“You didn’t hurt me,” I say gently. “You cut your palm too. Don’t you remember? You pressed our hands together.” I run my thumb along the blood on his palm, the cut deeper than mine. “You made me say my wedding vows.”
He blinks slowly. Confusion softens into disbelief.
“I did not hurt you,” he repeats.
“No,” I murmur. “It was... intense. But I’m fine.”
For a moment he just looks at me. Really looks. As if he is trying to reconcile the version of himself he sees with the version reflected in my eyes.
He exhales, long and shaky, relief washing the hard edge from his posture.
I sit up and hold out his shirt, which he takes.
As he buttons it, I can’t stop staring. His shoulders cut sharp lines beneath the fabric, each muscle shifting with controlled precision. There is a moment where the light catches on the dark stubble along his cheekbones.
It is unfair how devastating he looks, the kind of man sculpted for sin, not marriage. Even with blood and flour smeared on his forearm and the Xs at his temples, he’s breathtaking in a way that makes my stomach tighten. Being with him like this makes the entire world feel too small to contain him.
But he’s scaring me, and I know the vow-thing was dangerous. Especially as I study his cut before wrapping it with a rag. He went too deep. Strange that through his madness, he was able to spare me.
We clean the kitchen together. He wipes the table, his movements still sharp with leftover adrenaline but less frantic. There is swagger in his shoulders again, the predator’s confidence returning now that he knows I’m safe. But something is different. A change. A looseness.
He’s not twitching. Not pacing. Not spiraling.
He looks... better.
“I am not unwell,” he says abruptly, as if testing the words. “I’m... better.”
I nod, because he seems to relaxing steadily before my eyes. His energy hums around me instead of crackling. It is still dark, still powerful, still dangerous, but quieter.
“I want to stay at St. Andrews a while longer,” I say. “Like you originally wanted.”
He doesn’t like that. I see his jaw flex.
“No. I want to take you home.”
“I know. But this is helping me learn, and... helping you too. I’m learning your country’s ways. About bratvas. How to protect myself. Don’t you feel some change in me?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks away instead, then back at me.
I step closer. “I want us to stay connected, though. I want to be close to you. So I think you should microchip yourself. I’ll do it again as well. So we can track each other.”
Ineverthought I’d say that, but based on how quickly he can slip into darkness, I need to know where he’s at so I can help him.
A soft laugh escapes him. “Only dogs are microchipped.”
I roll my eyes. “I know those are my words, but now, I see the usefulness of it. This way, we can find each other no matter what. What if I’m kidnapped?”
He studies me for a long moment, liking my rationale.
To him, this means submission. To me, it means connection. He sees the former. He understands it.
He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. “I will think about it, though I prefer only you doing it.”
I grin, because it isn’t a no.
That alone makes me absurdly happy. For the first time, I feel like I am not just his political pawn but something more. A partner, a leader beside him, someone who can protect him even from himself. With the Council circling him like sharks, he needs me as much as I need him.
The morning comes blurry and warm. Gustav walks me to my first class.
