“How can you even look at me?” He grabs my wrists, his grip almost painful. “After everything I’ve done to you, how can you not hate me?”
He pulls me against his chest, burying his face in my hair, and I hold him as tightly as I can.
“I’m sorry.” Mikhail’s words are muffled against my neck. “God, Sophia, I’m so sorry. For your father. For what I put you through. For everything.”
“I know.” I pull back to look at him. “I…I don’t hold it against you.”
“How?” His green eyes search mine desperately. “How can you forgive me?”
“Because you were hurting. Because you thought you were avenging your sister. Because underneath all the violence and rage, you’re a good man who was broken by grief.” I kiss him softly. I know a glimpse of the rage he felt, the horror and fury I felt at losing my brother. There was no revenge to be had, but I craved it so badly then. “And because I choose to. I choose you, Mikhail. All of you, even the dark parts.”
He kisses me back with desperate intensity, his hands tangling in my hair. It’s not the rough, claiming kiss of before. This is raw and vulnerable, full of apology and need and love.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against my lips.
“Probably not.” I smile through my own tears. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”
He stands, pulling me up with him, and leads me toward the bed. Suddenly we’re tearing at each other’s clothes with frantic hands.
“I need you,” Mikhail breathes, his lips trailing down my neck. “Need to feel you, to know you’re real, that you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” I help him strip off his bloodstained shirt. “Always yours.”
We fall onto the bed together. When he enters me, it’s with a tenderness that makes me cry. He moves slowly, reverently, his eyes never leaving mine.
Our climax builds slowly, intensely, until we’re both trembling on the edge. When we finally fall over together, it feels like a promise.
Like a new beginning.
Afterward, we lie tangled together. The silence is comfortable, healing.
“What do we do now?” I ask quietly.
“We find Lorenzo.” Mikhail’s voice hardens. “We make him pay for what he’s done. To Nicole. To your father. To us.”
“And then?”
The sound of vehicles approaching stops whatever Mikhail was going to say. Multiple vehicles, their engines loud in the quiet morning.
Mikhail is on his feet instantly, pulling on his pants and reaching for the gun he keeps in the nightstand.
I scramble into my clothes, my heart racing.
“Stay here,” he orders, moving toward the window.
But I follow him, looking over his shoulder at the scene unfolding below.
Three black SUVs have pulled up to the front gates, and armed men are pouring out.
At least a dozen of them, all carrying automatic weapons.
Standing in the center of them, looking up at the mansion with a cold smile, is a man I recognize from the photos in Mikhail’s study.
Lorenzo.
18
MIKHAIL
