“You always run hot,” I murmur, fingers tracing the faint scars across his ribs.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Occupational hazard.” He shifts just enough to look down at me. “You good?”
“Better than good,” I answer, voice hushed. “You?”
His mouth softens into a rare, almost shy smile. “Never better.” His thumb catches a strand of hair mashed against my cheek, smoothing it back. “Stay right here,” he whispers. “Need to feel you breathe.”
I tighten my arm around his waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence settles, but it’s thick with warmth, not distance. The city hum fades to white noise beneath the faint whir of climate control. My muscles feel boneless, lulled by the slow glide of his hand over my back. Every so often he presses his lips to the crown of my head, murmuring my name like it’s both a prayer and a grounding point.
“Raina,” he says after a quiet stretch, voice gentled. “I know today was hell. Thanks for coming back.” His fingers pause over my spine, trace one vertebra at a time as if counting proof that I’m here.
I tilt my head up. “You’re the reason I did.” My palm covers his heartbeat. “You always were.”
His eyes flare, then gentled admiration floods them. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
“I might.” I smile faintly. “You’ll show me.”
“In the morning,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over my temple. “Tonight, you sleep.” He reaches down, pulls the sheet over us, tucking it around my shoulders with unexpected tenderness. His hand returns to my back, drawing lazy circles.
I snuggle closer, matching my breaths to his slow rhythm until the adrenaline ebbs completely.
He falls asleep first, but I can’t get to that point of peace. The weight of his hand, relaxed now, feels heavy on my stomach. I turn my head. His breath is slow and even against the back of my neck. I inhale deeply—clean sheets and him. My body wants to stay right here. The lines in his forehead are gone, his fingers curled like they finally remember how to hold someone. I slide out from under his arm inch by inch. He murmurs something in Russian and settles again, one hand catching my pillow instead of me.
The bedside clock throws a soft red glow over his face. Relaxed, he looks younger. Less like a man people fear and more like someone a little girl might trust. My chest tightens. I don’t deserve the warmth sitting there.
The phone rings. The sound cuts straight through the quiet. My whole body goes tight. It’s sharp and old-fashioned. Not a cellphone, but the landline by the kitchen, wired into the bones of this place, a phone that almost never speaks. I cross the room in three strides and grab the handset, breath caught between inhale and exhale.
“Da?”
“Ms. Morozova?” The concierge’s voice is polite, strained, echoing off too much marble. “I’m sorry to disturb you. A parcel was just left at the service desk for a… Nadia. Four years old.” A pause. A swallow. “It’s addressed with her full name.”
My skin goes cold.
“Don’t touch it,” I say. My voice sounds thin, distant. “Don’t open it. Don’t go near it. Step back from the desk.”
10
SERGEI
The knock on my shoulder is small, but her hand’s shaking.
“Sergei,” Raina says. “Wake up. Now.”
I come up hard from sleep, hand going straight for the gun on the nightstand. The room is dark except for a pale glow from the doorway. Raina’s hair is a loose shadow around her face, my shirt hanging off one shoulder, eyes wide but clear.
“What is it?” I ask, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Concierge line,” she says. “There’s a parcel downstairs. Addressed to Nadia. I’ve got the feed. You're going to want to see it.”
That wakes everything else. I grab mydomashniy khalatfrom the chair, dark gray cashmere, and shrug into it as we move down the hall. Guards by the elevator door straighten when they see my face.
On the laptop in the office corner, the lobby camera shows a slice of marble and glass. The concierge stands behind his desk, hands flat. In front of him, on the polished wood, sits a white box tied with a black ribbon. A small tag swings gently when the air system cycles.
“Who touched it?” I ask.
“Only the courier,” the guard says. “Never showed his face. Baseball cap, scarf, head down. He slid the box onto the desk and was gone in four seconds. Hopped on a black bike and disappeared.
