"I know." I cross to her, my hands finding her waist and pulling her against me. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like she was designed for this purpose. "I'm handling it."
"How?" Her fingers trace the edge of the bandage on my forearm where the bullet grazed me. "More violence? More bodies?"
"No." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "This requires a different approach. We're going to control the narrative before it controls us."
Understanding flashes across her face. "An interview."
"Yes." I guide her to the leather sofa, settling beside her with my thigh pressed against hers. "A carefully staged conversation with a journalist I trust. Someone who will tell our story the way we want it told."
"And what story is that?" Her dark eyes search mine, looking for deception I'm not offering.
"The truth." My thumb brushes across her knuckles. "You jumped into a storm-tossed ocean to save my life. We were stranded on an island, thinking we might die there. Romance bloomed from survival. It's not a lie,Solnyshka. It's just selective truth."
She's quiet for a long moment, her teeth worrying her lower lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. "What about the photographs? People have seen them. They know what we looked like together."
"My tech specialist is creating evidence that they've been digitally manipulated, doctored to appear more intimate than reality." I watch her process this information, see the calculation happening behind those dark eyes. "It won't erase what's out there, but it will plant doubt, make people question what they've seen."
"That's brilliant." Her voice carries reluctant admiration. "Morally questionable, but brilliant."
"Welcome to my world." I lean closer, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "The interview happens tomorrow. I'll coach you on what to say and how to present our story. We paint a picture of survival and unexpected connection."
"What if I mess it up?" The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest constrict. "What if I say the wrong thing and make it worse?"
"You won't." My hand cups her jaw, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. "You're stronger than you think. You survived the island. You survived last night. You can survive a journalist."
Her lips curve into something that might be a smile. "When you put it that way…"
I kiss her because I can't help myself, because the taste of her grounds me in a way nothing else does. She responds with heat that makes my blood sing, her fingers threading through my hair and pulling me closer. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers.
"We do this together," I murmur. "You and me against the world."
"Together," she echoes, and the word feels like a promise.
And finally, I admit, if just to myself, that I love this woman with everything in me. I know I would and will do anything in my power to protect her and give her what she wants and needs. And if that makes others think I'm weak? So be it.
The next morning arrives too quickly. I've spent hours coaching Aria on her responses, running through potential questions until she can answer without hesitation. She's a quick study, her mind sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at her features.
The journalist arrives precisely on time, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a reputation for fairness that's rare in her profession. She's also someone who owes me a favor, which makes her the perfect choice for this particular story.
"Mr. Alekseev." Elena extends her hand, her gaze moving between Aria and me with professional assessment. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview."
"Thank you for coming." I guide her to the sitting room where we've arranged comfortable chairs and soft lighting. Everything calculated to create intimacy without appearing staged.
Aria settles beside me on the sofa, her hand finding mine with a naturalness that doesn't feel rehearsed. I thread our fingerstogether, feeling the slight tremor running through her body that she's trying to hide.
Elena positions her recorder on the coffee table between us. "Shall we begin?" The cameraman steps closer, aiming his camera at us to catch every nuance of our expressions.
"Please." I keep my voice warm, approachable, nothing like the cold Pakhan who issues orders and eliminates threats.
"The photographs that surfaced recently show you and Miss Levin in what appears to be a very intimate situation on a deserted island." Elena's tone is neutral, but I hear the question underneath. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Aria takes a breath, and I feel her body steady against mine. "There was a storm. The yacht went down. I saw Nikolai go overboard, and I jumped in after him."
"You jumped into a storm-tossed ocean?" Elena leans forward slightly. "That's incredibly brave."
"Or incredibly stupid." Aria's lips curve into a self-deprecating smile that looks genuine because it is. "I didn't think. I just moved. He was drowning, and I couldn't watch that happen."
"We washed up on an island," I continue, my thumb tracing circles against Aria's palm. "No supplies. No shelter. No idea whether anyone would find us. We thought we might die there."
