"Can you undress?" he asks, turning to me. "Or do you need help?"
My clothes are ruined—blood-stained and torn, evidence that needs to be destroyed. I start to pull off my shirt, but my hands are shaking so badly I can't manage it.
Ilya steps closer, his hands covering mine. "Let me."
He undresses me carefully, dropping the clothing to the floor as he looks at me with an expression that’s the gentlest one I’ve ever seen. He looks at my wrists, and then his gaze hardens in an instant.
“You’re hurt.” His jaw clenches, his fingers pressing below the wounds. There are other marks too—bruises on my arms from being grabbed, a scrape on my knee from when I was dragged, my whole body aching from the ordeal.
"I'm okay," I say, but my voice wavers.
"You're not." He lifts my wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the damaged skin. "But you will be. I'll make sure of it."
He gets a first aid kit out from beneath the sink, cleaning the wounds as carefully as he can, looking at me apologetically when I hiss in pain. The cuts aren’t deep enough to need stitches, but he uses butterfly bandages to close them, then wraps both of my wrists.
He helps me into the bath, and the hot water stings at first, making me hiss. But it’s soothing too, the heat seeping into my muscles, easing some of the tension I've been carrying.
Ilya kneels beside the tub, and I watch as he picks up a washcloth and soap. He starts washing me, his touch gentle but thorough, cleaning away the blood and dirt and evidence of everything that happened tonight.
It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex. His hands move over my skin with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, and I realize he's not just washing me—he's reassuring himself that I'm real, that I'm here, that I'm safe. He can't stop touching me. His fingers trace the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone, the bruises on my wrists. Like he's memorizing me, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he stops.
"Ilya," I say softly, and he looks up at me. His eyes look haunted, and I see the fear in them that he's trying so hard to hide.
"I thought I lost you," he says, his voice rough. "When I got to the penthouse and you were gone, when I saw my men dead and knew Sergei had you—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I thought I was going to lose you the way I lost Katya."
Tears spring to my eyes, my chest tightening. "I'm here," I whisper. "I'm safe. You got to me in time. And I fought to keep myself alive, too. She was a child, Ilya. It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t hers, but she couldn’t save herself. I can.”
His hand tightens on the washcloth. "If Sergei had decided to kill you instead of using you as leverage, if he'd hurt you before I got there?—"
"But he didn't. I'm okay."
"This time." He sets down the washcloth and grips the edge of the tub, his knuckles white. "But what about next time? What about when I can't get to you? What if something happens and I don’t know…”
This is it, I realize. This is the moment where I find out if he meant what he said in the warehouse, if he can really give me the freedom I need.
"Can you do it?" I ask quietly. "Can you really share control? Really let me have my freedom?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "I don't know," he finally admits. "The thought of you out there, in danger, without me watching over you—it terrifies me, Mara. It makes me want to lock you away somewhere safe and never let you leave."
My heart sinks. "Ilya?—"
"But I'll try." He looks up at me, and the rawness in his eyes takes my breath away. "I'll try, because losing you would destroy me more completely than losing control ever could. I'll try because you deserve better than what I’ve put you through. I'll try because—" He stops, drawing in a slow breath. "Because I forgot what it was like to love someone. After Katya died, I shut that part of myself away. I told myself I'd never care about anyone that much again, never give anyone that kind of power over me."
Love. The word hangs between us, and I look at him, reaching to touch his arm where it’s flexed hard against the edge of the tub.
"But if I'm capable of loving anyone," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, "I love you. And that means giving youwhat you need, even when it terrifies me. Even when every instinct I have screams at me to hold tighter, I’ll do my best to let you go, so you can come back to me."
Tears blur my vision. This man, this dangerous, obsessive, broken man, is offering me everything. His love, his trust, and most importantly, his willingness to change.
"I love you too," I whisper. “I do, Ilya. I really, really do.”
He leans in and kisses me, his forehead pressed to mine for a moment before he pulls back. Then he stands, a little unsteadily, reaching for a towel.
"Come on. Let's get you dry." He helps me out of the bath and wraps me in a towel that's soft and warm. Then he dries me off as carefully as he cleaned me up, his hands gentle on my skin.
When I'm dry, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me to the bedroom. To his bed.
He lays me on the bed, and I watch as he strips off his own clothes. His body is marked with scars—evidence of a violent life, of battles fought and survived. There are fresh bruises too, from tonight's fight, and I reach out to touch them.
