Page 98 of Brutal Reign

I wasn’t gentle with her, especially at the end. I couldn’t help taking her like I needed to.

“I’m sure I’ll be limping tomorrow.” Her fingers thread through my hair. “But it was worth it.”

I lean in and drop another barely-there kiss on her mound. She’s well-groomed, with a small landing strip of hair, which I appreciate.

“How about you spend the rest of the night sitting on my face, letting me kiss it better?”

She gives me a slow, languid smile. “I’m going to need some recovery time first.”

I guide her toward the bedroom, and she stops at the foot of my king-sized bed with its dark-gray sheets. Without a word, I pull back the covers, and she slides in, with me following after her.

When I wrap my arms around her and pull her back against my chest, something clicks into place. The feeling that this is where she’s meant to be, meant to stay. But being with her means being honest in a way I’ve never been honest with anyone before.

“I’m sorry, for earlier,” I murmur, nuzzling into her neck to enjoy the scent of my soap on her skin.

She’s quiet for a beat before she turns to face me. “You don’t have to be sorry.” Her quiet understanding breaks through my defenses. “Pavel... I can’t imagine carrying that guilt. I know you blame yourself, but it wasn’t your fault.”

I release a humorless laugh. Of course it’s my fault, but there’s no point in arguing something that can’t be undone. “I haven’t told that story in a while. It brought up memories I’ve buried for years.”

Her gaze is full of understanding. “Did you find what you needed in your studio?”

“Maybe. It’s not peace exactly. I’d call it distraction. Boxing does the same.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “But you help me forget. You make it better.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I understand that kind of loss more than you know.”

“Your mother?”

She tilts her head. “Have you been looking into my past?”

“I did my due diligence before I came to London. I had to know everything about you.”

“Then you know my mother was murdered by another triad.”

I nod, stroking her hair when her lip quivers.

“My father was afraid his enemies would get to me too. Or at least, that’s what he said. But now I wonder if he couldn’t deal with a grieving eight-year-old.” Her voice goes flat, emotionless, but I can sense her hurt. “And when my father met Simon, I felt like an afterthought. He was the chosen one. His heir. Baba loved me in his own way, but never enough to put me first when it mattered.”

I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead. “You deserved better.”

“I guess we both did.”

We’re quiet as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw that picture of your family when I first came in.” She pauses as if trying to gauge how I’ll respond. When I stay quiet, she continues. “Kamilla looked very sweet. I can see why you tried so hard to stay together.”

I clear my throat, a half-forgotten memory surfacing. “She was. After my parents died, I read to Kamilla every night to help her fall asleep. Fairy tales were her favorite, but she also loved stories about Viking warriors and brave princesses.” My mouth quirks at the corners. “Where do you think I got the idea for Lukas? My mother’s father was Swedish, so it’s in the blood.”

She pushes herself up on one elbow to study my face. “It explains why you actually do look like a Viking.” She runs her knuckles along the stubble of my jawline before lying back down. “I was the same way when I was a girl. My mother would read tome every night, no matter how busy she was. It was our thing. After she died, books were my escape, one of the only ways to feel connected to her.”

I pull her closer, my arm tightening around her waist. “I’m glad you had your mother for the time you did.”

“She was pretty special. I still have all these memories—like the way she’d make up voices for my stuffed animals, how she always smelled like lavender. Sometimes she’d sneak me out for ice cream after dinner, just the two of us, no guards. It was our little secret.” Her voice drops. “Then one morning she kissed me goodbye at school, and I never saw her again.”

My throat tightens, picturing that eight-year-old girl trying to make sense of a senseless world.

“This was hers.” She lifts herself up, touching the jade pendant at her throat. “A gift from my father. It means ‘dawn’ in Cantonese. Maybe because my mother brought light into his dark world. He gave it to me the night?—”

She cuts herself off, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. But I know where this is going.

“The night we attacked?”