She must have been in here earlier, searching for a book or just passing through.
I hear the door creak behind me. I don’t look up, assuming it’s Dimitri or one of the staff. But then I hear her footsteps, softer, more hesitant. I glance up and find Isabella standing in the doorway, wearing a thin sweater and loose pants, hair pulled back from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright.
She’s holding a paper in her hand, one I recognize immediately—a document showing how I recently dissolved several of my oldest underground dealings. It wasn’t meant forher eyes. It wasn’t meant for anyone, really. She’s holding it out, her fingers trembling just slightly.
“Why?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why would you give this up?”
I set down my pen, leaning back in my chair. For a moment, I consider brushing her off, making a joke, hiding behind the old bravado. The truth is there, raw and undeniable, and I can’t bring myself to lie, not to her. Not anymore.
“For you,” I answer, not bothering to look away. “I did it for you.”
She blinks, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. There’s no swagger in my tone, no threat, no bargain. Just honesty, which is terrifying in its own way. “You’re the only softness I’ll ever know, Isabella.”
The words hang in the room, heavier than any threat I’ve ever given, any promise I’ve ever made. She stares at me, searching my face for a trick, a trap. There isn’t one. I let her see the truth: I am dangerous, broken, and hers.
For once, she doesn’t look away. Her eyes shine, lips parting as if to speak, but no words come at first. She steps closer, holding the paper to her chest. I see her hands trembling, her breath quick and uneven.
“I don’t hate you,” she admits, voice shaking. “Not anymore. Maybe… maybe I never really did.” Her words tumble out in a rush, uncertain and desperate. “I was so angry, so lost. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. I’m tired of fighting you. I’m tired of fighting myself.”
Something breaks open in me, a dam that’s held back too much for too long. I rise from my chair, slow and careful, as if a wrong move might send her running.
She doesn’t move away. She just stands there, watching me with eyes that are still wounded, but no longer closed.
I reach for her, one hand gentle on her shoulder, the other brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You don’t have to fight anymore,” I murmur. “Not with me.”
She swallows hard, tears glinting in her lashes, but she doesn’t pull back. She lets me touch her, lets me hold her for just a moment longer than before.
The walls between us, built of lies and blood and old pain, begin to crumble. I feel it in the way she leans into my hand, the way her fingers close around my wrist, anchoring me to her. We stand like that, close but not quite touching, a breath away from everything we’ve both been too afraid to want.
“I’m scared,” she whispers, voice trembling. “What if I can’t forgive you? What if I can’t forgive myself?”
I rest my forehead against hers, closing my eyes. “Then we start with tonight. One moment at a time.”
She nods, pressing her cheek into my palm, letting herself cry, quiet, exhausted tears that carry more relief than grief. I hold her as long as she needs, feeling her heart beating against mine.
Later, as the night deepens and the house grows still, we sit together on the couch, shoulders touching, silence settling over us like a fragile truce.
I watch her from the corner of my eye, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way her lashes fan across her cheeks when she blinks. She catches me looking and almost laughs—a soft, breathless sound that makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to joy.
There are still battles to fight, still scars that won’t heal. But in this moment, we’re both just survivors—two souls battered by war, clinging to each other in the wreckage.
I take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. “You’re safe now,” I promise, meaning every word. “As long as I breathe, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
She looks at me, her eyes shining with the first light of something like hope.
We sit together in the quiet, letting the world outside fall away. I don’t feel like a monster. I feel like a man—broken, but still capable of loving, and maybe, just maybe, being loved in return.
When, finally, I reach for her, it’s different—my hands are careful, almost reverent, as if I’m terrified of breaking something too precious to name. There’s no claim, no roughness, no demand for surrender.
Instead, I let her set the pace, let her come to me. Isabella’s eyes search mine—vulnerable, lingering, and so heartbreakingly open I almost look away. She doesn’t let me. Her palm finds my cheek, her thumb brushes the line of my jaw, and then she’s the one to close the distance.
Her mouth finds mine, tentative at first—a soft, trembling question. I answer without words, arms winding around her, cradling her against me as if I can shield her from every old wound, every cruel memory.
The air thickens between us, heat rising, our breaths quickening in the hush of the room. All the violence, all the lies and sorrow, collapse into a single, dizzying truth: I want her, not as a prize or a punishment, but as my equal. My salvation.
She tangles her fingers in my shirt, pulling me closer, deeper into her kiss. Her lips are insistent, desperate, tasting of salt and tears and need. I surrender to her, letting her take what she wants.
When my hands slide under her sweater, she gasps—a sound that is half invitation, half warning. Her skin is warm, alive, trembling under my touch.
