He pulls on sleep pants and slides into bed beside me, pulling me against his chest. I fit there perfectly, my head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around me.
"Sleep," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you."
And despite everything, despite the chaos and violence and impossible situation we're in, I feel safe. Protected. Cherished.
My eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally winning. I'm floating in that space between waking and sleeping when I hear it.
Shouting from downstairs. Urgent voices speaking rapid Russian. The sound of multiple vehicles arriving, engines cutting off, doors slamming.
Dimitri goes rigid against me, his arms tightening.
"Stay here," he says, already moving.
But I'm sitting up too, my heart pounding. "What's happening?"
He's pulling on a shirt, checking the weapon he keeps in the nightstand. His face has transformed from tender to cold in seconds. The Pakhan is back.
"Emergency meeting," he says tersely. "My inner circle. Something's happened."
The shouting grows louder. I hear Alexei's voice, sharp with urgency. Other voices I recognize from Dimitri's men.
Dimitri moves to the door, then pauses and looks back at me. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the sudden silence, listening to the chaos erupting below.
32
DIMITRI
Ipull on jeans and a black shirt, my movements automatic. The dragon tattoo on my neck catches in the mirror as I button the collar, a reminder of what I am. What I've always been. Hostile to authority. Dangerous. A predator in a world of predators.
But now I have something to lose.
The thought follows me down the grand staircase, through the quiet house where most of the staff have retreated for the night. My boots are silent on the marble floors. I've walked these halls for years, built this fortress, filled it with expensive things that never made it feel like home.
Until her.
The study door is already open, warm light spilling into the darkened hallway. I hear voices inside, speaking urgently. My men. My brothers in blood and violence. The family I chose when my own father proved to be nothing but a drunk with heavy fists.
I step inside and the conversation stops immediately. Six faces turn toward me, and I read the tension in every line of their bodies. Alexei sits in the leather chair closest to my desk, his shoulder still bandaged from the bullet wound he took at the Popov house. His face is pale but his blue eyes are sharp, alert. The small skull and bones tattoo on his left temple seems darker in the lamplight.
Borge stands by the window, his massive frame blocking out the view of the gardens. The rest of the men are scattered around, but they all hold the same grim expression.
"Pakhan." Alexei stands, wincing slightly at the movement. "We need to talk."
I move to the bar cart and pour myself vodka. The Beluga Noble burns going down, but it doesn't touch the cold knot forming in my gut. "Then talk."
Alexei pulls out his tablet, swiping through what looks like intelligence reports. "Three families have formed an alliance against you. They're calling your marriage to Alina a violation of traditional codes. They're saying you killed Viktor Popov to steal his territory and his daughter."
I pour another drink. "Viktor Popov orchestrated a massacre at my nephew's wedding. He sold his own daughter to the Kozlovs. He got exactly what he deserved."
"We know that." Borge's voice is a low rumble. "But they're spinning it differently. They're saying you manipulated the situation, that you wanted Sergei dead so you could take Alina for yourself."
The accusation is so absurd I almost laugh. Almost. But I've been in this world long enough to know that truth doesn't matter. Only perception matters. Only power matters.
"What are they demanding?" I ask, though I already know.
"That you step down as head of the Morozov family." Alexei's voice is carefully neutral. "That you submit to a tribunal to answer for Viktor's death. That you annul your marriage to Alina and return her to the Popov family holdings."
