I rake my nails down his back, and he hisses in response. The pace increases, but it’s still controlled. Still worshipful. He’s not taking; he’s giving.
“Pyotr—” I gasp as he hits a spot that makes my vision blur. “I’m close?—”
“I know. I can feel you squeezing me. Let go, golubka. I want to feel you shatter around me.”
The second orgasm builds faster than the first. It starts in my toes and races up my spine, gathering force until it explodes through every nerve ending in my body.
I come with his name on my lips, and I feel him follow a moment later. He buries himself deep and groans against my neck as he pulses inside me.
We lay there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other.
Eventually, he rolls onto his side and pulls me against his chest. His hand slides up and down my back, over the scars. They’re no longer something to hide or be ashamed of.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Tonight. Stay with me.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
I press my face into the hollow of his neck and breathe him in. He smells like flour and dish soap and something underneath that’s just him.
For the first time in years, I feel cherished instead of broken.
I know it won’t last. The danger hasn’t passed. Bogdan is still out there, Alexei is still coming, and the evidence we need is still locked in a dacha hours away.
But right now, in this bed, in this man’s arms, I let myself believe that maybe I deserve to be happy.
It’s a dangerous thought.
21
Pyotr
Kira’s scream rips through the apartment at 2:47 a.m.
I’m out of bed before I’m fully awake, grabbing the gun from the nightstand and moving down the hallway with Daria two steps behind me.
But when I reach Kira’s doorway, there’s no intruder. Just a five-year-old girl thrashing in her dinosaur sheets, crying for her mother.
Daria shoves her way past me and gathers Kira into her arms. The moment her hand touches her daughter’s forehead, she goes pale.
“She’s burning up.”
I holster the gun and cross to the bed. Kira’s face is flushed, and her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat. When I press the back of my hand to her cheek, the heat radiating off her skin makes me frown.
“I need to find the thermometer.” Daria’s voice is climbing toward panic. “She was fine at dinner. She was fine when she went to bed. How is she?—”
“Daria.” I catch her arm and force her to look at me. “Thermometer. Where?”
“Bathroom cabinet. Top shelf.”
I retrieve it and return to find Daria rocking Kira, whispering reassurances that sound more like prayers. The thermometer beeps after thirty seconds.
“39.2,” I read the display. “High, but not critical. Do you have children’s Tylenol?”
“In the kitchen. The cabinet above the stove.” She looks up at me with wild eyes. “We need to take her to a hospital.”
“No.”
“Pyotr, she’s sick. She needs?—”
