My throat tightens, but not from smoke this time. It’s my knowledge this is temporary. The danger isn’t gone. But the immediate threat is over. The transaction is burned and unrecoverable. And I am still here … because of Hawk.
My vision blurs unexpectedly. I blink once. Twice. It doesn’t stop. I press my fingers beneath my eyes as if I can force it back into place.
Weakness. I hate weakness. A hand settles gently at my waist.
“Come closer,” Hawk says, his voice low.
I shake my head once, embarrassed by the sudden emotion in my eyes.
“I’m fine.”
Hawk doesn’t argue. He just moves closer. Arms come around me — not tight or trapping. He feels so solid and warm. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that until my forehead rests against his chest. I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped there for years. No words, nothing is said. He just holds me.
“Let it out,” he murmurs.
His words free me more than anything else. It isn’t sobbing — only tears slipping away, unguarded.
Hawk reaches for a tissue from the side table and, without hesitation, lifts it to my face. He wipes beneath my eyes carefully, like I’m something fragile he doesn’t want to damage.
No one has done that for me, not without agenda or ownership attached. My eyes lift to his. He studies me like I’m not a liability or an asset. Just me.
Hawk leans in and kisses me softly. It’s not a deep, consuming kiss. Just a brush of his mouth against mine like a promise. He rests his forehead against mine afterward.
“It’s been a long road,” he whispers. “You don’t have to carry it alone right now.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. And yet he understands enough. I breathe in slowly. The scent of him is a unique blend of smoke, clean cotton, and something distinctly masculine. It could lie in it … like lying in a field of grasses and wildflowers. It grounds me. After a moment, he steps back slightly.
“There’s champagne,” he says. “Might as well make the most of the accommodations.”
A faint laugh escapes me. The absurdity of it all — corporate sabotage and the honeymoon suite. The irony almost feels poetic.
He crosses to the table and lifts the bottle from the ice. The pop of the cork is sharp and celebratory. He pours two glasses and hands one to me. The bubbles rise fast and bright.
“To survival,” he says.
I tilt my glass toward his and they clink together.
“To choice.”
We drink. The champagne is crisp, cold — almost shocking after everything.
Hawk sets his glass down and begins exploring the room with cautious practicality, checking doors, scanning corners, testing the bathroom entrance as if assessing security.
“Clear,” he mutters.
I follow him into the bathroom. It’s enormous. Marble floors. A freestanding soaking tub. A glass shower large enough for two. Plush white towels folded with decorative precision. Two hotel robes hang on the back of the door — his and hers, embroidered in gold thread.
I reach out and brush my fingers over the soft fabric. It feels so unthreatening and comforting. Hawk steps in behind me.
“This is a nice upgrade from the clothes at the cabin,” he says, laughing lightly.
“Yes,” I agree.
There’s something surreal about standing in a honeymoon suite with a man who just walked through smoke to get me out alive. For now, no one is hunting us. For now, the suite belongs to us.
I notice I’m not performing as Katerina right now. I am simply here … with Hawk.
The champagne goes down easier the second time. Hawk leans back slightly against the edge of the writing desk, glass in hand, studying me the way he does when he’s assessing a perimeter. Only this time, I’m the perimeter.
