I continue, letting the truth edge through the tension, “You’re the only thing I remember from that night. Every look, every laugh, every breath…the things you made me feel. They didn’t fade. They don’t fade.”
I hold her eyes, letting the weight of it hang between us, knowing she can’t dismiss the rawness in my words.
She narrows her eyes, her voice clipped. “You’re lying.”
Then she snaps the book shut, stands, and turns for the door.
I move before I even think about it. Two long strides, my hand braced against the shelf beside her head. The wood trembles faintly under my palm as I pin her there—not hurting, but blocking her escape. Her back grazes the books, her breath hitching. We’re inches apart, her scent slipping under my skin like a drug.
“You’re going to be my wife very soon,” I tell her quietly, my voice like gravel and steel. “And I won’t wait for anything after that.”
Her chin tips up defiantly, but her eyes betray a flicker of heat.
“I want you,” I continue, leaning in just enough for my breath to ghost her lips, “the same way you want me. Stop pretending you don’t. It’ll be easier if you accept it—if you give in.”
The silence between us hums like a live wire, the closeness heavy, dangerous.
Sasha’s palms slam against my chest with more force than I expect. I let her shove me back a step, my hand sliding off the shelf. Her breath comes fast, cheeks flushed, eyes dark—not just with fury but something else, something she’s fighting to bury.
“Stay away from me, Lev,” she snaps, voice sharp but trembling at the edges. “Now, and after the wedding. This”—she gestures between us, as if the air itself is contaminated—“this means nothing. I’m only marrying you to keep myself safe. That’s all. This marriage means nothing to me at all.”
Her words land like a blade. But even as she spits them, her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, her pulse fluttering at her throat. I see it. The fight, the denial. The hunger she’s trying to kill.
I don’t move closer, not yet. I just watch her, my hands flexing at my sides, jaw tight. The space between us feels like a battlefield—her words against my restraint, her defiance against my desire.
Slowly, the edge of my mouth curls into a smile. “I’ll let you sleep on that,” I murmur, my voice velvety, but there’s steel under it. “Get some rest, Sasha. Tomorrow…” I tilt my head slightly, my eyes never leaving hers, “…tomorrow you stop running from me. And I will catch you.”
I turn and leave without waiting for her reply.
Chapter 11 – Sasha
I blink awake to the soft glow of early morning spilling through the curtains. As I slowly sit up, my eyes immediately find it—hanging there on the closet door like a silent accusation. The wedding dress Lev picked for me. Of all the options he sent, I chose it. Gold. Shimmering, perfect. Beautiful. Dangerous.
I leave the bed and approach the door slowly, my fingers grazing the fabric, tracing the intricate beading and the smooth weight. My chest tightens, part anger, part awe. I could burn it right now, throw it into the fireplace and reclaim some sense of control. But I can’t shake the thought that the moment I step into it, I’ll be unstoppable. Devastatingly beautiful. And in a way, that’s how I want to claim my power.
My reflection in the mirror catches me, and I flinch at the contradiction staring back. The girl who wants nothing to do with Lev, who swore she wouldn’t care, who hates how he makes her pulse skip…and yet, the girl who can already see the fire in his eyes when he sees her in this dress.
I let my fingers linger over the fabric a second longer, torn between the fury I feel and the shiver that runs down my spine. I hate that I’m even considering it. But a part of me—maybe the part that’s been chasing him since Milan—knows exactly what will happen when I wear it. And it terrifies me.
I leave the dress where it hangs, like it’s watching me, and retreat into the bathroom. The tile is cold under my feet, but the water hisses to life as I twist the knob all the way to hot. Steam rises fast, curling against the mirror, blurring my reflection. I step under the spray and let it burn.
It scalds my skin, but I welcome the sting. It’s the only thing that feels real right now—heat, pressure, the roar of water drowning out everything else. For a moment, I imagine itwashing the Bratva off me, washing Lev off me, scrubbing my father’s signature from some cursed piece of paper.
When the water finally runs cooler, I step out and wrap myself in a towel, my hair dripping down my back, my skin flushed from the heat. I brush my teeth mechanically, eyes fixed on the fogged mirror, and when I emerge back into the room, the dress is still there, gold and unyielding.
A knock breaks the silence.
I pad to the door, fingers tightening on the towel at my chest, and pull it open. My eyes are flat, dead, like I’ve taught them to be. Whoever it is, they’re not getting anything from me. Not today. My freaking wedding day.
It’s Noelle, framed in the doorway like a sunbeam. She’s wearing a light, summery dress, soft fabric brushing her knees, a wide smile that could cut through steel.
“I couldn’t wait to celebrate with you,” Noelle says.
I can’t bring myself to match her happiness. I step aside, letting her in, my chest tight. “It’s…nothing special,” I mutter, but part of me wants to reach for her, to latch onto some normalcy before everything spirals into Bratva chaos.
Noelle doesn’t argue. She sets her bag down and strides over to the hanging gold dress, running her fingers over it with a knowing smile. “This is beautiful,” she says softly. “You’re going to look incredible. And I’m here to help you get there.”
I let her. I let her move around the room, pulling the dress from the closet and draping it carefully over the chair. She offers steady reassurance, murmuring little compliments as she adjusts the fabric, fusses over the folds, and smooths it against my shoulders when I reluctantly step into it.
