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“Are you going to punish me?” A slight smile plays at her lips. Not mocking or seductive like before. Something else entirely.

I holster my weapon, wrestling with the urge to go to her. To wrap her in my arms and shield her from everything dark in our world. Including myself.

“Sit with me.” Katarina pats the space beside her on the log. My training screams to maintain distance, but my body moves of its own accord.

I sink down next to her, noticing the goosebumps on her arms. Without thinking, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “You're freezing.”

She burrows into the warmth, pressing against my side. The simple contact sends electricity through my veins. Her head finds the crook of my neck, fitting there like she belongs.

My arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer. The warrior in me protests that this vulnerability is dangerous. But the rest of me... the rest of me just wants to hold her.

The rising sun paints her skin gold, catching in her hair like fire. She sighs, a small content sound that cracks something open in my chest.

The realization hits me so damn hard that what I am feeling toward her isn't merely attraction or obsession. I'm falling for her. Have been falling since the beginning.

My grip tightens instinctively. She responds by nuzzling closer, her breath warm against my neck. The ice I've built around myself for years melts a little more with each exhale.

Her fingers trace idle patterns on my arm, and I fight the urge to tense at the unexpected touch. “My mother loved mornings like this,” Katarina whispers. “Before she got sick,we'd wake up early and watch the sunrise from our garden. She'd make hot chocolate, even in summer.”

The wistful tone in her voice pulls at something deep inside me. I've seen her file—mother died of cancer when she was sixteen, but hearing her speak of it... It's different.

“What was she like?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Katarina shifts, tucking her legs under her. “Kind, but not weak. She could silence a room with one look. Dad's associates were terrified of her.” A soft laugh escapes her. “She grew roses. Said they reminded her that beautiful things could have thorns.”

My thumb traces circles on her hip. “You're like her.”

“Maybe.” She glances up at me. “What about yours?”

The question catches me off guard. No one asks about my mother anymore. “She died when I was eight.” The words taste bitter. “Nikolai and Dmitri practically raised me and Alexi after that. Alexi was only five.”

The question hits like a punch to the gut. Images flash through my mind—the twisted metal, shattered glass, Dmitri's haunted eyes. My jaw clenches as I force the words out.

“Car crash. Dmitri was with her.” My fingers dig into Katarina's hip, anchoring myself to the present. “He was twelve. They were driving home from his piano recital when a truck ran a red light.”

Katarina's hand finds mine, her touch unexpectedly gentle. I should pull away, maintain distance, but I can't.

“The impact threw him clear, but Mom...” My throat tightens. “She was pinned. Bleeding out. Dmitri crawled back to her, tried to help, but he didn't know what to do. No one came for twenty minutes.”

The memory of finding Dmitri afterward burns fresh—his clothes soaked red, eyes vacant, hands shaking as he kept repeating 'I couldn't save her.' He didn't speak for weeks after.

“He watched her die. Right there on the asphalt.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Sometimes I think that's why he's so controlled now. Like if he has power over everything, nothing bad will happen again.”

Katarina's fingers tighten around mine. She doesn't offer empty sympathies or platitudes. Just sits with me in the weight of it all.

“He was never the same after that. None of us were.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “But Dmitri... he carries it differently. Heavier.”

“Is that why you try to control everything too?”

Her question is like a blade between the ribs. I stare at the sunrise, letting the golden light blur my vision. “I don't know. Maybe.” My fingers flex against her hip. “I barely remember her now. Just... fragments.”

“Like what?” Katarina's voice is soft, careful.

“The smell of her perfume.” I close my eyes, trying to grasp at memories that slip through my fingers like smoke. “She used to sing while she cooked. Russian lullabies. I remember the sound, but not the words.”

Katarina shifts closer, her warmth seeping into my side. “And Alexi?”

“He was so young. Five.” My jaw clenches. “Sometimes I wonder if he remembers her at all. He used to ask about her when he was little, but the memories are probably more from photos than anything real.”