"My wife."
The words stop me mid-sentence. I blink at him, certain I misheard. "What?"
"I want you to be my wife." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Not my captive. Not my possession. My wife. My partner. My equal."
I stare at him for a long moment. And then, despite everything—despite the pain in my shoulder and the trauma of the past weeks—I laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me and it feels good. Like some part of me is swimming back to the surface, finally.
"You're proposing to me?" I manage between laughs. "Right now? In the hallway? When I'm wearing pajamas and can barely stand?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Bad timing?"
"It's terrible timing." I'm still laughing, and it feels good, like the first moment of lightness after weeks of darkness. "But also very you."
"Is that a yes?" He's trying to sound casual, but I can hear the tension underneath. The fear that I'll say no.
"It's a maybe." I reach up and cup his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palms. "If you can learn to stop being so possessive and learn to trust me. If you can let me be a whole person instead of something you need to protect and control every second of every day."
"I can try." His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer, careful of my injured shoulder. "I can't promise I'll be good at it. I can't promise I won't want to lock you away every time there's danger. But I can promise I'll try. For you, I'll try."
I lean into him, resting my good shoulder against his chest. "Just try. Just give me space to be myself. To make my own choices. To be your partner, not your prisoner."
"You were never my prisoner." He says it quietly, his lips against my hair. "Not really. Not after the first few days. You've had more power over me than I've ever had over you."
"That's not true."
"It is." He pulls back enough to look at me. "You made me want things I never thought I could have. Made me believe I could be something other than what I was raised to be. You changed everything, Liesl. From the moment you looked at me in my office and refused to be afraid."
I wince. "I was terrified."
"But you didn't show it. You were brave and defiant and so fucking beautiful I couldn't think straight." His thumb traces my lower lip. "You still are."
"Andrei." I breathe his name. "Are you really asking me to marry you?"
"Yes." There isn't a trace of hesitation or doubt in his voice "I'm asking. But I'm also asking if you're willing to give me a chance—to give us a chance. See if we can build something real out of this disaster that all this started out as."
I look up at him, at this man who kidnapped me and held me captive and made me fall in love with him despite every reason not to. This man who's brutal and violent and dangerous, but who also held me when I cried and listened when I talked… and trusted me.
This man who just told me he loves me more than power.
"Yes," I whisper. "Yes, I'm willing to give you a chance. Give us a chance."
The smile that breaks across his face is devastating. And then he kisses me, his mouth claiming mine with a desperation that steals my breath.
I kiss him back with equal intensity, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. The pain in my shoulder fades tobackground noise, overwhelmed by the sensation of his lips on mine, his hands on my body, his heart beating against my chest.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my jaw, my neck, down to the hollow of my throat. "I need you," he murmurs against my skin. "I need to know this is real."
"Then take me to bed." I tug at his shirt. "Take me somewhere private and show me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He scoops me up in his arms—careful of my shoulder—and carries me down the hallway. Not back to the room I woke up in, but to his room. His private space. He kicks the door shut behind us and carries me to the massive bed, laying me down on the dark sheets.
"Your shoulder—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"It's fine. I'm fine. I need you, Andrei. Please."
He strips off his shirt, revealing the bandage wrapped around his ribs. The evidence of his own wound, his own brush with death. I reach out and trace the edge of the bandage with my fingers. "We almost died," I whisper.
"But we didn't." He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. "We survived. We're alive."
