The words settle heavily.
Mine.
Not just here or staying or hiding.
Mine.
I watch him pull out a handgun and set it on the table. Then another. Then a smaller one that looks like it could disappear under a jacket without leaving much of a trace.
He taps the last one.
“This one’s your new one.”
I stare at it. “You’re assigning me a Bratva gun?”
“I’m giving you one that fits your hand.”
He says it like practicality explains everything.
Maybe in his world, it does.
I set my palm beside the gun without touching it. The size is right. I can see that immediately, which pisses me off.
“From now on, if you leave the compound, you carry.” He nods toward the shelf to my left. “Not just your knife.”
I cross my arms. “I never leave any place unarmed… usually. You’re making this sound like a starter pack.”
“It is.”
He reaches past me for a case on the shelf, opens it, and reveals a slim knife with a dark handle. Not decorative. Balanced. Mean-looking without trying.
“This too, new knife for you.”
I eye it. “You buy all your gifts in murder sets now?”
His mouth twitches.
It’s so fast I almost miss it.
“Better than those fucked up dandelions.”
I actually do laugh then, one short, tired burst that surprises both of us.
The sound dies quickly.
Because underneath it, the room is still what it is. A place full of weapons. A locked basement. The man I love explaining what I need to survive beside him like it’s just another household adjustment.
I swallow and force myself to look back at the shelves.
“I’m assuming this comes with rules?”
He goes still.
Just enough to tell me I asked the right question.
Then he leans one hip against the table and folds his arms.
“If you’re in this house, guards answer to me first, thenyouif I’m not here.”
