I slap him again. He slowly—so slowly—takes my hand. Brings it to his lips. Kisses my palm. Then rests it against his cheek. Closes his eyes. Leans into my touch like he's been starving for it.
I tremble. My other hand comes up. Cups his other cheek. Both hands holding his face now. He looks at me—shock and anticipation and fear all mixed together.
"I never sent you that note," he says. Voice cracking. "The one that said I was leaving. I could never abandon you. I tried, Alena. I tried to talk to you. But you would be in danger. I couldn't—" His voice breaks completely. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
I lean forward. Rest my forehead against his. He makes a sound—half sob, half relief—and his arms come around me. Crushing. Desperate. His big, muscled body shields me from the world like it always has. Like it always will. I cry into his chest and he holds me tighter. So tight I can barely breathe but I don't care. Because he's here. Because he's always been here.
We stay like that. Minutes. Hours. I don't know. Just holding each other. Him whispering "I'm sorry" over and over. Me crying so hard my body shakes.
Then I push him back. Gently. Look at his face. And there it is. That look. The one I know he has only for me. Desperation. Need. Love so intense it borders on obsession.
The look that says I'm his entire world. That he'd burn everything down for me. That he already has.
"Leave," I whisper.
Pain flashes across his face. "What?"
"Leave the room. I need—" My voice shakes. "I need to process this. Alone. Please."
He nods. Slow. Reluctant. "I'll be downstairs. If you need-"
"I know."
He stands. Walks to the door. Stops. Looks back one more time with that desperate, devoted look that makes my heart shatter and rebuild simultaneously.
Then he leaves. Closes the door softly.
I sit on my bed. Wrapped in a towel. Surrounded by the truth. Drogo is in the mafia. Drogo kills people. Drogo tortured someone tonight. Drogo shot a man in the head for calling me a whore.
And despite everything—the horror, the shock, the terror—one thought keeps circling.
He's been mine for seventeen years. And I've been his. And nothing—not the mafia, not the violence, not the blood on his hands—will ever change that.
Yes, now he is a monster, but he's my monster.
43
DROGO
I walk downstairs and stop at the couch. Damn that couch. The one where Oliver sat, where his hands touched her, where he kissed her neck and thought he had a chance. Pushed his… fuck, I can't even finish the sentence. The rage builds just thinking about it, hot and vicious in my chest.
I can't lie there. Won't. The thought of putting my body where his was makes my skin crawl.
I grab the blanket from the armchair—the one she likes to read in, the velvet one that's shaped itself to her body over months of use. It smells faintly like her: roses and old books and vanilla, that particular scent that's uniquely Alena. I layer it over the couch carefully, covering every inch of the fabric until I can't see where he touched anymore, until the evidence of his presence is buried under something that's hers.
Then I lie down, the velvet soft against my skin, her scent surrounding me like an embrace.
The house settles around me in the darkness—silent, safe, hers. And upstairs, one floor above me, is Alena. Sleeping. Breathing. Here. Something in my chest clicks into place, a piece I didn't know was missing sliding home with an almost audible snap. She's above me, I'm below her, in her house, her space, protecting her the way I always have, the way I always will.
I can't even fully process it. For two years I watched her through screens, listened to her cry through audio feeds, sawher break and rebuild and break again—all from a distance that felt like miles even when I was only three houses away. And now I'm here, in her house, breathing her air, close enough to hear if she calls.
I smile into the darkness. For the first time in two years—maybe longer—I feel the exhaustion hit. Real, bone-deep tiredness, the kind that comes when your body finally believes it's safe enough to shut down, when the vigilance can finally ease because she's here and she's safe and I'm exactly where I need to be.
My eyes close, and I sleep.
• • •
A noise wakes me—small, barely there, but my eyes snap open instantly. I'm on my feet before I'm fully conscious, fists tight, body coiled and ready, scanning for threats in the dark. Years of training, years of survival instinct, all kicking in before my brain catches up to where I am.
