The room is dark except for the faint silver glow of the city lights filtering through the half-drawn blinds.
I wake slowly, aware first of the warm weight pressed against my chest.William. His breathing is soft and even, his leg thrown over mine, one small hand curled against my ribs like he’s afraid I might disappear in the night. Twist is somewhere near his pillow, a fuzzy lump in the shadows.
My arm is wrapped around my boy’s bare back, holding him close. William’s skin is warm, soft, still carrying the faint scent of our earlier passion… sweat, sex, and that light vanilla shampoo he uses.
It’s very late.
Or very early.
The clock on the nightstand reads just after three in the morning. William has studies tomorrow. Seminars. That brilliant mind of his needs rest.
I brush a strand of blonde hair from his face and murmur against his temple, “You need to sleep, little one. You won’t be able to concentrate tomorrow if you don’t.”
William stirs, nuzzling closer. His voice is sleepy and sweet, laced with that stubborn Little tone I’m quickly becoming addicted to. “I don’t want to sleep,” he whispers. “I want to stay up all night talking to you… and snuggling. Just like this.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest.
I tighten my arm around William, loving the way his naked body molds perfectly against mine. “We can snuggle. But no talking. You need rest.”
The sassy Little makes a small protesting sound, tilting his head up so those big eyes meet mine in the dim light. There’s mischief there, but also something deeper—trust, affection, maybe even the first fragile threads of love. It hits me harder than I expect.
I stroke him back slowly, fingers tracing his spine.
“Close your eyes,” I say. “I’ll sing you something. An old Russian nursery rhyme my mother used to sing to me and my brothers when we were small. It always worked.”
William smiles, soft and trusting, and presses himself even closer, his cheek resting over my heart. His bare chest brushes my side, his thigh slides higher over mine. The intimacy of it, the quiet vulnerability, stirs something protective and possessive deep in my soul. I begin to sing, voice low and rough, the melody simple and haunting in the dark.
“Bayu-bayushki-bayu,
Ne lozhisya na krayu…
Pridyot serenkii volchok
I ukusit za bochok…”
The old words roll out of me, carrying memories I rarely let myself touch. William’s breathing slows as I continue. His fingers relax against my chest. I feel his lashes flutter against my skin as his eyes grow heavier. By the third repetition, he’s gone—fast asleep, lips slightly parted, completely at peace in the arms of a man who has spilled more blood than most people ever see.
I keep singing for a few more verses anyway, just to feel him relax deeper into me.
Then silence falls like a knife through air.
The city hums far below, but in here it’s just his soft breathing and the steady beat of my heart.
Sleep won’t come for me tonight.
I stare up at the ceiling, one hand still stroking his back in slow, soothing circles. My mind drifts to the blood waiting for me in the streets. An image of Kruchev’s dead face. My brothers’ bodies in that shot-up SUV. The meeting with Viktor, Ivan, and Kirill. The way Viktor had said they were “already on it.”
My mind tells me to be wary. It’s all too smooth. Too convenient.
If they’re the ones who killed Milo and Loren—if this whole alliance is a trap to draw me in and finish the job—then theirdeaths will be especially bloody. I’ll make examples of them that the entire city will remember for generations.
No mercy. No quick bullets.
Slow. Personal.
The kind of vengeance that sends a message no one will ever forget.
My thoughts then slip backward, unbidden, to a memory from when I was barely fifteen.
