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Like he trusted me.

Last night flickered through my thoughts, warming me from the inside. The restaurant. The stupid, crooked tree. The owner who’d shoved pastries into our hands. The way Stas had listened when I talked about a possible future with him.

I hadn’t meant to practically burst out that I was in love with him. Hells bells, he now knew I thought about marrying him. Who wouldn’t marry a pakhan who spent the night trying to cheer you up? Who kissed you in front of his men like you weren’t rivals?

I hadn’t meant to talk about our families and how they would react to us. But the consequences of sleeping together had slipped out anyway.

Our lives were on the line. But it was worth it because when I was drowning under my brother’s hatred, Stas didn’t ridicule me. He came after me. He protected me. And he made me laugh. He made me forget I’d spent the last two days drinking booze.

Stanislav hadn’t rubbed it in my face that I was a shitty brother. He hadn’t offered logic or lectures either. He’d just held me while I blubbered like a baby about how my little brother hated me. Pathetic.

But he hadn’t made me feel that way. He hadn’t made me feel like the villain in my brother’s story. He’d shown me that I’d been a victim, forced to grow up too soon, forced to take on responsibilities that were never supposed to be mine.

I swallowed and tightened my grip on the sheet, chest aching with something dangerously close to hope. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

Men like me didn’t get soft, didn’t get foolish, and didn’t get attached. And yet here I was, watching his mouth while he slept and wondering if that was how I’d die. Smiling at the wrong man.

I had fallen for him.

Fast.

Stupid.

Past the point of reason.

My enemy.

My disaster.

My impossible.

A muted knock sounded on the door in an unfamiliar rhythm, and I froze, watching the handle, but it didn’t turn. Whoever was on the other side wasn’t trying to break in. Stas didn’t stir but snored softly, which made me smile.

Another knock in the same choreographed rhythm, like a secret code.

Was it one of Stas’s men?

I slid out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him. He deserved to sleep in after last night. I snagged my robe from the floor and slipped it on while I took up my knife from beneath my pillow. Out of habit. Stas slept with his gun beneath his as well.

The room was cool against my bare feet as I crossed to the door, heart already ticking faster. I cracked it open just enough to see the face on the other side.

One of Stanislav’s men.

If we were any other ordinary couple, I would have felt at ease. But this was one of Stas’s close men. One who’d taken almost as many shots at me as Stas had in the past.

“Nico, is it?” I kept the hand with the knife behind my back. “What can I do for you?”

His jaw clenched, and he flicked his eyes past me, searching the room behind my shoulder.

“I need to speak to Mr. Zhukovsky urgently,” he said quietly. He tried to peer past me.

I shifted to make it obvious I’d noticed. “Hmm. No. He’s busy.” I tilted my head. “Sleeping. Recovering. Rehydrating. You know how exhausting new hobbies can be.”

He fisted his hands at his sides. “It’s important.”

“Then why don’t you deal with it?”

“This isn’t Orlov blood chaos. We have structure. Protocol. You don’t get to stand here and⁠—”