“Grief doesn’t expire.”
He unwraps his hands with sharp, controlled movements. The skin underneath is reddened, knuckles swollen. He’s been hitting harder than the wraps can fully protect.
“You want to understand me,” he says. “Fine. I’ll give you the truth. I’m not grieving my mother. I’m angry at myself fornot being smarter, faster, more aware. I was twelve and useless, and she died because I couldn’t protect her.”
“You were a child.”
“I was old enough to know better. Old enough to have checked that lock, noticed the threat, done something other than hide upstairs while she was murdered.” His voice stays level, but I hear the rage underneath. “So yes, I control everything now. I check every lock, watch every exit, keep you close enough to shield. Because the alternative is standing over another body while my brother tells me it’s too late.”
The rawness of it breaks something in my chest. “Dimitri—”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. “Don’t offer comfort or understanding or anything that makes this softer than it is. I’m a monster because monsters survive. Anything else gets people killed.”
I should back away. Should give him space to rebuild whatever walls just cracked.
Instead, I close the distance. Place my hand over his heart, feeling it hammer against my palm.
“You’re not a monster,” I say quietly. “You’re someone who learned the worst lesson possible at the worst time. You survived anyway.”
He stares at me like I’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. Then his hands are in my hair, tilting my face up, and his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, nothing like his usual control. I taste sweat and fury and something deeper, more primal. My back hits the wall, his body pinning me there, and I’m drowning in the heat of him.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes against my mouth.
“No.”
His hands find the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one motion. Cool air hits my skin, then his hands, warm and rough. He maps my body like he’s memorizing terrain, fingers tracing curves with something close to reverence.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he says, mouth moving to my throat. “Not after what I just told you.”
“I shouldn’t want you for a hundred reasons.” My hands find his shoulders, nails digging in. “I want you anyway.”
He makes a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and surrender. His hands slide lower, finding the waistband of my leggings, and I lift my hips to help him remove them.
Then I’m bare against the wall, his body pressed against mine, and nothing exists except this moment and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the only thing that matters, the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“Not here,” he says roughly. “You deserve better than a wall.”
He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me through the penthouse to our bedroom. Misha lifts her head when we enter, takes one look, and promptly leaves, limping toward the guest room with offended dignity.
Dimitri lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness. Strips off the rest of his clothes while I watch, taking in the full landscape of scars and muscle and controlled power.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell him. Mean it.
“I’m damaged.”
“So am I. We match.”
Something shifts in his expression. He climbs onto the bed, settling between my thighs, and this time when he touchesme, it’s different. Slower. Like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.
His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I’m arching into him. His hand slides between my legs, fingers finding me wet and ready. He strokes slowly, deliberately, watching my face as pleasure builds.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against my skin.
“You. Just you.”
He slides two fingers inside me, and I moan at the intrusion. He works me with practiced skill, thumb circling my clit while his fingers curl to find the spot that makes my vision blur.
