Vladimir kisses my forehead before leaving me to strip and lower myself into the tub. The bathwater ripples softly as I lower myself into it, heat curling up my spine the moment my skin sinks beneath the surface. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, something between a sigh and a sound of relief, and slide down until the water reaches my shoulders. Every muscle protests for half a second and then melts, surrendering to the warmth Vladimir drew just for me.
Steam rises in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of the bath bomb. Lavender first—soft, floral, familiar. Then chamomile, warm and soothing, like being wrapped in a blanket straight from the dryer. Bergamot lingers underneath it all, bright and grounding, cutting through the heaviness in my chest. The water turns milky and pale, like I’m floating inside a cloud.
My legs ache pleasantly, the deep soreness of hours spent onstage, of jumps and turns and holding my body perfectly still while my heart raced. The heat pulls the tension from my calves, my hips, my shoulders. It feels as though the performance isbeing rinsed out of me, sweat and strain dissolving into the bathwater.
My mind tries to fight the calm at first. Images intrude—my father’s face, Alexi’s eyes when he spoke about cages and chains, the word Bratva echoing like a bruise. But the scent presses gently against the panic, slowing my thoughts, smoothing their sharp edges.
I rest my head against the porcelain and close my eyes. The water laps softly against the tub, a steady, patient sound. My breathing evens out. The weight of the day, of the truth, drifts farther away with every inhale.
I tell myself I’m just resting for a moment.
The next thing I know, the world goes quiet, and I slip into sleep without realizing I’ve let go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: VLADIMIR
I linger outside the bedroom longer than necessary, listening. I encouraged Anya to take a bath, hoping the heat and the quiet would help her unwind after everything she’d been told tonight. Too much truth. Too much legacy. Anyone would need time to breathe after that.
I step inside quietly. The bedroom is empty, the lamp on low. The air smells faintly of lavender and something brighter—bergamot, maybe. Calm, deliberate choices. Very Anya. I pause, listening for the sound of water, a splash, her voice. There’s nothing.
A flicker of concern settles in my chest.
“Anya?” I call softly.
No answer.
I move to the bathroom and push the door open. Steam rolls out, warm and heavy. She’s in the tub, sunk low, tendrils of blonde hair damp against her cheeks, her head tipped slightly to the side. Her eyes are closed, lashes resting on flushed skin. Her breathing is slow, even.
Asleep.
Relief comes first, then worry. The water has cooled some, and she’s been in there too long. I kneel beside the tub and touch her shoulder. Warm. She stirs faintly but doesn’t wake.
“It’s all right,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
I slide one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lift her carefully from the bath. Water streams down her skin and onto the tile. I keep my focus where it belongs—on balance, on safety—but I can’t entirely ignore the reality of her body in my arms. Her skin is impossibly soft, her muscles firm beneath it. Strength earned through discipline and pain, not vanity.
A dancer’s strength.
I wrap her in a towel and dry her off slowly, methodically, careful to remain respectful. Still, every brush of my hands reminds me how close she is, how easily lines could blur if I allowed them to. I do not allow it.
I ease my clean t-shirt over her head. It hangs loose on her, the fabric nearly swallowing her frame. She murmurs something unintelligible and leans slightly toward me. For a moment, I go very still.
Control, Vladimir.
I carry her into the bedroom and lay her gently on the mattress, pulling back the covers and tucking her in. When I turn to leave, she reaches up and grabs my hand.
“Don’t leave,” she whispers. “I don’t want to be alone. Will you lie with me?”
I stare down at her and consider her request. She is so vulnerable. A wave of possessiveness washes over me. I want nothing more than to pull this beautiful angel into my arms and protect her from life. Brushing a loose strand of hair off her face, I smile down at her. “I can stay.”
Moving to the other side of the bed, I strip off my trousers and my dress shirt. Clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, I lowermyself to the bed instead of joining her under the covers. Even though all I want is to feel her in my arms, I know what she needs is peace. I’ll give her that.
She turns to watch me undress, and I see the surprise on her face when I don’t slip inside next to her. However, rather than question me, she closes her eyes and drifts back under. Her breathing deepens again as I watch her. The urge to protect her settles heavy and unyielding in my chest—stronger, more dangerous than desire.
I wake before the light fully breaks through the curtains, the room washed in that quiet gray that exists only for a few minutes each morning. Anya is curled on her side beside me, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, her hair spilled across the sheets. She’s still wearing my shirt. The sight of it tightens something in my chest I don’t bother fighting.
I study her face—the soft curve of her mouth, the faint crease between her brows even in sleep. She looks peaceful now, but I know how much anger and hurt she carries beneath the surface. The urge to shield her from all of it hits me hard and fast. I want this—this quiet, this intimacy—to be permanent. I want to wake up like this every morning, with her breathing beside me, with the knowledge that she’s safe.
The thought startles me with its certainty.
