I was acutely aware of him—the solid warmth of his chest against my side, the controlled power in every movement. His T-shirt had ridden up, and his fingers brushed againstmy bare skin—maybe that was one of the reasons my skin tingled.
“You pierce my soul,” he suddenly whispered into my ear. “I am half agony, half hope… I have loved none but you.”
My heart actually stuttered. Captain Wentworth’s words fromPersuasion, spoken in that deep voice of his, were possibly the most unexpected and perfect thing I’d ever heard.
I leaned away from him until I could see his eyes. “It’s been a while since your last Jane Austen quote,” I said, fascinated by the flush creeping up his neck.
“It seemed…applicable,” he mumbled, looking adorably uncomfortable.
I stretched up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Ivan Zotov, you actually are a closet romantic.”
“How much are you enjoying my internal cringing right now?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
I laughed and wrapped my arms tighter around his neck. “On a scale of one to ten? About fifteen. It was a bit cheesy, but that’s okay,” I said, giving him a mischievous smile. “At least you’re sexy enough to balance your cheesiness.”
The laugh that rumbled through his chest was genuine, unguarded, and it transformed his face completely, softening the hard lines I’d grown to love.
“Is that so?” he murmured and pulled me closer.
“Definitely,” I whispered against his lips before he captured mine in another kiss.
Ivan placed me gently on the edge of the bed, then moved around the room with that predatory grace that somehow made me feel safer rather than threatened. Every movement was calculated and efficient, yet there was a new gentleness to him that I was still getting used to.
He returned with a water bottle, twisted the cap off, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, sending that same familiar electricity through my body.
I took a long drink, suddenly aware of how thirsty I was, how the salt from the ocean spray still lingered on my lips. “It’s strange,” I said softly, lowering the bottle. “I’ve carried the memory of you for fifteen years without knowing it was you.”
Ivan sat beside me, his weight dipping the mattress. “What do you mean?”
“That boy in the ring—you—you became a sort of…touchstone for me.” I traced the rim of the bottle with my finger. “Whenever things got bad, whenever I felt weak or afraid, I’d remember this fierce, determined kid who refused to break despite everything. I’d think, ‘If he could survive that hell, I can handle this much.’”
I glanced up to find him staring at me, something raw and unguarded in his expression, followed by a tenderness that transformed his face completely. The realization that he’d unknowingly been my strength all these years seemed to affect him profoundly.
“I had no idea,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
“How could you?” I set the water bottle aside. “So strange, isn’t it?” I reached for his hand, our fingers intertwining. “I used to imagine what happened to that boy. Used to dreamhow he escaped, how he survived. But I never imagined he’d be sitting here right next to me. Never imagined he would grow into the man I would fall in love with.”
Ivan’s free hand came up to cup my cheek. “You carried me with you all these years.” His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “You truly are my very own miracle.”
The air between us felt charged with unspoken emotion. My heart thundered in my chest, and I could almost feel his doing the same. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was intimate, full of everything we’d shared and everything we hadn’t yet put into words.
Ivan’s eyes softened as he ran his fingers through my still-damp hair. “You know what this means, right?” A hint of mischief played at the corners of his mouth. “We’re obviously fated to be together. The universe practically engineered our meeting.”
I snorted, grateful for the break in tension. “Two broken souls, destined to be together,” I joked back, trying to match his lightness despite the weight of everything we’d shared.
His expression shifted, becoming intensely serious. “You’re not broken—you never were,” he said firmly. “Nobody, especially not assholes like Grey or Moretti, could ever break you. You’re so much stronger than that.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words. Everything I’d told him—the darkest corners of my past, my deepest vulnerabilities—and the way he looked at me—had never changed. Not once. Where I expected to see pity, there was only admiration.
“To be honest, you were a real badass at eight years old; you’ve obviously been a real badass all your life, and the way you handled yourself on that yacht…I’m deathly scared of what you can do if I look at you wrong,” Ivan added with a grin.
The joke contained enough truth to make me smile. Ivan Zotov, feared Bratva leader, was at least a little intimidated by me. The thought was both absurd and empowering. “Smart man,” I murmured while I inched closer, needing to close the distance between us.
In his eyes, I wasn’t defined by what happened to me—I was defined by my strength, by how I’d fought back, by who I’d become despite everything. He saw me not as damaged goods but as a warrior who’d survived the battlefield.
The same way I saw him. Not broken. Not a victim. A survivor, who’d clawed his way through darkness and emerged stronger on the other side.
It felt like reclaiming my own story alongside his.
