I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment Mishka had become essential to me. It had happened gradually, then suddenly—like a slow-rising tide that eventually breaks the shore all at once.
"I've lived too long not to recognize what this is," I confessed to his unconscious form, my voice barely audible even in the quiet room. "Though I've spent decades avoiding it."
My bear paced restlessly beneath my skin, agitated by Mishka's condition and my own churning emotions. The animal understood what I'd been reluctant to acknowledge—that this fierce, brilliant young man had become our mate in all but name.
I lifted Mishka's hand to my lips, pressing his cool fingers against my mouth in a gesture more intimate than any I'd allowed myself in decades.
"I love you," I whispered against his skin, the words I'd never spoken to anyone hanging in the silence of the room.
Saying it aloud should have felt like weakness, like exposing my throat to an enemy's blade. Instead, it felt like finally acknowledging a truth that had been growing inside me since the day Mishka crashed into my life.
"And if you die on me, Mishka," I continued, my voice gaining strength as I made the promise, "I will follow you to whatever afterlife exists and drag you back myself."
The century-old crime boss—the feared Bear of the underworld—reduced to desperate bargains with fate. If any of my enemies could see me now, they would hardly recognize the vulnerable man keeping vigil at a sickbed, pleading for a life more precious than his own.
But I was beyond caring about appearances or reputation. For the first time in longer than I could remember, something mattered more than power or territory or the empire I'd built.
A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I didn't turn around, already recognizing Yuri's scent and footsteps.
"Any change?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"No," I replied, not releasing Mishka's hand. "Petrov says it could be days before we know anything."
Yuri approached the bed, his usually stoic expression softened with concern as he looked down at Mishka. "He's stronger than he looks," he said, echoing his words from earlier. "He survived O'Rourke once before."
"This is different." I struggled to keep my voice even. "He didn't just push himself to the limit—he shattered that limit. Petrov says the neural damage is... significant."
For a moment, we both stood in silence, watching the steady rise and fall of Mishka's chest. Then Yuri did something unprecedented—he placed his hand briefly on my shoulder, a gesture of comfort I couldn't remember him ever offering before.
"The syndicate stands ready," he said simply. "Whatever you need—whatever he needs—it's done."
After Yuri left, I returned to my solitary vigil, my thumb absently stroking Mishka's knuckles. Outside the windows of the penthouse, dawn was breaking over the city—my city—painting the skyline in shades of gold and pink.
For over a century, I'd watched similar dawns, seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the world transform again and again while I remained essentially unchanged.
Yet in the span of a few short weeks, this electronic manipulator had changed everything.
"Come back to me,malysh," I whispered, pressing my forehead against our clasped hands. "I'm not finished learning all the ways you've transformed my world."
As I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine his fingers twitched against mine—a small sign of the stubborn will that had drawn me to him from the start. Whether it was real or wishfulthinking, I chose to believe it was a promise that he wasn't done fighting yet.
And neither was I.
Chapter Sixteen
~ Nicolai ~
A month, a full month of watching, waiting, and dismantling an empire piece by bloody piece while Mishka slept on, oblivious to my growing madness.
I shifted in the chair that had become more familiar than my own bed, my massive hand still engulfing his smaller one as it had countless times since the night we’d brought him back from that hellhole.
The room reeked of antiseptic, wilted flowers, and my own stubborn refusal to leave his side for more than the absolute necessities.
My gaze drifted to the evidence of my vigil scattered around the penthouse medical suite. Wilting flowers filled vases that Yuri insisted on bringing—"to brighten the place,"he'd said, as if flowers could somehow make a difference to Mishka's comatose state.
Stacks of manila folders littered the nightstand, each one documenting another piece of O'Rourke's organization that I'd methodically dismantled. Coffee rings marked the surface of the expensive wood, permanent reminders of my sleepless nights.
The medical monitors beeped steadily in the background, a sound that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. My ears twitched at each electronic pulse, my bear instincts perpetually alert for any change in their rhythm.
