"I'm a dangerous father. Different thing."
"No." I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "You're both. Dangerous to anyone who threatens her. Good to her. That's exactly what a father should be."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. He's not used to people seeing him clearly. Not used to acceptance without conditions.
I want to give him that. Want to be the person who sees the monster and the man and doesn't ask him to choose between them.
I reach over to the nightstand and grab Dad's lighter. The gold gleams in the darkness, scorched but whole. I hold it between us, thumb tracing the familiar engraving.
"My father gave me this," I say quietly. "The day I graduated from college. It was his father's before him. He said it was a reminder that Davenports carry fire with them. That we don't wait for someone else to light the way."
"Richard Davenport sounds like a good man."
"He was." My voice catches. "He was good and kind, and he tried to use his money to help people instead of hoarding it. And someone killed him for it. Blew up his boat and made it look like an accident because he threatened their greed."
Sergei's arm tightens around me. "We'll find out who. Make them pay."
"I know." I set the lighter on his nightstand next to his gun. Fire and violence side by side. "That's why I married you. Not just for protection. Because I knew you'd help me burn them down."
"Is that all I am? A weapon?"
"No." I curl closer, my hand finding his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat. "You're the man who killed for me tonight without hesitation. Who carried me home and asked what I needed instead of telling me what I should feel. You're not a weapon, Sergei. You're the first person in months who's made me feel like I might survive this."
His breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough to tell me the words landed.
"This wasn't supposed to be real," he says quietly. "The marriage. The arrangement. It was business."
"Do you want it to stay business?"
Silence stretches between us. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, can see the war playing out behind his eyes. He's scared. The Wolf is actually scared of what he's feeling.
Good.
I'm scared, too.
"No." The word comes out rough, raw. "I don't want it to stay business. I want—" He stops. Starts again. "I want to know what it feels like to have something real. Even if it destroys me later."
"It won't destroy you." I rise up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "We might destroy everything else. But not each other. Our only rule is 'not each other.'"
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Deal."
"Deal."
We kiss again—slower this time, deeper, a promise instead of a collision. When we break apart, I settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow.
My eyes are heavy. The adrenaline crash finally hitting, exhaustion pulling me under. I should fight it. Should stay awake to process everything that happened, everything that's changing between us.
But I feel safe.
For the first time since Dad died, I feel actually, genuinely safe.
"Sergei?"
"Hmm?"
"I sleep better when you're there." The words come out mumbled, half lost to the drowsiness dragging me down. "Just so you know."
His arm tightens around me. His lips press against my hair.
