Page 63 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Because you’re shaking,” I say. No point in lying. “And I’d rather feel it than hear it through walls.”

She exhales slowly, surrendering a fraction. Her hand slides across my chest, resting over my heart, mirroring what I’d made her do earlier. “If I wake up and you’re gone, I’ll burn this house.”

“I believe you.” I kiss the top of her head. Her body unwinds by degrees, tension leaking out. She tucks her forehead into the hollow of my throat, breath warming my skin. I tighten my arm around her waist, careful of her ribs, and let my lids drop.

For the first time in longer than I remember, I fall asleep with someone tangled against me, the slanted roof guarding us like a conspirator, the safehouse holding its silence while outside my men prowl the fences.

Whatever comes tomorrow, tonight, she breathes slowly and steadily against my chest, and I allow myself to sleep knowing she’s close enough to grab if the world tilts again.

19

ELENA

Iwake in his bed before he does, and for a few seconds, I stay flat on my back with the blanket pulled to my chest. The ceiling above me feels unfamiliar, the angle of the roof cutting the room in a way that makes it feel smaller, closer. I’ve been in this house with him for days, close enough to track his steps on the stairs and hear his voice through the walls, close enough to sit across from him at the table and push back while he keeps control.

Last night broke that.

I turn to face him. Maksim is still asleep on his side, one arm bent under his head, the other stretched toward where I am. His shirt hangs from the bedpost, my dress folded over the back of a chair. I look at him again, his skin marked where I held on too hard last night, and there’s something about seeing him like this, unguarded, not watching every door, that makes me stop.

For a few seconds, I don’t move. Outside, the safehouse comes to life in pieces. Men shift positions. Downstairs, Irina moves a pan on the stove and mutters at someone, because men with weapons still put cups in the wrong place.

Maksim’s fingers flex against my stomach, soft and close, making sure I’m still there.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice rough against my shoulder.

“So are you,” I say.

He doesn’t let me get away with that. His hand tightens at my waist, and he rolls me onto my back in one clean move. His leg settles over mine, holding me there, and his mouth finds my neck, hot and rough.

“You smell good,” he says against my skin.

I let out a small breath. My hand slides up his arm, fingers pressing into muscle, tracing the lines of old marks.

“You slept?” he says, brushing his mouth over mine.

“A little,” I mumble.

“Good.”

“That’s it?” I look at him. “That’s your morning speech?”

His mouth curls, almost a smile. “I was told not to start the day by giving orders.”

“Irina?” I ask, and my voice catches when his teeth catch my ear.

I push him away and roll out of bed, laughing. My feet hit the wooden floor, and I wince at the cold.

He exhales through his nose, then sits up and reaches for his shirt. “She has said worse,” he says and tosses the blanket toward me.

The bed creaks when he stands. He crosses to the table and picks up his phone, broad shoulders bare, scars running over his ribs and one shoulder, and I know where they sit under my hands now. I pull the blanket higher as the attic feels cooler without him beside me.

I walk to the chair, pull on my dress, and smooth it down. My hand settles low on my stomach for a second, steadying on my own breath before I drop it. I glance back once, catch him by the window, then tug my hem straight and head for the door.

Downstairs, Irina is already moving. She stands at the stove with a kettle in hand, her back straight, her movements sure. She glances at me once, then pours tea without asking.

“You sleep?” she asks.

“Enough.”