Not soft like I expected, but consuming. His hand in my hair tightened, angling my head where he wanted it, while his tongue claimed my mouth with a thoroughness that left no room for doubt. He kissed me like he was branding me, like he was writing his name on my soul, like he was swearing an oath with his mouth instead of words.
When he pulled back, I was gasping, dizzy, completely undone.
"Anyone who tries to use your softness against you will answer to me," he said against my lips. "And little bird? You're not broken. You're a survivor. There's a difference."
I believed him. God help me, I believed this dangerous man with his gentle hands and protective fury. Believed that maybe, possibly, I could have this—safety and desire and the space to be small when I needed it.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we can try this. Whatever this is."
His smile this time was softer, pleased in a way that made my chest warm. "Good girl."
The words went through me like electricity, setting every nerve ending alight. He noticed—of course he noticed—and his smile turned knowing.
"We're going to be very good together, little bird," he murmured, pulling me back against his chest. "But right now, you're going to rest. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I closed my eyes, surrounded by his warmth and strength, and for the first time in six months—maybe longer—I felt safe. Safe enough to be small. Safe enough to need. Safe enough to want.
Safe enough to fall.
Chapter 9
Konstantin
Four-thirtyAM.
The compound was tomb-quiet. Security lights painted long shadows down hallways I'd walked for fifteen years, but this morning they felt different. Foreign. Like I was navigating them as someone new—not just the enforcer, not just the monster who solved problems with violence, but something else. Something that required skills I'd never developed.
Nikolai's office light was on. Of course it was. My brother barely slept when Sophie was safe in their bed; these days, with her pregnancy advancing and the Belyaev situation still volatile, he probably hadn't closed his eyes in forty-eight hours.
I knocked—something I rarely did. Usually I just entered, reported whatever blood I'd spilled, and left. But this wasn't that kind of visit.
"Come."
He was at his desk, three laptops open, chess board beside him with a game in progress against himself. The white king was fucked, but he'd find a way out. Nikolai always did.
"Kostya." Surprise flickered across his features. I never came to him at this hour unless someone was dead or dying. "Problem?"
"Yes." I closed the door, engaged the lock. Checked the windows even though I knew they were bulletproof and the office was swept for bugs twice daily. Old habits. "Not that kind."
He leaned back, studying me with those dark eyes. He must have seen the tension in my shoulders, the way my hands wouldn't quite still, the fact that I'd locked a door that didn't need locking.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "You look like you're about to confess to murder."
"That would be easier." The words came out rougher than intended. I sat, the leather chair creaking under my weight, and tried to figure out how to explain something I barely understood myself. "It's about Dr. Cross. Maya."
His expression shifted. "If you've compromised her safety—"
"No. Fuck, no." I cut him off, then forced myself to breathe. "Nothing like that. It's . . ." How did people talk about this? "She's like Sophie."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Not surprise, exactly, but recognition. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a leather journal I'd never seen before, and set it between us.
