“Yes, you do. And you have every right to. What I did to you four years ago—”
“We’ll talk about that later.” He stood up and moved toward the chair by her window. “Right now, you need to rest.”
“Viktor, you don’t have to sit in that uncomfortable chair all night. The bed is big enough for both of us, and I promise I won’t... I mean, I’m not expecting anything. I just don’t want to be alone.”
The idea of lying next to her, of being that close to her warm body and soft skin without being able to touch her the way he wanted to, was a special kind of torture. But the alternative was leaving her alone with her nightmares and her fears, and he couldn’t do that.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m staying on top of the covers.”
She nodded, scooting over to make room for him. He kicked off his shoes and lay down beside her, careful to keep space between them, trying to ignore the way she smelled like rain and vanilla and something that was purely her.
“Thank you,” she whispered in the darkness.
“Go to sleep, Anka.”
He listened to her breathing gradually slow and deepen, felt the tension leave her body as exhaustion finally claimed her. When he was sure she was asleep, he carefully got up and moved to the chair, pulling out his phone to make some calls.
The kidnappers had been freelancers, but someone had hired them. Someone had put a price on his wife’s head, andthat someone was going to pay for it in ways that would make Matvei’s revenge look merciful.
It took three phone calls to track down the source. A small-time rival family called the Bocharovs, probably trying to make a name for themselves by going after Volkov assets. They’d picked the wrong fucking target.
“I want them all dead by morning,” he told Marcus, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Anka. “Everyone who was involved, everyone who knew about it, everyone who so much as heard the plan discussed over drinks. Make it messy. Make it public. I want every other small-time crew in the city to know what happens when they target my wife.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
He hung up and looked over at Anka, curled up under the covers with her golden hair spread across the pillow. She looked peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, like the woman he’d fallen in love with instead of the one he’d married for revenge.
He should have left then, gone back to his own room and his own bed. Instead, he found himself lying back down beside her, drawn by the soft sound of her breathing and the way she unconsciously shifted closer to his warmth.
Just for a few minutes, he told himself. Just until he was sure she was deeply asleep and wouldn’t wake up from nightmares.
But when dawn light started filtering through the windows, he was still there, and Anka was curled against his side with her head on his chest and her arm thrown across his waist. For the first time in four years, he’d slept without having dreams of revenge.
Chapter 9 - Anka
Consciousness came slowly to Anka, like surfacing from deep water. She was warm and comfortable in a way she hadn’t been in weeks, surrounded by a scent that was both familiar and intoxicating. Something woodsy and masculine that made her want to burrow deeper into whatever she was lying against.
That was when she realized she wasn’t alone.
Her eyes snapped open to find Viktor’s face inches from hers, his features relaxed in sleep in a way she had never seen before. His dark hair was mussed from the pillow, and there were faint lines around his eyes that spoke of exhaustion and stress. He looked younger like this, more like the man she had fallen in love with four years ago and less like the cold stranger who had married her for revenge.
Her head was pillowed on his chest, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Sometime during the night, they had gravitated toward each other, his arm curling around her waist while hers draped across his torso. They fit together perfectly, just like they always had, and for a moment, she let herself pretend this was real. That they were just a normal married couple waking up in each other’s arms, that the past four years of pain and anger had never happened.
Then reality crashed back down like a bucket of ice water.
Jesus Christ, what was she doing? This was Viktor, the man who had orchestrated a fake kidnapping to terrorize her, who had made it clear he viewed their marriage as nothing more than an elaborate revenge plot. The fact that he had been kind to her last night didn’t change any of that.
She needed to get out of there before he woke up and saw her staring at him like some lovesick teenager.
Moving as carefully as possible, she extracted herself from his embrace and slipped out of bed. Her ankle twinged with every step, but the pain was manageable, just a dull ache that reminded her of yesterday’s terror. She made it to the bathroom without waking him and quietly closed the door behind her.
One look in the mirror made her groan with mortification.
She looked like she had been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. Her hair was a wild tangle of golden waves that stuck out in every direction, and she had dark circles under her eyes that made her look like a raccoon. Her lips were chapped, her skin was pale and blotchy, and there was a pillow crease running down one side of her face.
This was what Viktor would have seen if he had woken up first. This disaster of a woman who looked nothing like the polished Bratva princess everyone expected her to be.
She splashed cold water on her face and tried to tame her hair with her fingers, but it was hopeless. She needed a shower, makeup, and about three more hours of sleep before she would be fit for human company.
