I swatted his chest, and he caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The playfulness faded, replaced by something more serious.
"I meant what I said earlier," he said quietly. "I want to find out what comes next. With you."
"I know."
"And I know you're not ready to say it back. That's okay. I just wanted you to know that this—" he gestured between us "—wasn't just about sex. Not for me."
I looked at him—this man who'd killed for me, married me, just made love to me with a passion that had left me boneless. This stranger who was somehow becoming something more.
"It wasn't just about sex for me either," I admitted. "I don't know what it was about. But it wasn't just that."
He smiled, and it was the most genuine expression I'd seen on his face. No charm, no performance. Just happiness, simple and unguarded.
"Good," he said. "That's enough for now."
He pulled me closer, tucking me against his chest, and I let him. Let myself be held in a way I hadn't been held in years. Maybe ever.
"Stay," he murmured against my hair. "Don't go back to the guest room tonight."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body wrapped around mine. Outside, the city continued its endless hum. Somewhere out there, the Petrovics were planning their next move. Cormac was nursing his grudges. A hundred threats were circling, waiting for their moment.
But here, in this bed, with this man, I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Safe.
It probably wouldn't last. Nothing ever did. But for now, in this moment, it was enough.
More than enough.
I fell asleep in his arms, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream of anything at all.
Chapter 17 - Rodion
I woke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth pressed against my side.
For a moment, I didn't move, didn't open my eyes. Just lay there cataloging the details—the soft weight of her head on my shoulder, the rhythm of her breathing, the way her hand rested on my chest like it belonged there.
I wasn't used to this. Waking up with someone. Usually by now I'd have extracted myself, made polite excuses, moved on to the next thing. The women I'd been with understood the arrangement. No one stayed until morning, and if they did, I was already mentally out the door before they opened their eyes.
This was different.
I opened my eyes and looked down at her. Sleep had softened her face, erased the wariness that usually lived in her expression. Her hair was spread across my pillow in dark waves, and her lips were slightly parted, still swollen from last night.
Last night.
The memory of it hit me like a wave—her gasps, her moans, the way she'd said my name when she came apart in my arms. The trust it had taken for her to let go like that. The way it had felt to be inside her, to have her look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I'd been with a lot of women. But I'd never felt anything like that.
She stirred, her eyelashes fluttering, and then she was looking up at me with those whiskey-colored eyes, still hazy with sleep.
"Morning," she murmured.
"Morning."
