My hand wraps around her throat again—tight enough that I can feel her pulse racing frantically under my fingers. She pulls me deeper with her legs wrapped around my waist, and I go balls deep, as far as I can possibly get, claiming every inch of her.
And then I come—hard and endless, filling her completely, marking her inside as mine while I groan her name against her neck. "Damn, babe…"
I collapse forward with my head on her chest, feeling her heart thundering against her ribs, matching the frantic pace of my own. We lie there for long moments while our breathing slowly returns to normal, neither of us willing or able to move.
She kisses the top of my head softly, her fingers running through my damp hair. "I love you," she whispers.
My heart skips, stutters, stops completely for a beat. I lift my head to meet her eyes, seeing everything I feel reflected back at me in her gaze.
"I love you more," I whisper back.
She smiles—small and real and absolutely devastating. "You are my oxygen," I add, meaning every word with everything I am.
She pulls me down and kisses me slow and deep, pouring everything she can't say into the kiss. We fall sideways onto the bed, still connected, and I wrap around her completely with my arms tight and our legs tangled together.
• • •
We lie there in the aftermath, our breathing finally settling into something resembling normal, and a thought occurs to me that makes me smile against her hair.
"You're not on any pills, babe," I say, letting the words hang between us.
She laughs—a beautiful sound that rumbles through her chest against mine. "Do you think it's that easy?" she asks, amusement clear in her voice.
I smile wider and press a kiss to her belly, right where a baby might grow someday. "Then I'll try harder," I murmur against her skin.
She laughs again, the sound softer this time, more tender. I move back up and take one of her nipples into my mouth, sucking slowly and gently, just because I can, just because she's here and she's mine and I never want to stop touching her.
Her hand comes up to hold my head there, fingers threading through my hair as her eyes drift closed. I can feel her body relaxing beneath me, sleep starting to pull her under, but she keeps me exactly where I am with that gentle pressure of her hand.
Minutes pass in comfortable silence while I continue sucking lazily at her breast, and I feel my own eyes growing heavy. The exhaustion of the day finally catches up with me—Mikhail's interrogation, the shipments, the constant vigilance required to stay alive in Klaus's world—and it all fades away into nothing compared to this moment.
Alena's breathing deepens and evens out as she drifts into sleep, but her hand remains in my hair, holding me close even in unconsciousness. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the warmth and safety of her embrace, my mouth still on her breast, her arms wrapped around me protectively.
This is where I belong. Not in warehouses with bloodied knuckles, not on docks counting illegal shipments, not climbing ranks in a criminal empire I never wanted to be part of. Here. With her. Always with her.
Sleep takes me gently while she holds me, and for the first time in two years, I feel completely at peace.
48
ALENA
I wake up to the feeling of being completely surrounded by warmth and muscle and Drogo. He is wrapped around me like a vice, one arm under my head, the other draped over my waist, his legs tangled with mine in a way that makes it nearly impossible to tell where I end and he begins. His face is pressed against my head, breathing deep and even, still completely asleep.
I press a soft kiss to his chest, right over my name tattooed above his heart, and try to pull away slowly and carefully. The moment I move even an inch, his arms lock around me, pulling me back against him with surprising strength for someone who is supposed to be unconscious. I gasp, freezing completely, but his breathing doesn't change and his eyes stay closed. Still asleep. His body just… knows. Automatically holding onto me even in sleep like he is afraid I will disappear if he lets go.
Okay then. Plan B. I start moving very, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, trying to extract myself from his grip without waking him. It takes what feels like an hour but is probably only five minutes before I finally slide free and nearly tumble off the bed in my haste to escape before his sleeping instincts catch me again. I practically run to the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as possible behind me. Yeah, romance and cuddling and all that is wonderful, but man, I am going to pee myself if I don't get to a toilet in the next thirty seconds.
After taking care of business, I jump in the shower for a quick rinse, washing away the evidence of last night's activities. The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles, and I am definitely going to be walking funny today just like he promised. Bastard. When I tiptoe back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, Drogo is still dead asleep, sprawled across the bed now with one arm reaching toward where I had been. Something about that image—this dangerous, powerful man unconsciously seeking me even in sleep—makes my chest ache.
I get dressed quietly in yoga pants and one of his oversized shirts, then head downstairs to make breakfast. It is 5:26 AM according to the kitchen clock, way too early for any sane person to be awake, but my internal clock is still adjusting to having Drogo back.
I start opening cabinets, looking for something, anything. The problem is that Drogo is always the one making breakfast, always the one cooking and caring for me, and I suddenly realize I have no idea where he keeps half the things I need. After he came back into my life his people rearranged my kitchen. To his orders. And they brought things he needs. More things like this weird apparatus that I have no idea what it does. Maybe lobotomy? Also, now my closet is split in half. His clothes are there. I guess, now we live together. Damn, this is weird. I should know my own kitchen.
I finally find the eggs and pull them down, counting out ten because the man eats like he is feeding an army every morning. How is that even possible? No one knows. Then I grab the steak from the fridge and the kale because Drogo has always eaten dinner food for breakfast when we could afford it, even back when we were teenagers. Old habits diehard. I look at the eggs. The men are outside all night. Maybe, they could also take breakfast with us? I bring more eggs and steaks.
My attention turns to the avocados sitting in a bowl on the counter, and I stare at them like they are some kind of exotic puzzle. I have no idea how to pick a ripe one. Drogo always did that for me and when he was gone, I just didn’t eat them. I tried but turns out, avocados scare me. It must be soft, right? I start getting up close and personal with each avocado, squeezing them gently. Avocado picking is hard. Who knew? I give up and turn my attention back to the eggs and meat.
I was wrong. So very wrong. As I cook the steaks and scramble the eggs simultaneously while also trying to sauté the kale, smoke starts pouring from the pans in thick, acrid clouds. Everything seems like a war zone now—smoke everywhere, grease splattering, something definitely burning.
