Mara laughs, and the sound is almost normal. Almost like we're not standing in a warehouse full of bodies, covered in blood, having just negotiated the terms of our fucked-up relationship.
"Probably," she agrees. She looks at Sergei’s body, and I feel something in my chest tighten.
"No regrets?" I ask quietly.
She turns to look at me. "No regrets," she says. "Not about anything.”
I believe her. I don’t know how we’re going to navigate this in reality, what pitfalls we’ll face in the future, but I know that we’re both doing something we’ve never done before.
As long as we’re together, I think there’s a chance that we’ll succeed.
Mara leans up, and kisses me, bringing me back to the present.
“Take me home,” she whispers.
31
MARA
The drive back to the penthouse is quieter than I would have thought it would be.
The shock isn’t as bad as it was when he brought me back from the gallery that awful night when I killed Sergei’s man, but it’s still sinking in. My wrists hurt terribly, and I’m cold, aware that I’m covered in sweat and blood, Ilya’s cum sticky on my thighs.
I sit pressed against Ilya's side in the back of the SUV, his arm wrapped around me, his hand resting on my hip like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. My head is on his shoulder, and I can feel his heartbeat, still racing from the adrenaline and violence and everything that happened in that warehouse.
I can still feel my hands tingling with the warmth of Sergei's blood, the resistance of flesh and cartilage as the knife went in, the terrible intimacy of taking a life with Ilya's hands covering mine.
I killed a man tonight.
The thought should make me sick, should make me want to run as far from Ilya and his world as I can get. But instead, all I feel is a strange sense of calm. As if this was always where I wasgoing, and now I’ve found where I’m meant to be. I don’t want to be a killer when I don’t have to be, but I’m willing to do it, if I need to.
I’m willing to do what I have to in order to keep what I’ve found, just as Ilya is.
"Are you okay?" Ilya murmurs against my hair, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I don't know how to answer that. I'm alive. I'm safe. I'm here with him. But I'm also covered in another man's blood, exhausted down to my bones, and so much has changed that my mind feels foggy with it.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Ask me tomorrow. But I will be."
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. It's such a tender gesture, so at odds with the violence we just committed together, that it makes my throat tight.
"Tomorrow," he agrees. "And the day after that. And every day after, for as long as you'll let me."
The words sound like a promise. Like a vow.
The penthouse is dark when we arrive, but I can tell someone's been here. The air smells faintly of cleaning products, and when Ilya flips on the lights, everything looks pristine. No blood, no bodies, no evidence of the attack that happened here just hours ago. Even the bullet holes have been plastered and painted over.
But I remember. I remember Dmitri's voice cutting off mid-warning, the sound of gunfire, the terror of knowing they were coming for me and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Ilya must sense my tension, because he pulls me closer, his hand cupping the back of my head. "You're safe now," he says. "I promise. You're safe."
I want to believe him. But I also know that safety is an illusion in his world. There will always be another Sergei, another threat, another moment when everything could fall apart. But maybe that's true in any world. I could die from anything. I could be mugged, run over, die in a plane crash. There’s always a chance that tomorrow is the end.
This one is just more up-front about the possibility.
"Come on," he says, guiding me toward the bedroom. Not the guest room where I've been sleeping, but his bedroom. He sweeps me into his arms, and I don’t resist, so exhausted that the feeling of being held against his chest is incredibly relieving.
He carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the counter, just as he did that first night. I watch as he starts running a bath, testing the water temperature. He’s taking care of me—this man who's killed more people than I can probably imagine, who just helped me commit murder, is drawing me a bath like it's the most important thing in the world.
