He guides me toward the bedroom. "You need rest. We'll talk tomorrow—"
"No." I stop. Pull away from his hand. "No. We talk now."
"Alena—"
"NOW, Drogo!" My voice cracks. "Either you tell me everything right now, or I'm done. I mean it. I'm DONE."
He looks at me. Really looks. And I see it—the moment he realizes I'm not playing anymore. That this isn't negotiable. That if he walks away without explaining, I'll never let him back in.
He exhales. Hard. Long. Like he's been holding his breath for two years. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
We sit on the edge of my bed. The silence stretches between us like a chasm.
"Babe…" He starts. Stops. Runs his hand through his hair. "I left because my father ordered me to New York."
I freeze. "What?"
"My father. He—I found him. Several years ago."
The shock hits like ice water. "You found your father?" My voice is barely a whisper. "Several YEARS ago?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The hurt bleeds through. "Why didn't—"
"Because he's in the Russian mafia."
I gasp. Actually gasp. Terror flooding through me. "The—the mafia?"
"Yes. The Bratva. And he wanted an heir. Someone to—"
"And you joined?!" I stand. Stumble back. Stare at him like I'm seeing a stranger. "You joined the MAFIA?!"
He lowers his head. Unbuttons his shirt slowly. Pulls the fabric apart. Shows me his collarbones. The eight-pointed stars tattooed there. Russian. Brutal. Unmistakable.
"No," I breathe. "No no no—"
I slap him. Hard. As hard as I can. The sound cracks through the bedroom. His head doesn't even turn. He just takes it. Stares at the floor.
"I left," he says quietly, "because he threatened you."
Tears flood my eyes. "Drogo—" My voice breaks. "We are ONE. We were for SEVENTEEN YEARS and you didn't tell me that? THAT?!"
I slap him again. He doesn't move. Doesn't defend. Just lets me.
"There's more," he says. Voice flat. Dead. "I kill people, Alena. I torture people. It's my job now. It's what I do. What I've become. I'm a monster. The kind Klaus wanted. The kind who—" His voice cracks. "The kind who put a bullet in aman's head tonight because he—I couldn't stand the idea of his hands on you."
I'm looking at him in terror. Oliver. Fuck. Why don’t I care? Oliver is dead, Drogo kills people, and the only thing that touches my heart is that Drogo is in trouble. Fuck, I am a horrible person. Shit. I start shaking. This is Drogo. Drogo who wouldn't hurt a fly. Drogo who cried when we found that injured bird when we were fifteen. Drogo who carried spiders outside instead of killing them.
But I also know how protective he was. How he'd take beatings meant for me. How he'd stand between me and anything that tried to hurt me. Always. For seventeen years. Always.
"If you want nothing to do with me—" True fear flashes in his eyes. Raw. Desperate. "I'll understand. I'll leave. I'll make sure you're safe and I'll—"
I start crying. Violently. Remembering him when we were teens. Offering me a flower he'd stolen from someone's garden. Coming to the dirty little squat we shared with Marcus and Lucy—bruised, bleeding, smiling like it was nothing. Shielding me from landlords. From social workers. From men who looked at me wrong. From everything. Always from everything.
"Fuck you!" I sob. "You didn't have to do that! You didn't have to—"
He stands. Fast. "And let him hurt you?" His voice rises. "NEVER. I would never—"
