I cross to her in three strides, my hands framing her face, and the kiss that follows is desperate, frantic. She gasps against my mouth, her hands fisting in my shirt, and I taste fear and fury and something that might be relief. I kiss her like I'm trying to prove she's real, that she survived, that I didn't lose her tonight.
"I can't lose you," I growl against her lips. "I won't."
Her answer is to pull me closer, her nails digging into my shoulders through the fabric of my shirt. The pain grounds me, reminds me I'm alive too, that we both survived. I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, and she falls onto it with a soft sound that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
I follow her down, my body covering hers, and the weight of me seems to calm something in her. Her breathing evens out slightly, her hands moving from my shoulders to thread through my hair.
"I was so scared," she whispers.
"I know." I press kisses along her jaw, down her throat, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my lips. "You're safe now."
My hands find the hem of her dress, and I don't bother with gentleness. The fabric tears as I pull it over her head, the sound of ripping cloth loud in the quiet room. She should protest, should tell me to slow down, but instead her fingers are working at the buttons of my shirt with the same desperate urgency.
We strip each other with fumbling hands, clothes scattered across the floor like casualties. When I finally settle between her thighs, skin against skin, we both go still for a heartbeat. Her dark eyes hold mine, and I see everything I'm feeling reflected back at me. Fear. Relief. Need.
"Nikolai." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer.
I enter her in one smooth thrust, and the tight heat of her body makes my vision blur at the edges. She's perfect. Made for me. Her back arches off the bed, her hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and I don't care. I want her marks on me. Want evidence that this is real, that she's here, that we survived.
My hips move with rough urgency, each thrust driven by the need to claim her, to remind us both that we're alive. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and the small sounds she makes drive me wild. I capture her mouth again, swallowing her moans, tasting her desperation that matches my own.
"Mine," I growl against her lips. "You're mine, Aria. Say it."
"Yours." Her voice breaks on the word. "I'm yours."
The admission pushes me over the edge. My hand slides between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes her cry out, and I work it with my thumb while my hips maintain their punishing rhythm. Her inner muscles start to flutter around me, and I know she's close.
"Come for me," I command. "Let me feel it."
She shatters with a cry that I capture with my mouth, her body clenching around me in waves that trigger my own release. I thrust deep one final time and let go, groaning her name against her throat as pleasure crashes through me with enough force to make my arms shake.
Afterward, I collapse beside her, pulling her against my chest before my breathing has even steadied. Her head rests over my heart, and I feel the rapid hammer of it gradually slowing. My fingers trace lazy patterns along her spine, and she shivers despite the warmth of the room.
I hold her as she drifts off, her breathing evening out, her body going lax with sleep. The adrenaline is finally leaving my system, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that makes my eyelids heavy. For the first time in hours, I allow myself to believe we're safe. That the violence is over for tonight. That I can rest.
I'm wrong.
The knock comes too early, sunlight barely filtering through the curtains. I extract myself from Aria carefully, not wanting to wake her, and pull on pants before opening the door. Cyril stands in the hallway, his gray eyes cold with fury, a manila envelope clutched in his hand.
My stomach drops before he even speaks. I nod toward the hallway and Cyril starts walking, leading the way to my office.
"We have a problem, Boss," he says as I close the office door and step fully into the room.
"What kind of problem?"
He hands me the envelope without a word. Inside, photographs spill into my hands like accusations. Me and Aria on the island. Vulnerable. Intimate. Images I thought belonged only to us, captured by someone who was watching, waiting, and documenting our most private moments.
My hands shake with rage as I flip through them. Aria sleeping against my shoulder in our makeshift shelter. The two of us in the shallows, her body pressed against mine. My fingers threading through her wet hair as she laughs at something I said, my expression so unguarded it makes me look like a stranger.
"Where did you get these?" My voice comes out cold, lethal.
"They were delivered to three members of the Bratva council this morning." Cyril's jaw tightens. "Anonymous courier. No return address. But the message is clear."
The Pakhan doesn't show weakness. The Pakhan doesn't fall in love. Yet here's the evidence, captured in brutal clarity, proof that I became someone else on that island. Someone vulnerable. Someone who could be hurt by a woman and feelings.
"Whispers are already starting," Cyril continues. "About your going soft. About sentiment making you weak. The council is questioning whether you still have what it takes to lead."
I force myself to breathe, to think past the rage threatening to choke me. "Find out who took these. I want a name by end of day."
