Something shifts in her expression at that last part. “Rafa?—”
“I need a shower,” I interrupt, unprepared for whatever conversation we’re building toward. “I can smell the warehouse on my clothes, and I keep thinking I can still feel...” I gesture vaguely at my hands.
“Come on.” She moves toward me with sudden purpose. “Let me help.”
“You don’t need to?—”
“I want to.” Her voice is soft but firm. “Please. Let me take care of you.”
The bathroom attached to the master suite is spacious and modern, with clean lines and expensive fixtures. Kira turns on the shower and adjusts the temperature while I stand there feeling strangely disconnected from my own body.
“Arms up,” she says quietly, reaching for the hem of my shirt.
I comply without thinking, letting her undress me carefully. Her touch is clinical but tender, like she’s handling something precious and fragile. When she encounters the minor cuts and bruises from my struggle with Yegor, her fingers trace them with feather-light concern.
“I’m fine,” I assure her, though her gentleness makes something tight in my chest begin to loosen.
“I know. But let me do this anyway.”
The shower is exactly what I need—hot water washing away the physical remnants of violence, steam clearing my head of the warehouse’s industrial smell. But when I reach for the soap, Kira stops me.
“Let me,” she says again, and something in her voice makes me nod.
She washes me with the same careful attention she gave to everything else tonight—methodical, thorough, intimate without being sexual. Her hands move over my skin with purpose, washing away traces of blood I didn’t even know were there, working tension from muscles I didn’t realize I was holding tight.
“Better?” she asks, stepping back to let the water rinse away the soap.
“Yeah.” I catch her hands, pulling her closer under the spray. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for protecting me. For coming when I was too stubborn to ask for help.”
“Always,” I reply without hesitation. “I’ll always come for you.”
We stand there under the hot water, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air. The violence of the evening feels distant now, muted by warmth and safety and the simple reality of being alive together.
“Why?” she asks eventually, her voice barely audible over the shower. “Why did you kill for me? You never wanted this life, this violence. You’ve spent years planning your escape from this situation.”
The question I’ve been avoiding has finally been spoken aloud.
“Because,” I say slowly, working through the truth as I speak it, “when he described what he wanted to do to you, when he talked about taking you and breaking you down... something in me just snapped.”
“But you could have stopped him in other ways. Could have?—”
“No.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You don’t understand. The idea of that man, any man threatening what’s mine, talking about hurting you, claimingownership over you...” I shake my head. “I couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t let it stand. Couldn’t let him walk away knowing he thought he had any right to you.”
“What’s yours?” she repeats softly.
“What’s mine,” I confirm without apology. “I know that probably sounds possessive and primitive?—”
“It sounds honest.” Her hands rest against my chest, over my heart. “And for what it’s worth, I feel the same about you.”
The admission sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with the hot water. “Do you?”
“When I saw you tackle him, when I realized you’d come to save me despite everything I’d done wrong... yes. You’re mine too, Rafa Rosso. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
We stand there in the steam and spray, letting that truth settle between us. Mine. The word carries weight in our world, with implications beyond simple affection or even love.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says eventually, her voice carrying a note that makes me tense. “About my family. About what I learned.”
