As happy as I am that things are going well with Anya, I hate that the first time she’s looked genuinely happy in over a month has nothing to do with me. She’s slipping away from me.
Before I can think, my hand lifts. My fingers touch her cheek, slow and deliberate, brushing the tear away with my thumb. She goes absolutely still. Her breath trembles. We both stay suspended in a silent moment, unsure what to do next.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask, feeling ridiculous.
I’ve never once asked a woman if I can kiss her, but this feels too important, too fragile. If I rush her, she’ll run. I wait with bated breath for something. Anything. Then, finally, she nods and meets my eyes.
The moment stretches, warm and delicate, the air thick with everything neither of us has said since that night in the kitchen. I lean in by instinct, not force. Not heat. Just something soft and unguarded that I don’t know how to stop.
She meets me halfway.
The kiss is gentle at first, barely a press of lips, more breath than contact. She tastes like mint tea and something sweet. The second she exhales against my mouth, the softness warps into something deeper. Her fingers tremble as they clutch the front of my shirt, pulling me in with a desperation she doesn’t try to hide.
I cup the back of her head and kiss her properly this time, slow and hungry and full of everything I’ve been trying not to feel. She melts into me so fast it steals my balance. Her knees brush against my thigh as she shifts closer and her breath catches in that way she gets when she wants more but is scared to ask for it. I feel her pulse through her lips, her hands, her body leaning into mine like she’s been starving for this just as much as I have.
Her mouth opens beneath mine and heat rolls through me in a wave so strong it takes every bit of discipline I have not to ease her back onto the rug and lose myself in her.
For a moment, the world feels simple. All my fears about us disappear. I can see the future with her. I can see us getting married, having this child, having a dozen more. Everything is so incredibly clear to me in a way that it wasn’t before. I could have the one thing I never thought I could deserve. I could have a family.
Then she breaks the kiss, and it all vanishes like smoke. But I don’t try to fight her, because I know I don’t deserve that future. I know that I’ve never done anything in my miserable life to be worthy of it, or worthy of her.
“Samuil…” Her voice is so soft I almost miss it.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts, so hurt by the rejection, even though I know it’s completely warranted. Hell, she’s barely looked at me in almost a month since the last time we slept together. She obviously doesn’t want this.
“We can’t…” she continues, and it nearly breaks me open.
She’s right, but I need her. It’s more than a primal desire for her body. She’s become as close to me as a second skin. Without her, I’ll probably fall apart. I’ll become a miserable old drunk, just like my father.
“Not without talking first,” she finishes, and it takes me a moment to pull myself out of my self-loathing enough to process her words.
I keep my hands on her waist, gentle so she knows she can pull away at any moment. I steady my breathing as hope blooms in my chest. I haven’t broken this beyond repair. There’s still a chance.
“I know,” I tell her desperately.
“We keep doing this,” she whispers. “Falling into each other and pretending everything else doesn’t exist. There’s so much we have to figure out.”
“Tell me what you need,” I say.
She exhales shakily and sits back a little, though not far. “I want to keep working with Anya. That part feels clear.” Her fingers twist together in her lap. “And I trust you in some ways. I do. But I’m afraid of what’s outside these walls. And after all this time, there’s still so much I don’t know about you. I don’t know who you are, not really.”
Her voice cracks at the last word. I shift closer, hands resting on my knees so she doesn’t feel cornered.
“If you want the truth,” I say quietly, “I can give you that.”
She lifts her eyes and nods once. Brave. Scared. Determined. So I tell her.
“My mother left when I was still little. I barely even remember her. From what I was told, there was no warning and no goodbye. She just walked out one day on my father, my brother, and me and never looked back.”
Molly inhales sharply, like the thought physically hurts her.
“My father was thepakhanbefore me,” I continue. “And he was good at the job, but he loved vodka more than he loved anything else. Including us. Including himself.”
Her face softens with heartbreak I don’t deserve.
“My older brother, Pavel, was supposed to take over someday. Everyone knew it. He was smart and wickedly cunning. He was stronger than I ever was, and definitely stronger than our father. He had a lot of ideas to improve the Bratva.” I smile faintly at the thought, though it’s barely a memory now. “He would have been a great leader.”
“What happened?” she whispers.
