A hand presses to my back—light, trembling, grounding.
“Sebastian,” Sienna murmurs. “Enough. He can’t hurt us anymore.”
Her voice cuts through the rage like a blade through smoke.
I close my eyes. Exhale slowly. Force my grip to loosen.
When I let go, Mikhailov collapses to the ground, coughing violently, clutching his throat as if the air itself has betrayed him.
Dimitri steps forward, already issuing quiet orders into his phone. “We’ll handle cleanup.”
I nod once, barely registering him. My attention is already where it’s always been.
On her.
Sienna stands a few steps away, arms wrapped around herself, eyes shining with guilt, fear, love—everything tangled together. She holds my gaze like she’s afraid to blink, afraid I’ll disappear if she does.
I cross the distance and cup her face, my thumb brushing beneath her eye.
“It’s over,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. Just once.
“No. Not yet.” Her voice wavers but doesn’t break. “I still need to tell you everything. All of it.”
I rest my forehead against hers.
“And I’ll hear it,” I say softly. “When we’re home.”
No matter what she tells me now, this part is over. The war. The fear of losing her to someone else’s cruelty. Whatever truth remains, we’ll face it together.
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years, her body sagging with relief against mine.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
I kiss her—fierce and desperate, everything I couldn’t say packed into the press of my mouth against hers. A vow made without words. A promise etched into the night air, into bone and blood.
Sienna kisses me back without reservation.
No fear. No doubt. Just her hands clutching my coat, her lips moving with mine like she’s choosing me again and again in every second we breathe the same air.
Chapter 22 – Sienna
The drive home is quiet, but the silence isn’t empty. Sebastian’s hand finds mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow, grounding circles. I don’t deserve the gentleness, yet I cling to it anyway, like it’s the only lifeline I’ve had in years.
When we finally reach the suite, he locks the door behind us with a slow, deliberate motion. Then he leans against it, eyes dark, sharp, and impossibly focused on me—as if he can see every secret I’ve tried to bury.
“Tell me everything,” he says, voice calm, but there’s an undercurrent in it that makes my chest tighten.
I can’t sit. My legs refuse. I pace instead, the carpet muffling my footsteps, hands twisting in front of me. Ashamed. Terrified. Every memory that I’ve tried to push away crawls to the surface, relentless.
I remember the way he told Mikhailov I’m the only woman he’s ever loved. The words hit me harder than I expected. Could it be true? Does he really mean it? Or was that just another one of his calculated moves, another layer of the man I’ve spent years trying to decipher?
Even if it is true, even if his love is real…what if he hates me after hearing everything? What if my confession shatters the fragile trust we’ve clawed back from the edges of disaster?
My throat tightens, and I start, “I—”
He moves before I can finish. One moment there’s space between us, the next his hand is at my throat—not squeezing, but holding, thumb resting beneath my jaw, fingers firm enough to steal my breath anyway. His gaze pins me in place, dark and unrelenting.
