I wake to the sound of him groaning beside me, his body jerking hard like he’s trapped in a nightmare he can’t fight his way out of.
Carefully, I ease myself from his arms and push onto one elbow. Then I sit all the way up and reach for him, shaking him lightly at first, hoping I can pull him out of whatever he’s seeing before it drags him any deeper.
He mutters something in Russian, the words tangled and broken, and I can’t understand any of it. All I can sense is the hard flex of his bicep beneath my hand and the tension running through his body.
I flip on the bedside lamp, praying the low glow will be enough to pull him back.
“Net…ostav…” he mumbles, and the sight of him like this shatters me.
“Kirill, wake up.”
I shake him again, firmer this time, my fingers pressing into his shoulder as his body goes taut beneath my hand. His breathing turns ragged, almost frantic, his features twisting.
“Kirill,” I whisper, leaning closer as my hand slides up to cup his cheek. “You’re safe. Wake up.”
He jolts so violently, it knocks the air right out of me. One second, he’s still deep in it, and the next, he’s surging upright, his arm flying up so fast it nearly hits me. His chest heaves and his eyes dart wildly around the room, unfocused, still somewhere far darker than this bed.
Then he sees me. Recognition hits him all at once. He goes still so fast, it’s almost jarring.
“Sloane—” His voice comes out rough and ragged, panic threaded through it.
His hand hovers in the space between us where it nearly struck me, and I witness the realization spread across his face, the understanding of how close he came to hurting me, even by accident.
“Are you okay?” Reaching for me, his hands curl around my arms like he needs to be sure I’m not hurt. “Blyat. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine, I swear.” I move toward him so he realizes I’m not afraid. “I was more worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and drags a hand down his face before dropping back onto the mattress, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to shut out whatever is still waiting for him behind them. The lamp casts a soft glow across his torso, and even in the low light, I find the tension still locked into him—the way his jaw is clenched, the way his breathing hasn’t fully evened out.
I hesitate before sliding over to him. My fingers move to his chest, resting lightly over his heart, catching the rapid thud beneath my palm as I begin tracing slow, gentle circles against his skin.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
I expect him to shut me out completely. Instead, his free hand comes up and covers mine against his chest, holding it there. Then he lifts it and presses his mouth to my palm. A soft, almost reverent kiss that is more vulnerable than anything he could have said.
When he finally turns toward me, his gaze is hard, though there’s a hint of something broken in it. “I don’t think it’s anything you’re going to want to hear.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and brush my thumb along the line of his jaw.
“Try me,” I whisper. “I know I don’t have much to offer, but I can give you this: someone who listens. Someone who cares.” My throat tightens, but I push past it. “Because I do care, Kirill.”
A muscle jumps in his neck. “You have a lot to offer.”
His fingers slide into my hair, drawing me in until our foreheads touch. A moment later, his mouth finds mine, the kiss deep and unhurried, filled with something that is dangerously close to love.
His body rests against mine, and there’s something beautiful about how naturally we fit, the warmth of him surrounding me like it was always meant to. For one reckless second, I let myself believe nothing can tear us apart.
That this—right here—is how it will always be.
He exhales against my lips and leans back just enough to look at me. “When I was thirteen, my father found out a woman who worked for him was stealing.”
My fingers curl against his back.
“She was helping launder money for the family and decided to take some for herself, so he killed her and her husband.”
Goose bumps rise along my arms.
