My gaze drifted lower, past the lines of muscle and down to the unexpected.
Scars.
Faint, silvery things that cut across the warm tones of his skin like soft echoes of old pain. One curved across the side of his ribs. Another slashed diagonally over his chest, just beneath his collarbone. Some were short, shallow. Others deeper, older. Faded battle lines from a life built on ice and impact.
They weren’t ugly. They didn’t make me flinch.
They made me ache.
Because these weren’t just injuries—they were stories. Silent proof of how much he had endured. I wondered how many people had ever seen them. Really seen them. Not just the surface of him—the stoic scowl and deadly reputation—but these quiet truths etched into his skin.
And suddenly, I wanted to know them. Every single one. Where he’d gotten them. What they cost him.
I shifted, ever so slightly, my fingers hovering above the closest one. I didn’t even think before reaching out.
My fingertips barely brushed across the scar that ran along his ribs. His skin was warm and smooth beneath my touch, and the moment felt suspended in glass—fragile and glittering, like one wrong breath would shatter it.
My heart pounded. What was I doing?
And yet, before I could stop myself—again—I leaned in and kissed it.
Just a light press of my lips. No drama. No grand gesture. Just… reverence. Gratitude. Curiosity. A kiss for what he’d survived.
And then, because I was either completely brave or completely doomed, I kissed another. A tiny one near his sternum.
Then a third.
Because I’d apparently lost all impulse control when it came to Nikolai Volkov’s chest.
That was when he stirred.
His breathing hitched. The arm around my waist tensed ever so slightly. His fingers flexed.
And I froze.
My lips still hovered just above the last scar I’d kissed, and all I could think was Abort mission, Mina. ABORT.
Too late.
His eyes opened.
His eyes opened slowly.
No rush. No shock. Just this quiet, bleary blink as his lashes lifted, and the deepest pair of storm-colored eyes I’d ever seen landed straight on me.
I froze like a guilty raccoon caught with both paws in the cookie jar.
For a beat—just one long, trembling beat—neither of us moved.
The air between us felt electric, like it was holding its breath along with me. His gaze flicked down, just briefly, to where my hand still rested lightly against his ribs. Where my lips had definitely just been. Then back up.
I thought maybe he’d ask. Maybe he’d say what the hell are you doing? Or pull away.
Instead, he moved.
His arm flexed, pulling me flush against him in one fluid motion, and before I could even squeak in protest, his mouth found mine.
The world shattered. In the best way.
