Page 35 of The Last Dance

I watched the play of her eyes, the tilt of her mouth. She had rehearsed this. “You wanted me dead,” I said. “Or him.”

She laughed, low and sharp. “Please, if I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“You’re sloppy, Sasha. You always have been.”

Her nostrils flared, just a breath. “Don’t insult me, Vadim.”

I let the silence drag, let the air in the room grow dense. Then I said, “If I find out it was you, there won’t be a warning shot.”

She stood, slow. “You won’t find out anything because there is nothing to find. I know you’re paranoid, Vadim, but blame this on someone else.”

I didn’t believe her and I hated that I didn’t believe her. Sasha had grown up in this house. To suddenly not be able to trust her was like a punch to the gut.

“If my father could see how you’re treating his daughter, he never would have saved your life at the cost of his.”

That barb hurt, and I was pretty sure she meant it to hurt. Her father had given his life to save mine and I never forgot that, but that didn’t mean I would let her hurt Iren.

I did not move as she brushed past me, the scent of her perfume leaving a trail in the air like a dare.

I let her go.

In the command room, I found Yuri still waiting. He did not look up, just kept working the keyboard. “Keep eyes on her,” I said. “All night.”

“Understood.”

I checked the feeds one last time, making sure the bedroom was still secure. I watched the footage for a full minute, watched Iren turn in the sheets, watched the way his hair fell across his face, watched the tension in his body even in sleep.

I locked the door behind me as I went back up. I took the chair by the fire again, and waited for morning.

The rage was still there.

It was the only thing that kept him safe.

Chapter Nine

~ Iren ~

The first thing I knew was silk, sliding under my back like a tongue. The second was heat, not the gentle kind, but the tight, focused blast of a fireplace that had burned down to embers and was determined to go out angry. The third was Vadim’s hands under the sheets, fingers splayed across my chest, and a mouth pressed to the nape of my neck, breathing slow and deliberate. He wasn’t asleep. He was counting heartbeats.

I knew this because he was tracing the line of my sternum with his thumb, not in circles, but in methodical, almost forensic passes. The way you’d check a pulse to confirm a body hadn’t left you yet.

I let him do it for a while. The room was nearly black, the only light a bruised orange from the dying fire. All the edges were soft except him. When he held you, it was like being fitted to a vise lined with velvet. No amount of silk could disguise what he was.

I didn’t move until he did. The minute I rolled my head, his arm went around my ribs, locking me against him. I heard the click of his jaw, felt the tension in the knot at the base of his skull. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even aroused, not yet. He was checking for cracks.

He spoke into my hair, the words a scrape of sandpaper. “I almost lost you.”

Not a question. Not even an accusation.

I knew immediately what he meant. Not the guy from the club, not Sasha lurking like a statuary ghost in every hallway, but the bullet, the shot that had punched the car’s window and parked itself in the headrest where my head wasn’t by luck and two seconds.

I turned, fast enough to break the rhythm. His arm tensed, then let me. I rolled to face him and planted both palms on the sides of his jaw, thumb hard against the bristle.

“You didn’t,” I said, voice rawer than I wanted it to be. “I’m right here.”

It should have been enough, but I was dealing with a man whose entire life was a ledger of what he’d nearly lost and what he’d had to destroy to keep it.

I said it again, softer, like maybe the second dose would land. “I’m here.”