Red
Blue's breathing changes, shifting from sharp and uneven to slow, steady, and warm against my chest. Her fingers relax in the fabric of my shirt, her grip loosening inch by inch until they rest there like they belong. The weight of her settles deeper into me, not heavy, just certain, and my body stays locked in place so I don't wake her.
Amber glows from the lamp, throwing shadows along the wall. The lake outside laps against the shore in a rhythm that never changes. I count the seconds between each wave, running my thumb over the curve of her ass cheek.
She trusts me, and I'm failing her.
That truth lands hard. Trust has weight. It leaves marks and brings consequences that don't ask permission. I know this too well, and the repercussions of what I've allowed to happen between us weigh heavily on me.
I've gotten in bed with the mob.
How could I have been so careless and stupid?
A chill runs down my spine. Her father's face appears alongside Mikhail Volkov's voice, delivering a warning that rings loudly in myhead. I know how men like them handle lines being crossed. They wait in the shadows, quiet when they want to be, and step out when it serves them.
Legal pressure is simple. It follows the rules of timelines, procedures, filings, questions, and rights. Blue's family follows their own laws, using violence when necessary to get what they want.
They'll use it against me.
My shoulders tense, keeping me awake while my Bluebird sleeps, curled into me like the world hasn't already started to tilt.
She slides her knee higher, brushing my thigh, and my breath stalls. It's natural, and my body easily remembers what she asked for, how she opened for me without hesitation, and how she didn't look away.
I'm fucked.
How does this work without her family killing me?
It doesn't.
Her lashes flutter. A quiet sound slips from her throat, half-formed, and gone before it becomes anything else.
I lower my chin, rest it lightly against the crown of her head, and breathe through it.
"Red," she murmurs, barely audible.
Heat flies to my chest. I don't answer. Answering would wake her, and that will lead to questions I don't have answers to which only hurt both her and me.
So I stay where I am until her breathing evens again.
My mind races, and I carefully slide my arm out from under her shoulders. She frowns, a small crease forming between her brows, and her hand tightens briefly in my shirt. I pause, waiting it out, until her grip loosens, and then I move again.
I ease her onto the pillow and adjust the sheet so it covers her legs. She turns onto her side, face angled toward where I was, lips parted like she expects me to still be there. The sight presses against my ribs until breathing takes effort.
Afraid she'll wake up, I sit back on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, listening to her breath and the soft tick of the clock.
I run through scenarios of her father or Mikhail finding out about us. Each one ends with a knock, a call, a shadow where it shouldn't be, resulting in my demise.
I don't want to lose her.
The thought is sharp and immediate. I don't soften it. I don't argue with it. Regret would be easier. It would let me distance myself from what's coming, but I don't get that luxury.
What I get is her, asleep in my bed, and the knowledge that touching her after we leave will put a target on my back that I can't avoid.
I swallow hard, slowly rise, and move to the window.
The lake reflects the moon in broken pieces. Trees line the far bank, dark and still. Anyone could be watching and already know I'm here, breaking the rules Mikhail set forth.
The idea digs in deep, setting my teeth on edge until my head aches.
