He raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if the truth is etched up there in the cracks. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. Rawer.
“My first wife… she died because of me.”
I continue stitching the gash, willing my hand not to shake. “She wasn’t supposed to be in that car,” he says. “My car was the target. They couldn’t get to me directly, so they sent a message. She got in before I could stop her. And that was it. Fire exploded. She was gone because I failed to protect her.”
The air in the room thickens. He isn’t looking at me anymore, like it’s easier that way. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
The words settle in my chest like lead. He shifts his gaze back to me. Serious now. Cold with reality.
“The next few days might get worse. That warehouse hit? It was a message. And you—” He stops. Looks at me fully. “You’ll be under security at all times. You don’t get to argue about it. Deal with it.”
I roll my eyes at his words, and Lukin doesn’t like it. His hand shoots up, firm but not rough, fingers wrapping around my jaw as he grabs my face and pulls me toward him. His eyes pin me in place, daring me to flinch.
“Watch the attitude,” he murmurs, voice low and dark.
My heart jumps, but I don’t look away. We’re too close now. His breath brushes my lips. His thumb rests just under my cheekbone. His gaze drops to my mouth—and suddenly, I can’t think. He leans in. Almost.
But then the sky cracks open, releasing a thunderclap so loud it shakes the windows. I jump without meaning to—body reacting before I can stop it—and my hands clutch his shoulders, tight.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh. Just looks down at me like he can read everything I’m trying not to say.
I pull back fast, embarrassed. Grab the first aid kit and shove everything back into it, the silence between us hot and pulsing.
“Take a shower,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze as I stand. “You smell like blood and smoke.”
I don’t wait for his response.
I walk out of the bathroom and close the door behind me, heart thudding so loud it drowns out the storm. I’m still shaking when I slip under the covers, dragging them up to my chin like they’ll protect me from the storm pounding against the windows. Every rumble of thunder feels like it’s inside my chest, cracking me open from the inside. I curl in on myself and squeeze my eyes shut.
Then I hear the bathroom door creak open.
Lukin steps out in a black robe, hair wet, chest still damp, and something unreadable in his eyes. I expect him to walk away. Maybe disappear into his study like he always does. But instead, he comes to my side of the bed and pulls the covers back.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice tight.
He doesn’t answer. Just climbs in beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arm slides around my waist, firm and warm, pulling me into him.
“Shh,” he whispers into my hair. “I can tell you’re afraid of the storm. Let me hold you tonight.”
Then he kisses me. A soft press of his mouth to my hairline—and it feels like something inside me breaks open. I should pull away. Tell him not to touch me. That I don’t need his comfort. But I don’t speak. Thunder cracks again, and I flinch hard. He feels it.
“Why?” he murmurs. “Why are you so afraid?”
My throat tightens. I try to swallow it down, but the memory rises anyway.
“There was a storm,” I say quietly, barely above a whisper. “Years ago. The night my parents were murdered. Someone broke into our home… my parents made me hide under the dining table, but I saw. He shot them right in front of me. I was just a kid. I—I still hear it sometimes, the way my mom screamed.”
His arm tightens around me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough and low. “I’m so damn sorry, Zoe. I’ll protect you from now on.”
I don’t say anything. But I let him hold me. And when the thunder rolls again, I press closer into his chest, and this time… I am not alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two- Lukin
I wake up first.
The storm is gone, but she’s still here—curled up beneath the sheets, her breathing soft and even. I should look away. I don’t. Instead, I lie still and watch her. The way the early light touches her skin. The quiet pout of her lips. The curve of her lashes resting against her cheeks. It’s stupid how beautiful she is. Dangerous too.
