I stand there for a moment. Still. Watching them.
Alya’s breathing is even, her face slack with sleep. One arm draped over Bella’s. Like she’s anchoring herself.
I move quietly. Carefully. Ease Alya’s hand away and tuck her stuffed rabbit into the space between them. She shifts, nose scrunching, but doesn’t wake. I pull the blanket up over her shoulders and smooth her hair once—just once—before I turn back to Bella.
She’s half off the bed, legs tangled, that idiotic cartoon shirt riding up slightly over one thigh.
I slide an arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lift.
She folds against me without a sound, her body instinctively curling toward the warmth like she’s done this a hundred times. Like she’s mine.
She mumbles something I can’t catch, her head resting in the hollow between my collarbone and jaw. It fits there too well. Too natural.
I don’t answer. Just breathe her in. The faint citrus scent on her skin. The heat of her thigh against my ribs.
The hallway is silent. Security hums low through the walls. Somewhere upstairs, the motion sensor clicks once and resets. No footsteps. No interruptions.
I should take her to her room.
I should lay her down. Close the door. Walk away like nothing about this matters.
I should wake her up. Ask about the phone call from earlier.
Instead, I keep walking.
Past her room. Past mine. Straight into the master suite that’s been renovated since Irina vanished.
She stirs slightly as I adjust her in my arms, but doesn’t wake.
I set her down on the left side of the bed—the side no one’s touched in years—and pull the blanket over her.
Then I sit on the edge.
Something in my chest shifts. Locks. A thought I don’t want. A weight I can’t name.
This is temporary.She’s not staying.
And still, I’m already trying to figure out how the fuck to make her stay.
And there is nothing to do with love.
42
Bella
The world is a haze, soft and warm, like I’m floating in a dream I don’t want to wake from.
My body feels weightless, cradled against something solid—a chest, broad and firm, radiating heat through a thin layer of fabric. Arms hold me, one under my knees, the other around my back, carrying me through the dark. The scent wraps around me—cedar, smoke, something sharp and dangerous that makes my head spin. My cheek presses against a T-shirt, stretched tight over muscle, and I nuzzle closer, chasing the warmth.
Safe. So fucking safe.
This can’t be real. It’s a dream, isn’t it? The best kind.
I murmur something incoherent, my lips brushing the hollow of a collarbone, and the arms tighten, sending a flutter through my stomach. My eyes crack open, just a sliver, and the world sharpens enough to see him—Konstantin. His jaw, shadowed with stubble, the hard line of his profile against the dim light.
I must be dreaming,I think, my heart stuttering.
He’s too real, too solid, too everything.
