Dark. Possessive. Exactly what I need to hear.
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not sweet. This is desperation and need and the terror of tomorrow wrapped in tongue and teeth. He responds immediately, hands sliding into my hair, body pressing me harder against the wall, and I arch into him because if this is our last night, I want to remember exactly how he feels.
"Bed," I gasp when we break for air. "Now."
He lifts me—two hundred pounds of tattooed Russian and I weigh nothing—and carries me the five feet to our bed. Drops me on expensive sheets that smell like cedar and home, and the life I didn't know I wanted until I had it.
The nightgown disappears. His boxer briefs follow. And then it's just us—skin on skin, his weight settling over me like an anchor, his grey eyes locked on mine.
"I'm scared," I admit. Because if I can't tell him now, when can I? "Not of dying. Of losing this. You. Mila. The stupid domestic shit like pancakes and puzzles and her calling me Mom. I'm terrified tomorrow takes it all away."
His expression shifts. Softens in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Then let's not think about tomorrow." His mouth finds mine again. Slower this time. Deeper. "Let's just be here. Now. Two people who love each other before the world tries to tear them apart."
Two people who love each other.
He said it.
Finally said it.
My breath catches. "Sergei?—"
"I love you." The words come out rough. Raw. Like they're being dragged from somewhere he's kept locked. "I love you, Isabelle. And tomorrow, after we've burned your family's empire to ash and walked out of that gala alive, I'm going to say it again. And again. Until you're sick of hearing it."
Tears burn behind my eyes. "I love you, too. So fucking much it terrifies me."
"Good. We’ll be terrified together." His kiss is tender now. Almost reverent. "Stay scared. Stay sharp. Stay alive. And come home to me when it's over."
"Promise."
"Promise."
Then his hands are everywhere and we're not talking anymore. Just feeling. Connecting. Proving we're alive right now, even if tomorrow's uncertain.
He enters me slow. Deliberate. Eyes on mine like he needs to witness this. To memorize how I look underneath him—vulnerable and willing and completely his.
"I love you," he murmurs again, starting to move. Setting a rhythm that's achingly intimate. Not the hard, claiming pace from before. This is different. This is making love while pretending we're not both terrified it's the last time.
My legs wrap around his waist. Pulling him deeper. Closer. Trying to eliminate the space between us until there's no me and him, just us.
"Don't let go," I whisper.
"Never." His hand threads through mine against the pillow. Fingers lacing tight. "I'm not letting you go, Isabelle. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
We move together—synchronized, desperate, tender. His free hand slides between us, circling my clit, and I shatter around him with a cry that's half pleasure, half grief for the uncertainty of tomorrow.
He follows, burying himself deep, and I feel him pulse inside me. Warmth flooding. Connecting us in the most primal way possible.
We don't separate after. Just lie tangled together, bodies still joined, breathing each other in.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," I say against his shoulder, "this was worth it. You. Mila. All of it."
"We've planned for every contingency. Matthew dies. We don't." His voice is cold. Factual. The Wolf making predictions. "Tomorrow's outcome is already decided."
Not cocky. Just absolutely certain.
