“When’s the last time you actually slept?” I ask, smoothing my hand over his chest.
He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Couple hours here and there.”
“That’s not sleep, that’s napping. Come on.” I take his hand and tug him toward the bedroom. “You need actual rest. Doctor Sierra’s orders.”
He follows without argument, which tells me more about his state than anything else could.
We don’t bother with much in the way of clothes. I strip down to my underwear and crawl under the covers, and he joins me in his boxers, careful to keep his injured side facing up. I make a mental note to check on that wound tomorrow, make sure he’s actually taking care of it properly.
I curl into his side, resting my head on his chest with my arm draped across his stomach. His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through the strands in slow, absent strokes that make my whole body relax.
“Thank you,” he says quietly into the darkness.
“For what?”
“For staying.” His voice is rough with something I can’t quite name. “For not running when I acted like a dick.”
I smile against his skin. “Please. It takes way more than a few grumpy days to scare me off. You’re stuck with me now, mister.”
His arms tighten around me, and I feel more than hear the low hum of contentment that rumbles through him. His breathing starts to even out, tension draining from his body as sleep finally pulls him under.
I’m completely, ridiculously, terrifyingly in love with him.
The realization doesn’t crash over me like a wave. It settles in soft and sure, like it’s been there all along, just waiting for me to notice.
And yeah, it’s scary. Falling for someone always is.
But lying here in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Whatever happens tomorrow, or at the wedding, or with the Bratva. Whatever chaos is still coming our way.
He’s mine, and I’m keeping him.
36
SIERRA
Twenty-four hours.
That’s all that stands between me and becoming Mrs. Matteo Rossi. The thought makes my heart skip, then stutter.
Because in most cases, marrying the man you love would be a dream come true. In my case, it’s complicated as hell.
I push my scrambled eggs around my plate, appetite fading as my brain runs the same exhausting loop it’s been running for days.He cares about you. He’s protective. He wants you in his bed.But wanting someone and loving them are two very different things, and I’m terrified I’m the only one who’s crossed that line.
The two days since our conversation about his avoidance have been... better. He’s not shutting me out anymore, not retreating into that cold, distant version of himself that made me question everything. But he’s also been gone more than he’s been here. Long days of handling things that stretch until dinner, when he shows up just in time to eat with me before I leave for my shift.
I should be grateful for the honesty. He tells me what he’s doing now. His priority is Viktor. Finding him, cornering him, ending him. The obsession is written in the hard set of his jaw when he leaves each morning and the tension in his shoulders when he returns.
What he doesn’t tell me is why he keeps coming home in different clothes than he left in.
I’m not stupid. I know what that probably means. A few months ago, the idea of him hiding blood stains would have sent me running.
Now I just worry he’s going to get hurt.
A small, ugly voice whispers in the back of my mind that his single-minded focus on Viktor might be about more than revenge. If he finds Viktor before tomorrow, there’s no reason to go through with the wedding. The whole plan becomes unnecessary.
And then what? An awkward conversation about how this was only ever a business arrangement? A handshake and athanks for playing?
