I want to take care of her in every way a man can take care of a woman.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not when she’s exhausted and vulnerable and trying so hard to stand her ground in a life that’s not hers.
I force myself to stand. My muscles protest. My body feels like it’s trying to anchor me to the couch beside her. I ignore the instinct and slide my arms under her gently.
She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, but she doesn’t wake. Her head falls lightly against my shoulder. Her arms curl instinctively against her chest, small and soft, like she’s protecting someone precious. The motion sends another sharp ache through me.
She’s light in my arms as I carry her down the hall to the guest bedroom. When I lower her to the mattress, she releases a small sigh. I cover her with the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders. She curls toward the pillow and presses her cheek against it.
I stand there longer than I should. Long enough to feel something in me shift again. Long enough to realize I’m in real danger of caring for someone more than I care about myself. That’s the worst sin I could possibly commit. Because caring for her would mean putting her in danger. It would mean making her a liability.
But I do want her. I want her more than I want control. More than I want distance. More than I want the safety of keeping my life clean and cold and uncomplicated. I want her in ways I have no right to want anyone.
I step back and close the door quietly, my pulse thick in my throat.
I’ve never been a man with soft edges. I’m the Wolf. I’m a predator, a villain, a criminal. Men like me don’t have any right to women like her.
More importantly, men like me shouldn’t want women like her. I can’t afford the liability.
10
MOLLY
Iwake before the sun, my body humming with the restless awareness that Samuil is somewhere in this sprawling penthouse. Last night, sleep only came in scraps. I drifted in and out, my mind circling the same thoughts over and over until I finally gave up and climbed out of bed.
Every time I fell asleep, I thought about how much I’d shared with him. I told him more about my past than I’ve ever told anyone, and he actually listened. And that was terrifying.
I said too much. I know I did. But he shared a lot too. He made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I wasn’t the only person with a completely fucked up childhood. Somewhere between the quiet confessions and the long silences that didn’t feel empty at all, some invisible wall between us cracked. There’s no pretending otherwise.
It almost makes me wonder if I should tell him about the baby. There’s clearly a softer side to him.
The kitchen is still dark as I slip into it, bare feet silent on the cool tile. I flick on a single soft, golden light, enough to brighten the room without waking the whole apartment. My hands move automatically, gathering ingredients, cracking eggs, slicing fruit, warming bread, filling the space with the soft sound of sizzling butter and the scent of cinnamon from the French toast batter.
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never gotten up early and cooked breakfast for a man. But he listened to me without judgment. He opened up to me just because he knew it would make me feel less alone. He gave me the space to fall asleep and didn’t try to wake me. He carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and covered me up like a child.
I’ve never been tucked in before. I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that.
For the first time in my life, he made me feel something close to belonging.
My chest tightens at that thought. I press my palm against the cool counter and wait for my heart to steady. This is dangerous territory. I still don’t know anything about him, and his life seems messy. Messy and dangerous in a million different ways.
I flip the French toast in the pan. I don’t expect it to come out perfect, but cooking helps the swirl in my chest settle a little. I plate everything carefully and wipe the edge of the dish the way I once saw on a fancy cooking show.
The elevator hums, and I hear the muted sounds of footsteps. I look up and see Samuil walk in, dressed in jogging clothes and sweating. I didn’t realize he’d left the apartment.
My heart stutters in my chest. I freeze, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit.
Still, when he enters the kitchen, sweat-damp and breathing steadily, shirt clinging to his chest before he grabs the hem and pulls it over his head, I feel a rush of heat so sudden I almost step backward.
His skin is glistening and his muscles are taut. His shoulders are broad, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind. His entire presence fills the room in an instant, and I’m suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin under the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
He stops halfway across the room, eyes dropping to the table, then lifting to me.
“What’s all this?” he asks quietly.
I clear my throat. “I made breakfast,” I say, sounding lame even to my own ears.
His brows lift slightly, almost in disbelief. “For me?”
