I don’t think.
I lean in first.
The kiss is clumsy at the start—wet lashes, shaky breath, the brush of lips that shouldn’t meet but do anyway. Then itdeepens. His mouth is firm, demanding without moving, and mine parts like it’s been waiting. The sound is low, slick, the kind that makes my stomach bottom out and my core clench so hard it hurts.
My hand slides from his jaw to his chest. Broad, solid, hot through the shirt. I press against him, needing more, and my palm drifts lower without thought, over muscle, down toward his ribs.
That’s when it happens.
He flinches. Not big. Just the smallest twitch in his jaw.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “You’re bleeding under there, aren’t you?”
Still no answer.
Fine.I grab the hem of his shirt and tug it up before he can stop me. The fabric lifts, slow, until the bruising shows—a deep, mottled blue-black spread across his ribs, ugly as hell, with a darker patch surrounded by torn flesh that makes my stomach roll.
“Oh, my God,” I breathe. My hands hover over him, useless. “What happened?”
His voice is flat. “Doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” My hand presses just above the wound, careful but insistent. “This isn’t a paper cut. You look like you lost a fight with a truck.”
That earns me the faintest huff of breath. Not quite a laugh. More like disbelief. “You should see the truck.”
I blink at him, tears still streaking down my face, and a wet, shaky laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “That’s not funny.”
I swipe at my cheeks again, but the stupid tears just keep coming, and at the same time, a broken laugh slips out. It’s ugly, clumsy—half sob, half choke.
His head tilts, just slightly. “You can’t decide if you want to laugh or cry,malyshka?” The sarcasm is soft, almost dry, like he’s testing the words in his mouth.
And then it happens.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and a low sound slips out of him. Not a full laugh. Not even close. More like the rumble of a man who hasn’t let himself laugh in years and forgot how it’s supposed to work.
Holy shit. He’s laughing.
And God, he’s gorgeous when he laughs. It’s rough and short, like it scraped its way out of him against his will. It’s real. It makes my chest do something stupid, tight, and fluttery, and suddenly I want it again. I wantmore.
God. I’m crazy. Absolutely insane. Who the hell wants “make a Bratva hitman laugh” on their bucket list?
But I do.
“You should laugh more,” I whisper, my voice rough from crying.
Before I know it, my hand is on his face again. My thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, stubble scratching softly against my skin. He doesn’t move away this time either. Just lets me touch him. His eyes meet mine, and in the dim light they darken, heat pooling there in a way that makes my stomach flip.
His hand comes up, slow, steady, and his thumb drags across my bottom lip. My breath stutters. His chest rises, heavier now, heat rolling off him in waves.
And then, low and dangerous, he says, “Don’t look at me like that unless you want your legs over my shoulders,malyshka.”
My breath catches so hard I nearly choke on it.
His thumb stays on my mouth, like he owns the air I breathe.Like he’s already decided what happens next.I should pull away. I don’t.Because for the first time, the danger doesn’t scare me—it feels like home.And I know I am ruined.
12
Mary
