"Best decision I ever made."
"Yeah?" My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip.
She leans into my touch. "You made me dangerous."
"My Wolf," I murmur.
"Your Wolf," she agrees.
We leave Mila sleeping and head to the master bedroom. The door closes and Izzy's on me immediately—hands in my hair, mouth hot against mine, body pressing me back against the wall.
"Three days," she gasps between kisses. "Three days thinking you were locked up. That Matthew might get to you. That I'd never?—"
I flip us, pinning her to the wall with my body. "Never what?"
"Never get to tell you—" She stops, eyes searching mine.
"Tell me what,kotyonok?"
But she shakes her head, pulling me down for another kiss instead of answering. And I let her, because some truths are too big to speak yet.
Some truths require time and safety and the kind of peace we don't have while Matthew Ashford breathes.
So I kiss my wife and try not to think about how real this feels.
How permanent.
How much it's going to destroy me if I lose her.
29
Izzy
“Three days.”
The words fall between us like stones. Sergei’s eyes burn into mine, dark with everything we haven’t said yet. His body pins me to the wall, all dangerous heat and controlled violence, and I can feel his heartbeat thundering against my chest.
“Three days thinking about you locked up. Wondering if Matthew had someone inside. Wondering if you were—” I can’t finish, can’t voice the nightmare scenarios that played in my head on an endless loop.
“I’m here.” His voice is rough, hands framing my face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then his mouth claims mine, and there’s no more talking. No more space for nightmares or grief or fear. Just this—desperate collision, three days apart collapsing into three seconds of hungry, consuming need.
I slide my hands under his shirt, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his stomach, the scars that tell stories I still haven’t heard. His muscles bunch under my touch, and he groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Bed,” I gasp against his lips. “Now.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. The wall’s cool against my back for a second before he’s moving, crossing the room in three long strides, and then I’m on the bed, bouncing on the mattress as he follows me down.
His weight is delicious, overwhelming, exactly what I’ve needed for three days of enforced distance. His hands slide under my shirt, pushing it up, calloused palms against my ribs, my stomach, my breasts.
“You wore my shirts when I was gone,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth scraping my pulse point.
“They smelled like you.” My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. “Made me feel safe.”
“I’m here now.” His mouth trails lower, down my chest, his tongue circling my nipple through the lace of my bra. “You don’t need my shirts for protection.”
“I need you.”
