The look he gave her was so incredulous it might have been funny under different circumstances. “Anka, you’re not too heavy. And even if you were, I’d carry you anyway.”
Before she could argue further, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her against his chest like she weighed nothing at all. She expected him to grunt or strain, expected him to make some comment about her size, but he just held her securely and started walking.
“Viktor,” she said, her voice small and uncertain. “How did you find me?”
“GPS tracker in your purse,” he said without apologizing for the invasion of privacy. “When I saw you’d been in the same location for too long, I got worried.”
Worried. Not angry, not annoyed that she’d inconvenienced him again. Worried.
“Who were they?” she asked, letting her head fall against his shoulder despite herself. He was warm and solid and real, and after the terror of the past hour, the comfort of being held was overwhelming.
“Freelance kidnappers, most likely. Your picture and description have been circulating in certain circles since our wedding was announced. They probably thought they could snatch you for ransom.”
His voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but she could feel the tension in his body, the barely controlled rage that radiated from him like heat.
“You killed them,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” There was no remorse in his voice, no hesitation. “And I’d do it again without thinking twice.”
The certainty in his statement, the absolute conviction that he would kill for her, should have been disturbing. Instead, it made something warm and grateful unfurl in her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She felt him glance down at her, but he didn’t say anything. He just held her tighter against his chest as he navigated the rain-soaked streets toward wherever he’d parked his car.
The panic that had been clawing at her chest was finally starting to subside, replaced by an exhaustion so complete she could barely keep her eyes open. The adrenaline crash washitting her hard, and the steady rhythm of Viktor’s heartbeat against her ear was surprisingly soothing.
“Viktor?” she said as they reached his car.
“Yeah?”
“I wasn’t trying to run away from you. Today, I mean. I was just... shopping.”
He was quiet for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, as he carefully settled her into the passenger seat, he said, “I know.”
There was something in his voice she couldn’t identify, something that might have been regret or understanding or maybe just exhaustion. Whatever it was, it made her chest tight with emotions she wasn’t ready to examine.
As they drove through the rain-dark streets toward home, she found herself stealing glances at his profile. His jaw was tight with tension, his hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles were white.
He’d come for her. When she was in real danger, when she actually needed him, he’d appeared like some kind of avenging angel and eliminated the threat without hesitation.
Maybe there was more to her husband than cold revenge and calculated cruelty. Maybe, buried under all that anger and hurt, there was still something of the man she’d fallen in love with four years ago.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, as they pulled through the gates of the Nikolai compound, she felt something that might have been hope starting to bloom in her chest.
Chapter 8 - Viktor
Carrying Anka home felt like holding a piece of his past, like the universe had decided to fuck with him by making her fit perfectly against his chest exactly the way she used to. Her head was tucked into the curve of his shoulder, her soft breath warming his neck through the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, and for those twenty minutes in the car, he could almost pretend they were different people living a different life.
Almost.
But reality came crashing back the moment they stepped through the front door of the mansion. Elena appeared immediately with towels and concerned clucking, and he carried Anka up to her room despite her protests that she could walk. Her ankle was already swelling, purple and angry-looking, and the way she winced every time she tried to put weight on it told him she was in more pain than she was letting on.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” he said, settling her on the edge of her bed.
“It’s just a sprain.” She pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You need someone to look at that ankle—”
