But then—a sharp, muffled sound cuts through the haze.
A voice. Low and cold, drifting from inside my own head, threading through my thoughts like a ghost.
Irina.
My body goes rigid in Konstantin’s arms, every nerve screaming,Run.
I glance at him, his eyes half-closed, drifting to sleep, his arms still wrapped around me, holding me close. It’s different—this tenderness, this quiet intimacy, like he’s letting me see a piece of him no one else gets.
His breath slows, warm against my hair, and for a fleeting second, I want to stay here, safe in this moment, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. But no, I didn’t tell him—couldn’t—because Irina’s threat was clear: one word to Konstantin, and Julian and Lila are dead.
I’mnotsafe here, not in this bed, not in this house, not with him.
I’m a fucking pawn, caught between a contract and a psychopath, and the rule—Do not fall in love with him—is a cruel joke when I’m already drowning in him.
43
Konstantin
Ican’t remember the last time I slept this well.
Hell, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept. Not passed out from vodka or sedatives. Not crashing after a forty-eight-hour meeting streak across continents. Real sleep. The kind that creeps in slowly and stays like it has nowhere better to be.
My body feels… wrong. Too soft. Too warm. Like something in me uncoiled during the night and forgot to tighten back up. I shift and blink against the morning light filtering through the curtains.
She’s not here.
She shouldn’t be,I remind myself. No one stays.
I don’t do sleepovers. I don’t do warm bodies tangled in sheets like some goddamn rom-com. I don’t wake up to anyone still in my bed because that implies softness. Permanence. And in my world, both get you killed.
But last night… she didn’t move. Curled beside me like it was nothing.
And I let her.
Worse—I wanted her there.
The spot beside me is empty but not cold. Her scent lingers—orange blossom and skin. I press my palm to where her hip was, like my hand is hoping she’ll still be there. But she’s not.
Then I hear it.
“Papa! Are you hiding?”
Alya’s voice ricochets through the hall like a damn parade. Before I can respond, the door bursts open, and my daughter, barefoot and beaming, flies into the room like she owns it.
“Found you!” she announces, like this is some elaborate game.
I sit up, still half-stuck in the quiet she left behind, and glance at the bedside clock—7:12 a.m., too damn early for this energy.
“You’re supposed to be at breakfast,” I say, voice hoarse, pulling the sheet higher over my lap to cover the evidence of last night.
Alya climbs onto the bed, undeterred, her sparkly pajama top catching the light.
“I ate already. Mariya made pancakes, but Lev spilled syrup on Nikolai’s math book, so they’re fighting again.”
She rolls her eyes, like she’s above such chaos, then fixes me with a look.
“You promised, Papa.”
