I lean down and press a kiss to Katya's forehead. "Sweet dreams, little sister," I murmur. "You're safe now. I promise."
When I finally stand and turn toward the door, I find Dimitri watching me. He's leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The dragon tattoo on his neck is visible above his collar, and in the soft lamplight, it almost seems to move.
His green eyes are intense, studying me with an expression I can't quite read. Not pity. Not concern, exactly. Something deeper. Something that makes my breath catch.
I cross to him, and he straightens, his hand finding mine. His fingers are warm, callused, strong. The hand of a man who's built an empire through violence and strategy. But also the hand that pulled me from a burning church. That held me while I cried. That slid a wedding ring onto my finger.
He leads me down the hallway to our bedroom without a word. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's heavy with everything we've been through, everything we've survived. Words feel inadequate for the weight of it all.
Inside our room, Dimitri closes the door and locks it. The click of the lock is loud in the quiet. He turns to face me, and I see theexhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders.
"You should rest," he says, his voice rough.
I almost laugh. Rest. As if I could possibly sleep after everything that's happened. After killing my father. After learning my mother knew. After rescuing Katya from men who wanted to use her as leverage.
But I don't laugh. I just nod.
Dimitri moves past me toward the bathroom, and I hear water running. The sound is soothing, normal, a reminder that mundane things still exist even in the midst of chaos.
When he returns, he takes my hand again and leads me into the bathroom. The large tub is filling with steaming water, and the scent of lavender fills the air. He must have added essential oils.
"Let me," he says quietly, reaching for the hem of my sweater.
I raise my arms, letting him pull the fabric over my head. His movements are careful, almost reverent. Not sexual, despite the intimacy of the act. Just… tender.
He undresses me piece by piece. The jeans I borrowed from the closet. The simple bra and underwear. Each item is removed with the same gentle care, and I stand before him naked and vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with my lack of clothing.
His eyes travel over my body, but not with lust. He's cataloging injuries. The bruises on my wrists from the zip ties. The scrapes on my knees from when I fell on the tarmac. The exhaustion written in every line of my frame.
"In," he says, gesturing to the tub.
I step into the hot water and sink down with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul. The heat envelops me, and I feel my muscles begin to unknot. I hadn't realized how tense I was holding myself until this moment.
Dimitri kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. The eight-pointed star tattoo on his right pec is visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt. A mark of his rank. His power. Everything he is in this world.
He picks up a washcloth and soap, lathering it between his hands. Then, with surprising gentleness, he begins washing my arms. His touch is methodical, thorough. He washes away the grime and blood and gunpowder residue, revealing clean skin beneath.
I watch his face as he works. The concentration in his green eyes. The set of his jaw. The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples catches the bathroom light.
He's forty-two years old. Twenty years older than me. A lifetime of violence and survival is written in the scars on his body, the hardness in his eyes. But right now, kneeling beside this tub and washing me with such care, he looks almost… soft.
No. Not soft. Dimitri Morozov will never be soft. But human. Vulnerable in a way I haven't seen before.
He moves to my shoulders, my back, my legs. Each touch is gentle but firm. Cleansing. When he reaches my feet, he massages them briefly, and I feel tears prick my eyes at the unexpected kindness.
"Lean forward," he says.
I do, and he washes my back, his fingers working the tension from my spine. Then he moves to my hair, wetting it with a cup, adding shampoo, working it through my curls with patient fingers.
We don't speak. There's too much to say and no words adequate for it. How do I tell him that I'm grateful and terrified in equal measure? That I killed my father and feel both guilt and relief? That I'm falling in love with him even though I barely know him?
How do I tell him that this moment, this simple act of care means more to me than any grand gesture could?
So I say nothing. I just let him wash away the violence of the day, let the hot water and his gentle hands soothe the raw edges of my soul.
When he's finished, he helps me from the tub and wraps me in a thick towel. He dries me carefully, then leads me back to the bedroom. A nightgown is laid out on the bed, soft cotton in pale blue. He helps me into it, his fingers brushing against my skin.
Then he undresses himself, and I watch as he reveals the body I'm still learning. The tattoos that mark him as Bratva royalty. The scars that tell stories of survival. The strength in every line of him.
