you do when the air is still warm and the blanket’s the perfect weight and everything feels right—before your brain fully catches up and reminds you that life is, in fact, a circus on fire.
The room was quiet, soft light bleeding in through the blinds in sleepy stripes. My body felt… good. Too good. Like I was being gently held, tucked in and treasured.
And then I realized why.
There were arms around me. Strong arms.
My brain, still fogged with sleep, caught up just enough to register warmth pressed all along my back, and something firm beneath my cheek. Something that was definitely not a pillow. I blinked.
A bare chest.
Nikolai’s bare chest.
Stomach. Flip. Complete internal meltdown initiated.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My brain screamed silently, waving little red flags of panic while my body was like, shhh, this is nice, let’s just vibe. And vibe I did—for like a solid thirty seconds, taking inventory of every terrifyingly attractive detail.
He was so warm. His chest rose and fell in this slow, steady rhythm that brushed against my cheek every time he exhaled. His skin was smooth, tan, and stretched tight over muscle. Not gym-muscle. Not influencer thirst-trap muscle. Functional muscle. Hockey player muscle. The kind earned in brutal 6 a.m. workouts and late-night fights on the ice.
I tilted my head the tiniest bit, like a stealthy raccoon trying not to wake the sleeping bear. My gaze traveled across his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the sharp definition of his bicep where it rested around my waist. The dip between his pecs was absurd—like something airbrushed onto a Calvin Klein model. Except this was real.
This was my life.
How did this happen again? Oh right. Emotional chaos, a ruined relationship, a bet I never asked to be part of—and somehow I ended up wrapped in Nikolai Volkov’s actual arms.
And despite the thousand mental alarms blaring in my head… I didn’t want to move. Not yet.
