"I believed that at the time. I still believe it." His voice hardened. "But I can't pretend my motives were pure. I took you because I wanted you, Gabrielle. The threat from Pankratov was real, but it was also an excuse."
"I know." I surprised both of us with the admission. "I've known that for a while."
"And yet you're still here. In my library. In my bed."
"I'm still here," I agreed. "I don't know what that makes me."
"It makes you brave." He reached across the space between us, his hand covering mine. "Or foolish. Possibly both."
"Definitely both."
We sat in silence for a moment, our hands intertwined on the arm of my chair. Through the windows, the Mediterranean glittered in the afternoon sun—beautiful, remote, impossibly far from the violence erupting in New York.
"What happens now?" I asked. "You go back and fight your war?"
"I find the leak. I deal with Pankratov. I protect what's mine." His grip tightened on my hand. "And I come back to you."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not. It's going to be bloody and complicated and dangerous." He met my eyes, and I saw the truth there—the fear he was trying to hide beneath the certainty. "But I will come back. I promise you that."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't." He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I've never lost a war, Gabrielle. I don't intend to start now."
***
That night, we had dinner on the terrace as the sun set.
He told me more about his world—the structure of the organization, the history with the Armenians, the delicate balance of power that his absence might disturb. I listened,asking questions, trying to understand the empire he'd built and the forces threatening to tear it apart.
It was strange, hearing him speak so openly. For weeks, he'd kept me at arm's length from the realities of his business. Now he was drawing me in, treating me like a partner rather than a possession.
I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Wasn't sure I wanted to be complicit in the violence that funded the luxury around me.
But I listened anyway. Because knowledge was power, and I'd been powerless for too long.
After dinner, we retired to his bedroom. Not for sex—I was still sore from last night, and he seemed to sense it without me having to say. Instead, we lay tangled together in the darkness, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"I'm afraid," I said into the silence.
"Of what?"
I couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't admit that the fear coiling in my chest wasn't about me anymore—it was about him. About the thought of him walking into danger while I stayed behind, safe and useless.
"Of being alone here," I said instead. Half-truth.
"You won't be alone. Yelena will be here, and the guards. And I'll call every day."
"It's not the same."
"No." His arms tightened around me. "It's not."
We lay in silence after that. His breathing eventually evened out into sleep, but I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
When had this happened? When had my fear shifted from him to for him?
I thought about the woman I'd been a month ago—the one who'd worked late at an office where no one appreciated her, who'd called her father every Sunday and spent the rest of the week recovering from his criticism. That woman had been miserable, but she'd been safe. Predictable. In control.
