“To whom?”
To me.But the words stick in my throat. Too real. Too permanent. Too terrifying to voice when everything still feels like it could shatter.
Instead, I shift to face him. His eyes find mine in the darkness, searching.
“We need to talk about Matthew.”
He makes a sound between a laugh and a growl. “You want to talk about your uncle while you’re naked in my bed?”
“I want to talk about ending him before he ends us.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. “Wesley says Matthew’s planning something big. This week. He’s desperate.”
“Good. Desperate men make mistakes.”
“Desperate men also get reckless.” I prop myself up on one elbow. “What if he comes after Mila again? What if we can’t?—”
His hand covers mine on his chest. “We can. We will. I won’t lose either of you.”
“Sergei—”
“Don’t.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Whatever you’re about to say that makes this complicated. Don’t. Not tonight.”
“But we need to?—”
“Tomorrow.” He pulls me back against him, arms iron bands around my waist. “Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we plan Matthew’s destruction. But tonight, you’re safe. Mila’s safe. That’s enough.”
Is it?I want to ask. But exhaustion crashes through me suddenly—three days of hypervigilance catching up. My eyes grow heavy against my will.
“Sleep,kotyonok.” His lips brush my temple. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You need sleep, too.”
“I’ll sleep when Matthew’s dead.”
The words should disturb me. Probably would have two months ago when I was still the polished Davenport heiress, who didn’t know what violence tasted like.
Now they just comfort me.
I close my eyes and let his heartbeat lull me. Behind my eyelids, I see Dad’s lighter—gold and scorched and gleaming. Waiting to ignite whatever comes next.
Soon, Matthew,I think as sleep takes me.Very soon.
30
Izzy
Morning light filtersthrough the curtains, painting silver across Sergei's bare chest. We're still tangled together, his arm heavy across my waist, the scent of sex and cedar clinging to the sheets.
I should get up. Shower. Check on Mila. But I can't bring myself to move, can't break this moment of quiet before the storm we both know is coming.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. "You're thinking too loud."
"Sorry. Occupational hazard." I shift to face him, finding those grey eyes already watching me. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough to watch you pretend to sleep while your brain ran through every possible disaster scenario."
"I wasn't?—"
"You were." His hand slides up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Tell me."
