“Thank you,” she says finally. “For driving like a maniac, and for caring about a kitten that wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“She’s ours. Of course I care.”
“Not just the kitten.” She turns to look at me fully. “Thank you for wanting me to trust you enough to hug you without thinking.” Her brows furrow. “For loving me, even though I’m sure I make it difficult.”
“Loving you is easy.” I reach across, finding her hand. “That’s why it works.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Janice
I wake before dawn, Dimitri’s arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity: I’m happy.
Not just content. Not just resigned to this marriage. Actually, genuinely happy in a way I haven’t been since before New York swallowed me whole the first time.
Dimitri shifts in his sleep, pulling me closer, and something in my chest tightens. When did this happen? When did the man who forced me into marriage, who caged me and controlled me and made every decision without my input, become the person I reach for in the dark?
When did I start craving the weight of his attention instead of resenting it?
The thought terrifies me more than the Volkovs ever did.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. Morning light filters through windows we forgot to cover, painting gold across his bare shoulders, the lean muscle of his back. Scars I’ve mapped with my fingers, stories he’s told in fragments when sleep loosens his control.
He’s beautiful in a dangerous way. Always has been.
I pull on his discarded shirt from last night, the fabric soft and smelling like him, and pad to the kitchen. Coffee first, panic about feelings later.
Misha winds between my ankles, purring, demanding breakfast with the authority only cats possess. I feed her, watchher eat with single-minded focus, and try to remember what my life looked like before Dimitri Rudenko rearranged it.
I can’t.
Four months married, and the woman I was before feels like someone else entirely. That girl who published exposés and believed truth mattered more than survival wouldn’t recognize what I’ve become.
A Bratva wife who commands respect through proximity to power. Someone people defer to, listen to, fear in small but measurable ways.
Someone who’s starting to like it.
The coffee maker hisses and gurgles. I pour two cups, fixing Dimitri’s the way he takes it—black, one sugar, and hot enough to scald.
“You’re up early.”
I turn. He’s leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but sleep pants slung low on his hips, hair mussed, eyes still heavy lidded.
Gorgeous and deadly and mine.
The possessive thought should alarm me. Doesn’t.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, handing him his coffee.
“Nightmares?”
“No. Just… thinking.”
He takes a sip, watching me over the rim with that unnerving focus. “About?”
“Nothing important.”
Dimitri sets his cup down, crosses to me, cups my face in his hands. “Liar.”
