Page 140 of Bratva Bidder

Soot settles on his lashes, but he doesn’t blink it away. His eyes are fixed on the flames like he’s trying to make sense of the loss—like if he watches long enough, the dead might crawl their way out of the ash.

A piece of burning steel groans as it collapses, sending a fresh plume of smoke into the air.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he mutters. “The second that doctor got spooked, I should’ve known.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say softly, stepping beside him.

“Ididknow,” he says, turning to me. “I knew my father was going to come after me sooner or later. I knew he wouldn’t stop.”He runs a hand over his mouth, jaw clenching. “They weren’t soldiers, Nadya. They trusted me. And now they’re gone.”

The raw guilt in his voice guts me. I reach for his hand, dirt and blood smeared across his knuckles. He lets me take it.

“I know this hurts,” I whisper. “But we got Levin out. That has to count for something.”

He doesn’t answer. Just grips my hand tighter, like it’s the only thing keeping him from sinking.

We don’t speak on the drive home.

The city moves past in a blur of lights and shadows, but Konstantin keeps his eyes on the road, jaw locked tight. His hands grip the steering wheel like he’s afraid it might slip from his control. I watch the muscles in his forearm twitch, soot still clinging to the fine hairs on his skin.

The car smells like smoke and metal. My own clothes are stiff with dried sweat and dust, a faint streak of blood on my sleeve. I don’t remember if it’s mine.

When we finally pull into the drive, it feels like stepping into a dream. Completely unaware of our drama, Irina had texted me that after Nikolai was discharged, yet again, she’d brought the children home and put them to bed. They’re all asleep already. The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Konstantin doesn’t head for the stairs or the kitchen. He walks straight to the downstairs bathroom and stands in front of the sink, staring at his reflection like he doesn’t recognize the man looking back.

I follow him, silently.

He doesn’t flinch when I reach out and touch the hem of his ruined shirt. He just looks at me—finally—and in his eyes I see everything he hasn’t said. The loss. The guilt. The rage. It simmers there beneath the surface, barely held back.

“Come on,” I whisper.

We step into the shower together, fully clothed at first. I turn the water on warm, letting it wash over our skin. Soot and ash drip from his hair, down the curve of his neck, over the tattoos on his chest. He leans into the tile wall, letting the water pound against him, breathing deep like he’s trying to wash away more than just blood and dirt.

I help him peel off his shirt, then my own. We move slowly, not with urgency or lust but with something gentler—something raw. I unbutton his jeans with shaking fingers. He unclasps the back of my bra with a touch that’s too careful for a man who killed someone less than two hours ago.

I run a hand over his chest, pausing over the thin new scar on his side. He closes his eyes.

“You’re still bleeding,” I murmur.

“It’s nothing.”

“Everything’s something tonight.”

He exhales through his nose and pulls me closer, forehead resting against mine. Water slides between our bodies. The steam wraps around us like a cocoon.

“I lost people tonight,” he says. “Men who followed me into that warehouse believing I’d keep them safe.”

I place my hand over his heart. “And you will carry them, because that’s who you are. But don’t carry them alone.”

His hands come up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing just beneath my eyes. “You shouldn’t have had to fight.”

“I would again,” I tell him. “For you. For our family.”

There’s a silence that stretches between us—full of what we’ve survived and what still waits for us on the other side of dawn.

When he finally kisses me, it’s not hungry or demanding. It’s soft. Reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth to remember who he is.

We stay in the shower long after the water turns cold.