He doesn’t respond, he just holds me tighter.
I shift slightly, just enough to press my forehead to his, my hands sliding to his jaw, lifting his face toward mine so he can see the truth I can’t put into words. His eyes are red around the edges, tired.
And in that fragile little moment—just him and me, breathing the same uneven breaths—I feel something shift between us so clearly it’s almost physical.
I lean in and he meets me halfway.
The kiss is soft, tender in a way that contradicts everything about him, his lips brushing mine like he’s terrified of breaking something important. His fingers curl in the back of my shirt, holding me close as if the contact itself is keeping him grounded.
I kiss him back with the same gentleness, because now it isn’t about fire or hunger. It’s about trying to heal something in him that’s been bleeding for years. It’s about the fact that he needs me, and the terrifying truth that I want to be here.
When we finally pull away, he rests his forehead against mine again, his eyes closed, our breaths mingling softly in the stillness of the room.
“Stay,” he whispers, barely audible and almost afraid.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything.
I lie down beside him carefully, tucking myself against his uninjured side, his arm coming around me instinctively, pulling me into the warmth of his chest. His breathing slows little by little, his hand resting at my waist like he needs the reassurance of my presence to fall asleep again.
And as I lie there in the dark, listening to his heartbeat steady under my palm, I realize with sudden clarity just how deeply everything has changed—how the fear I felt for him on the street, the worry, the instinct to protect him, didn’t come from obligation or survival or the fake engagement we’re wrapped in.
It came from something else. Because the truth is, I care about him. And lying here in his arms, feeling his breath warm against my cheek, I know that whatever this is, it’s already far too late to stop it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Artyom
Kira is still asleep when I wake up, her breath warm against my chest, her body curled into me like she forgot she ever tried to keep distance between us, and for a long moment I just lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how the hell last night happened, how I ended up holding her like that, how her hand ended up resting over my heart like she was trying to keep it beating in my sleep.
My shoulder throbs in a deep, steady pulse that radiates down my arm, my ribs ache every time I breathe too hard, and my whole body feels like it got dragged under a moving truck and left there just long enough to make sure the damage settled in my bones. Yet none of that hits me even half as hard as the quiet, undeniable truth that she didn’t let go of me all night, not even when she shifted in her sleep or when I moved and the pain forced a low hiss from my throat. Every time I thought the contact would break, she tightened her arm around me withoutwaking, like her body knew something her mind hasn’t admitted yet, like letting go wasn’t even an option.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling and trying to tell myself I should move, that I should get up and start dealing with the mess waiting for me downstairs, but her warmth is still pressed along my side and her breath is still soft and even against my chest, and it makes the idea of pulling myself away feel harder than anything else I’m supposed to face today.
So I stay there for another minute, maybe two, watching the way her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks, the way her mouth parts slightly with each soft exhale, the faint crease between her brows that never goes away, even when she sleeps, like some part of her is always bracing for something.
But then, very carefully, I slip out from under her arm, letting her hand fall gently onto the blanket. She stirs a little, turning onto her side, her hair falling over her face.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, looking at her like some idiot who doesn’t know how to walk away from a warm bed. Then I force myself to move.
I change my bandage in the bathroom, my jaw tightening every time my fingers brush too close to the wound. I throw on black jeans, a black shirt, a jacket, and I head downstairs.
The hotel is quiet this early, the hallways dim, the air cold enough to sting my lungs. I move past the guards with nothingmore than a glance, past the front desk, past the kitchen women carrying trays of bread and fruit.
I pull out my phone and see that Mikhail’s texted me sometime before dawn. He’s on level minus three, the Camorra room.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs staring at the reinforced door that hides the man we dragged off the street.
The door to the basement hallway clicks shut behind me, sealing off the world above. The deeper I walk, the thicker the air gets, layered with the smell of sweat, bleach, and blood. My shoulder throbs under the bandage, but the pain works in my favor, keeping me focused.
One of the Camorra men stands by the reinforced steel door, arms crossed, eyes hollow from a night shift.
“He’s awake,” he says. “Hasn’t said a word.”
“He will,” I answer.
He hesitates. “Luciano said not to kill him yet.”
“I’m not planning to,” I say, brushing past.
