Because what I feel for him isn’t something I want to take, it’s something I give. Freely. Without condition. Without a price.
I want him to come to me when he’s ready. When he knows, without a shadow of doubt, that I want him not because he’s broken, or beautiful, or brave, but because he’s him.
“Are you asleep yet?”
His voice pulls me back to the present, soft, muffled against the quiet hum of the room. I blink my eyes open, glancing down.He’s no longer curled beneath my chin. He’s looking up at me now, those warm brown eyes catching the amber glow of the bedside lamp and turning gold at the edges.
“No, krasivy,” I murmur, brushing a few stray curls away from his face, careful not to disturb the hearing aids tucked behind his ears. My fingers linger there a moment longer than necessary, like touching him might tether me better to this moment.
He lets out a small sigh and nuzzles back into me, head resting just over my heart again. His fingers start tracing slow, idle patterns across my chest, like he’s thinking through his fingertips.
“I applied for Blackwood,” he whispers.
The words hang between us for a moment, quiet but heavy.
I shift slightly, just enough to tilt his chin up so I can see him. His face is calm, but his eyes are uncertain, like he’s bracing for something.
“The trust has enough to cover Blackwood,” I say gently. “I made sure of it.”
His brows knit together. There’s a flicker of something — guilt, maybe — crossing his expression.
“Alex…” His voice trembles just a little. “The money in that trust… It’s a lot.” He hesitates, eyes flicking away from mine before dragging back. “Do you even have any money left?”
The question catches me off guard, and before I can help it, I laugh. Not loudly. Not unkindly. Just… startled and soft. Because, of course, he would ask that. Of all things. Even now. Even like this.
He frowns, smacking my shoulder lightly.
“Don’t laugh,” he scolds, pouting in that way that never fails to undo me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though the amusement still lingers in my voice
He looks at me for a second longer, like something is sitting heavy on the edge of his tongue. But instead of speaking, he lets out a soft breath and rests his head against my chest again, hiding there like the question might disappear if he stays still long enough.
I brush my fingers through his hair slowly, reassuringly.
“I know there’s something you want to ask.”
He hesitates. I feel it in the way his hand stills on my skin.
“You can ask,” I say, voice low and calm.
There’s a beat of silence. Then he asks softly, almost childlike,
“Is it true? That your family is… involved in the mafia? Or stuff like that?”
The way he says it — cautious, like he’s testing the water with a toe instead of diving in tells me he’s been thinking about this for a while. Like he’s afraid the question will trigger or piss me off. But I just run my hand slowly down his arm, letting him feel that I’m still here. Still soft with him.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, without hesitation. “My grandfather runs a Bratva organization in Russia.”
He lifts his head, looking up at me with wide eyes, half-curious, half-nervous, like he doesn’t know whether to press closer or back away. But I see the answer didn’t change anything in his gaze. If anything, he just looks like he wants to understand.
I almost laugh—not at him, never at him, but at the quiet absurdity of this moment. Him lying naked on my chest, flushed from what we just shared, tangled in my sheets like he belongs here… and now we’re casually talking about organized crime.
I reach up and brush my fingers across his cheek. God, I can’t seem to stop touching him. Not when he’s like this, open and beautiful and still here.
“We’re not exactly a bunch of guys in tracksuits threatening people with baseball bats,” I say, the corner of my mouth tugging up. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile. I can tell he’s relieved I didn’t get mad at his question.
