"A little. But it was worth it." I press my lips to his chest, tasting salt and skin. "It was everything I imagined and more."
His arms tighten around me. "Sleep," he murmurs. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
I should argue. Should point out that nothing has been resolved, that Sergei is still out there, that my life is still a disaster. But his arms are warm around me, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, and for the first time in weeks, I feel safe.
So I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
The last thing I feel is his lips on my forehead, and his voice—so soft I might have imagined it:
"Mine. You've always been mine."
Chapter 16 - Misha
The rain stopped hours ago, replaced by a silence so deep I can hear her breathing. Soft, steady, the rhythm of someone who feels safe enough to let go completely. She's curled against my side, her head on my chest, one hand splayed over my heart like she's measuring its beats.
I've been watching her for hours. Counting the rise and fall of her ribs. Tracing the curve of her shoulder with my eyes, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip beneath the tangled sheets. Memorizing her the way I memorize threat assessments—methodically, obsessively, as if my life depends on it.
Maybe it does.
The first light of dawn is creeping through the windows, gray and tentative. I should wake her. Should extract myself from this bed and return to the world of security briefings and enemy movements and all the violence that defines my existence.
But I can't make myself move.
She's here. In my bed. Her skin warm against mine, her scent on my pillows, evidence of what we did last night written in the marks on my shoulders where her nails dug in. This isn't a dream. It's real.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
I've had women before. Plenty of them—convenient arrangements, mutual transactions, bodies in the dark that meant nothing when the sun came up. I learned early that attachment was a vulnerability, that caring for someone gave your enemies a weapon to use against you.
So I stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Became the man my family needed me to be—cold, controlled, capable of violence without remorse.
And then I met her. And everything I thought I knew about myself turned out to be a lie.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
Bianca stirs, making a soft sound of protest, and I hold my breath until she settles. Carefully, slowly, I reach for the phone and silence it.
Alexei. Of course.
I should answer. Should find out what's happening in the world I've been ignoring since I carried her up these stairs. But I give myself one more minute. One more minute of watching her sleep, of pretending we're just two people who found each other instead of a killer and the woman he bought at an auction.
One more minute of pretending I deserve this.
Then I ease out from under her, moving slowly so I don't wake her, and pad barefoot across the cold floor to the window. I call Alexei back.
"I've been trying to reach you for six hours," he says without preamble.
"I was occupied."
A pause. Alexei is too professional to comment, but I can feel his curiosity through the phone.
"The Nevada situation?" I ask.
"Clean. The women are at the safe house. Medical team has assessed them—some will need long-term care, but they'realive. Mirella asked about you specifically. Wanted to thank whoever was responsible."
Something loosens in my chest. I didn't realize I was holding that tension until it released. "Good. What else?"
