Viktor tells me afterward it's something his grandmother sang to him as a child, a song about wolves in the forest and how they would guard their young with their lives. In this moment, it wraps around me like the blanket, easing the tension from my body.
My butt still throbs with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of my failed escape, but as the lullaby continues, my heart fluttersin a different way. There's something vulnerable in his voice, a glimpse of the man behind the devil, and it makes my chest ache. I drift off to the sound of it, the fire's crackle blending with his song, pulling me into sleep.
When I wake, the room is a little dimmer, the fire still going but the sunlight outside shifting toward afternoon. I blink, disoriented for a second, then sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around my waist.
My bottom aches still, but more of a warm reminder than the fiery sting from before. Goldie is still in my arms, and I give him a squeeze before looking around.
Viktor walks in right then, carrying a tray with an espresso for himself—the gold leafed cup steaming—and a larger mug for me. The scent of warm milk hits me, comforting and familiar.
"Awake," he says, setting the tray on the coffee table.
"How did you know?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "I just opened them."
He settles on the opposite end of the couch, picking up his espresso. "Two hours. Matter of time." His tone is matter-of-fact, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes too, giving me a hint of something more to him.
I giggle, the sound surprising even me after everything.
"Stalker much?" I sit up fully, reaching for the mug. It's warm milk, just like I hoped, and he's sprinkled chocolate on top—fine shavings that melt into the foam. "This looks amazing. Thank you,stalker."
Viktor rolls his eyes, nods, sips his coffee. "Hmmm. Enough sass. Drink. It’ll be good for you."
I blow on it gently, then take a sip. Creamy, sweet, perfect.
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the fire popping between us. But curiosity burns, and I can't hold it back.
"Viktor... what do youdo? For work, I mean. That whole shooting thing... it's not normal."
He sets his cup down, gaze steady on mine. "Family business. That's all a boy like you needs to know."
I nod, not pushing.
Crime, obviously—mafia, Bratva, whatever they call it.
Guns, power, danger. All that nasty stuff. Deep down, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear him say it. But saying it out loud might shatter this fragile peace, and right now, with the milk warming my hands and the blanket still draped over my legs, I don't want to.
"Okay," I finally reply, my voice quiet.
He shifts slightly, his posture relaxing a fraction more.
"Your art,” Viktor says, genuine curiosity in his voice. “Talk. Tell me… why sculpture?"
I smile, surprised he remembers. "It's...everything. With clay, I can shape the world how I want it. Make something from nothing. It's tactile, you know? Hands in the mud, feeling it come alive. Painting's flat, but sculpture has dimension.Life. I started in school, this teacher saw I couldn't sit still, put me at the wheel. I’ve been hooked ever since." I pause, sipping more milk. "My show's ruined now, though. All that work, shot to hell."
Viktor listens,reallylistens, his dark eyes focused. Then he says, "If you promise to behave…no more running… I’ll arrange supplies. Clay, tools.Here."
My heart leaps. "Really? I'd... do anything. I’d promise anything for that. I need to get my hands wet. I need to create. Especially after the gallery mess."
Viktor reaches over, places his hand on my knee. It's meant as reassurance—warm, steady pressure. But suddenly, electricity sparks between us. His touch sends a jolt up my leg, heat blooming where his palm rests.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts—the air thickens, charged. Not just Daddy protectiveness. Something much more.
Desire.
A real connection.
I realize then, with a sinking thrill, things might be about to get even more complicated. The fire crackles on, but the warmth in the room feels different now. His hand lingers a second too long before he pulls back, clearing his throat.
"Good. Supplies tomorrow."
