“I will do anything to earn your forgiveness. Anything. Just tell me how to fix it.”
Seeing him like this, on his knees in front of me with a desperation that splits the room in half…it does somethingviolent to me. I don’t know what to do with the pressure in my chest that keeps growing, making it hard to speak, hard to think.
But I know this: words are just words. I need to be able to trust him and know he won’t hurt me or lie to me. He has to prove it.
And if he truly loves me the way he says he does, he’ll earn my trust back. He’ll fight for it.
“I have never given this part of myself to any woman,” he adds. “But every bit of me is yours, Ms. Prosecutor. You own me. And I swear I will do everything to prove I am the man you expect. I want to be more than my father taught me to be. I want to be the man you can depend on, the man you can trust.”
Hearing him say what I needed overflows me with emotion.
“I cannot change what happened, I know that, but I can control what happens next. I want to be honest with you about everything. Just let me. Please, Fiona.”
Do I believe he’s capable of being the man he wants to be?
“If you don’t want me after that…” he says, the words rasping through the silence. “Then at least I know I tried. I won’t make you love me. I won’t force you to stay. But you are so much more than I could ever be. You’re not just my equal. You are a better version. And you always will be.”
My vision blurs, full of hot and relentless tears that slip down my cheeks. He rises to his feet, brushing them away with the back of his hand, and that touch alone sends me spiraling.
“Just know, no matter what you decide…there will never be anyone else for me. I will die alone.”
There’s too much in my chest—anger, grief, yearning, all knotted so tightly I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
This man took my choices, twisted my life into something unrecognizable, and forced me to see a world I used to fightagainst. Still, with everything he’s done, I want to fall into him, even if only for tonight.
Because God help me, I miss him.
I let my thumb brush his cheek, just to feel him beneath my skin. Just to remember what it’s like to be whole.
“Aleksei…” His name breaks in my throat.
Tears slip down again, and I don’t stop them. What’s the point in fighting the ache when it’s already taken root in every move I make?
“I miss you,” he whispers, lifting my hand to his mouth. His lips brush my knuckles so tenderly, I have to shut my eyes just to hold the feeling. “I’m ill without you.”
“Good,” I whisper, a small laugh escaping.
A smile flickers through the devastation on his face while his fingers tilt my chin up, and the contact sends a rush of warmth shooting straight up my spine.
His eyes search mine—hungry, desperate, broken in all the ways I feel inside—and slowly, he leans in until his breath brushes my lips, the space between us tightening like a pull I can’t resist. Then his hand shifts.
One moment, I’m standing in front of him; the next, my back hits the wall, his body crowding mine, heat rolling off him in waves. My stomach drops, my pulse surges, and his words grind out low against my cheek.
“I need you…”
I should stop this. We’re supposed to be talking. I should be demanding answers, drawing lines, reminding myself why I left.
But every ounce of logic crumbles beneath the rush of wanting him. The feeling of his mouth, his hands, the way he touches me like I matter and like I belong to him all at once. I’ve missed the way he consumes me, the way he makes every cell in me feel awake, alive, wanted.
God, I’ve missed him too. And right now, wanting him drowns out everything else.
My mouth drifts toward his, pulled by a force I have no hope of resisting. When our lips meet, there’s nothing soft about it. Everything else melts away. Every fight, every reason I walked away, every warning I’ve thrown at myself, until there’s only him.
His hands are rough as they fist my hair, a growl ripping through him as his tongue invades my mouth, sucking my tongue before nipping on my bottom lip, like he’s dying for every bit of me. I hold on to his biceps, muscles straining beneath my hands, and the feeling of him sends a sharp ache spiraling through my center.
His groan vibrates through both of us, a rough, wounded sound that drags a broken moan from my throat. Fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings, finding me burning and wet, slipping inside me with that familiar ease I’ve craved.
“You feel so fucking good.”
