She won't like it. She'll fight me. Good. I've missed that fire.
I pull out my phone. Open the encrypted app. Start making calls.
First call: the couch. I need the vintage velvet one she's been eyeing delivered by morning. Money's not an issue—never is anymore.
Second: cleaning crew. Discreet. Expensive. The kind that asks no questions and leaves no trace.
Third: new dining table and chairs. I can't have a reminder of another man eating out my woman every time I walk into this room. Everything goes.
Fourth: new router. New security system. My security system. Cameras I control. Locks I control. Every entry point monitored.
Fifth: protection detail. I need men around her house. Good men. Men who understand that she doesn't leave. No one comes in or out. Not until I've had time to explain. Not until she's safe—from Klaus, from herself, from anyone who might use her to get to me.
I finish the last call and the guy on the other end confirms: "Da, boss. Tri cheloveka na smene. Kruglye sutki. Ona v bezopasnosti."Yes, boss. Three men per shift. Around the clock. She'll be safe.
"Good." I end the call. Put the phone away.
Walk to the kitchen. Find a notepad—the one she uses for grocery lists, her handwriting scattered across the top page. I tear off a fresh sheet.
Write in my own hand:
I missed you.
Take that shower.
Wash him off.
—D
I leave it on the coffee table where she'll see it when she wakes. Right next to the couch where I've laid her down.
Then I walk back to her one more time. Kneel beside the couch. Brush her hair back from her face. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "For all of it. For leaving. For watching. For letting you suffer." She doesn't hear me. Can't. Probably better thatway. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere." I press one more kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering, a promise I intend to keep. A claim I'll enforce with blood if necessary.
Then I stand. I take a blanket from the armchair and cover her. It’s so difficult to take a step away from her. I lower my eyes and walk to the door. Grab my jacket.
Konstantin's warehouse is forty minutes away. Time to have a conversation with Oliver.
The kind he doesn't walk away from.
Because no one touches what's mine.
Not even once.
40
ALENA
I wake with a gasp.
Shooting upright on the couch, momentum carrying me forward until I'm half-falling off the edge. My hand slams against my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath my palm like it's trying to escape.
Drogo.
My heels—still on, I never took them off—knock against the wooden floor as I slide down, knees hitting the ground hard enough to bruise.
I look around frantically. Searching. Scanning every shadow, every corner.
Nothing. No one.
