***
“Do you want to talk about the news?” Alex asks, his voice quiet, almost careful, like he’s stepping onto fragile glass. My head is resting on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me, his arms wrapped firmly around me as if he knows I need him close. After the heavy meal he cooked, all I’d wanted was this—his arms, his warmth, the safe cocoon of him.
He’d thought I wanted space to shower alone, but I couldn’t bear it. I’d held him tighter, whispering that we should shower together like always. And we did. We brushed, and he dried my hair afterward, dressed me gently like I was something fragile, then carried me to bed.
We haven’t kissed and touched each other sexually since I came here. I can feel him holding back, and it took everything in me not to beg him to fuck me against the shower glass like I know he wants to. Despite the storm still raging inside me, I want him to kiss me, touch me, remind me that I’m his. But I don’t push.
“Lucas?” His chest vibrates under my cheek when he says my name, tugging me back from my wandering thoughts.
I blink, realizing he’s been waiting.
“Yeah? Sorry…” I mumble, fumbling as I glance up at him.
“Where did your mind go?” His eyes search mine, patient but probing.
“Nowhere,” I lie quickly, pressing my cheek back to his chest before he sees the flush creeping up my face. My heart beats hard. I want him to kiss me, to crush me beneath the certainty of his touch.
But instead, I whisper, “I just… don’t know.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?” His tone is patient, coaxing, but there’s something beneath it. He always knows when I’m running.
I swallow hard, my voice coming out sharper than I mean.
“You want us to talk about how you brutally killed the boys who used my mouth for fun?”
The words hang heavy between us. And I feel him stiffen.
The words taste sharp, but I can’t stop them. I haven’t thought of them much—not really. Do I feel relieved they’re gone? Maybe. At least they can’t do to anyone else what they did to me. Did their deaths erase the storm in my head? No. But did the image of them suffering give me satisfaction? Yes. More than I’d like to admit.
It’s like my mind doesn’t really know how to feel about the situation.
“It doesn’t matter how cruel it sounds,” he says finally, his voice even and calm, “If talking about it will ease you, then we talk.”
I lift my head, startled by the ease in his tone, and find him meeting my gaze without flinching. His eyes burn with a conviction that makes my chest tighten.
“I don’t regret what I did,” he says, his voice steady, absolute. “Not for a second. And I would do it again. A thousand times over, if it meant you never had to carry that fear again.”
I stare at him—this man I’ve fallen in love with. A man capable of killing without hesitation, yet holding me now with such impossible tenderness. How does he live in both worlds? How does he balance Violence and gentleness so seamlessly?
And why is it that I, of all people, am not afraid of him?
Why is it that instead of recoiling from the violence stitched into his veins, I ache for him to pull me closer, to crush me against that same chest that carried so much brutality? It makes no sense, and yet it feels inevitable.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
“How old were you… When you had your first kill?”
The question makes him pause. His brows lift slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to go there. Then he shrugs, almost too casually, though his fingers keep drawing idle lines down my spine, slow and steady, and I have to bite my tongue to suppress the moan that threatens to escape.Not the time, Lucas. Not the time.
“I was eleven,” he says finally.
My jaw drops, eyes widening, and before I can react further, his hand is at my chin, closing my mouth with a teasing little smirk.
Eleven?? What the actual hell—
“I started training for the bratva when I was ten,” he says, tone hardening. “It wasn’t a choice. In families like mine, you don’t ask why—you obey. As long as you are born in the Petrov family, you are taught violence. We learn to fight, shoot, and survive. Doesn’t matter if you’re destined for business or blood. It’s bred into us. Expected.”
“My father walked away from the bratva when he was twenty-five to build his empire. But walking away doesn’t erase blood ties. The Petrov name doesn’t fade, it anchors you whether you want it to or not. He still owed loyalty. Which meant his children did, too.”
