Luka gathers me against his chest, the muscles of his arms tightening as if the act of holding me is both instinct and defiance. My body feels boneless, trembling with the echo of everything he just gave me. He doesn’t speak as he lifts me. The world tilts slightly with each step as he carries me up the stairs, his heartbeat thudding beneath my ear like a slow, rhythmic drum.
His scent surrounds me as I press closer, feeling the heat of his bare chest against my skin. When he crosses the threshold of the bedroom, moonlight pools across the sheets, shimmering in his hair. He lowers me onto the mattress, his touch careful in a way I haven’t seen before.
“Stay,” he murmurs, his hand tracing the side of my thigh before he disappears into the bathroom. Water runs for a moment, then stops. When he returns, he’s holding a damp cloth. He cleans me with a gentleness that unravels me, each stroke patient, reverent almost. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and slides into bed beside me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The quiet stretches, thick and intimate. Luka’s arm slips around my waist, pulling me against him until I’m tucked beneath his chin.
“You shouldn’t look at me the way you do,” he finally mutters, his voice a low rumble in the dark. “It makes me forget who I’m supposed to be.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “And who are you supposed to be?”
His mouth curves faintly, a trace of bitterness at the edge. “A man who doesn’t believe in softness. Who takes what he needs and never asks permission. And definitely doesn’t keep a woman in his bed after.” His fingers drag lazily along my hip, grounding me in his truth. “But you…” His gaze drops to my lips, lingering. “You make it difficult.”
The confession settles between us, quiet and raw. I don’t know what to say, so I let instinct guide me. My hand finds his chest, resting over the slow rise and fall beneath my palm. “You act like that makes you dangerous,” I whisper. “But it just makes you human.”
He exhales a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t understand the world I come from,printsessa. Humanity gets you killed.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, tracing small circles over his skin. “But it’s also what keeps you from turning into the people you fight against.”
His hand closes over mine, stopping the movement. “You think you can save me?”
“I think you make me feel safe,” I admit quietly. “And I don’t even know how you did that.”
His jaw tightens as if he’s fighting something he doesn’t want to feel. Then he leans in, his lips brushing my temple. The kiss is almost hesitant, but the warmth behind it makes my chest ache.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “Before I forget what little control I have left.”
I smile faintly, the weight of exhaustion pulling at me. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”
His thumb traces along my jaw. “Da. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
The quiet in his tone isn’t just reassurance. It’s a promise he didn’t mean to give. I nestle closer, my head against his chest, feeling the steady music of his heartbeat. His hand moves in slow, soothing patterns across my back until my eyes grow heavy.
Just before sleep claims me, I hear him whisper something in Russian, soft, almost tender. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the meaning. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself believe I’m safe.
Just before sleep claims me, I hear him whisper something in Russian, soft and almost tender. I don’t understand the words, but the sound of them settles through me like warmth spreading beneath my skin.
“Ty byla sozdana dlya menya.”You were made for me.
18
LUKA
I wake with Sage's scent still on my skin and the memory of her mouth threading through my pulse. The room is dim with the pale light that comes before sunrise, and for a long time, I lie there, listening to her breathing and counting the reasons I should put distance back where last night erased it. None of them feel like a reason I believe.
She sleeps on her side, hair tumbled across my pillow, the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of her lips. My chest tightens, not with panic but with the dangerous pull of possession. It comes quietly and absolutely, settling beneath my ribs with certainty. She is mine to protect, mine to guide through whatever waits ahead. This isn't romance. It's instinct. Survival disguised as duty.
I reach out, careful not to wake her, and brush a strand of honey-blonde hair from her cheek. Her skin is warm, soft beneath my fingertips, and the freckles scattered across her nose stand out in the early light. Everything about her is a contradiction, delicate on the surface, steel underneath. She's survived more than mostpeople could withstand, and somehow, she's here in my bed, trusting me enough to sleep this deeply.
The thought unsettles me more than I care to admit. I've spent years building walls, constructing barriers between myself and anyone who might slip past my defenses. Control has always been the price of leadership, the cost of the Barinov name. My father taught me that lesson young, reinforced it through every brutal year of my training. Yet Sage dismantles those walls without even trying, her presence alone enough to crack foundations I thought were unshakeable.
When she stirs, I'm already against the headboard, a mug of coffee resting in my hand. She blinks, covers her mouth, then remembers, because her eyes go glass-bright for a moment before she hides it behind a slow breath. Her shoulder brushes my thigh as she sits up. The sheet slips to her waist, revealing skin I could study for the rest of my life and never learn enough.
“Is it morning,” she whispers, her voice husky from sleep.
“Barely.” I offer the mug.
Her fingers brush mine. The contact is simple, but it threads warmth down my arm. She takes a sip and sets the mug on the nightstand. She looks younger in this light, the lines of worry that usually crease her forehead smoothed away by sleep. I want to keep her like this, untouched by the violence that circles closer every day.
