I look up at him. His hair’s a mess. Jaw shadowed with stubble. Eyes still heavy with sleep, but sharp. Focused on me.
God, he’s beautiful.
“I’m not promising anything,” I say.
His mouth curves. “Of course you’re not.”
I reach up, trace the scar on his shoulder. The one from Timofey’s bullet. It’s healed now, but the mark is still there. Raised. Red.
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.
“No.”
“Liar.”
His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against the scar. “It’s fine.”
I don’t believe him. But I don’t push.
Instead, I lean up and kiss it. Soft. Gentle.
He goes still under my mouth.
When I pull back, his eyes are darker. Hungrier.
“Mary—”
“I know.” I settle back against the pillow. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” he repeats, taking a long, steady breath—like he’s trying to slow the storm building inside him. “Two weeks,” he says it again, quieter this time, almost to himself. Like if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.
We lie there in silence. His hand back on my stomach. My hand on his chest.
Then he says, “I have to leave today.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Moscow. I’ll be gone two weeks.”
Two weeks.
I push up on my elbow, ignoring the way my head spins. “Two weeks? Why?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Igor found out.”
“Found out what?”
“That I’d been protecting you. That I killed for you. That you killed for me.” His jaw tightens. “That I chose you over the Bratva.”
My breath catches. “But you didn’t—”
“I did.” His hand covers mine on his chest. “The second I put you in our care. The second I told Dima to train you. Every choice I made was about keeping you alive.”
I sit up fully, shaking my head. “Don’t go.”
“Not an option.”
