Page 26

Before she gave birth to me, my mother practiced as a community-trained nurse. I grew up flipping through the photo albums to relive the beautiful life she’d lived through those pictures. She looked happy, with a permanent smile on her face and her head held high in accomplishment.

After I was born, as a single mother taking care of her needy daughter and herself, we didn’t have enough money, so she took up more jobs to handle the bills. Short story: She lost her job at the general hospital for inconsistency and giving too many excuses. But there was never a time when my mother made me feel she wished I wasn’t born. She took care of me, loved me—and still does.

She willingly gave up her job to be a mother and father to me.

My mother taught me that love was not always soft. That sometimes, it was made of sacrifice, of silent suffering, of giving away pieces of yourself with no promise of return. I used to watch her hands, worn, steady, tireless, as she mended, as she cooked, as she worked late into the night while the world rested. She never asked for thanks. She never needed it. Love, she told me, was not measured in words but in what you were willing to endure for another.

I didn’t understand then. Not truly.

But now, I sat in this plain room, enduring the rhythmic beep of machines filling the silence, and I finally knew.

And I couldn’t stop crying.

The sterile scent of the hospital burned in my nose, mixing with the iron tang of dried blood— his blood . His face was too pale against the white sheets, his chest rising and falling in a slow, agonizing rhythm that felt too fragile. I clutched his hand in mine, my fingers trembling, desperate for any sign of warmth.

He’d stepped between me and a bullet. In a single moment, without any hesitation, he chose my life over his own. And I wondered, was it instinct? Or was it the same kind of love my mother spoke of, the kind that did not think of cost, only of giving?

“If you asked me, I’d say you’re wasting your tears.” I lifted my head, narrowing my eyes at the man who stood by the doors, looking indifferent. I recognized him from the brief glance we’d exchanged at Miron’s office at the club. “We haven’t met officially. Damir.”

“Hazel Sinclair.

He snorted, and I found it rude. “I already know who you are. I know a lot more than I honestly should.” Pushing himself off the wall, he ambled closer, stopping at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching me with something that barely passed as concern. “It’ll take more than a bullet to his arm to put him down.”

My breath hitched, and I sniffled. “He lost so much blood,” I whispered. “You don’t know what it felt like, watching the light go from his eyes as he collapsed into my arms. I thought…I thought I lost him.”

Damir sighed, running a hand through his short hair. “I do know him, and I’m telling you, Miron Yezhov is too damn stubborn to die like this. I’ve worked with the man for more than a decade, and I’ve seen him take worse.”

I wanted to believe him, but the sterile beeping of the heart monitor mocked me. Each passing second felt like a longer hold of my breath, stretching and pulling at the frayed edges of my nerves.

Then, there was movement. Miron’s fingers twitched. Just slightly, but enough. A small groan left his lips, and I nearly collapsed with relief as his eyelids fluttered open.

“Boss,” Damir greeted casually, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour watching over a man hovering on the edge of life and death. “Took your time waking up. I told the fine lady here that she was wasting her tears, and I’m glad I was right.”

Miron’s dark eyes flicked to me, his lips barely parting before Damir straightened. “I’ve got other matters to handle,” he said, and I guessed what matters he had to handle. Alina and her men.

After Miron passed out, I was such a blubbering mess. I blindly followed Damir and Miron’s men out of the house, practically dragging and cradling him on our ride to the hospital; I didn’t spare any time to care about what happened to a screaming and wailing Alina.

I stiffened, glancing up at him. “Damir—”

But he was already at the door. “Stay with him,” was all he said before slipping out, leaving me alone with the man who had nearly died in my arms.

I squeezed his hand tighter, blinking back tears. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” I whispered. “Why would you do something like that?”

“And why are you such a crying mess?” he croaked, his lips barely twitching when he attempted to smile.

“How can you ask me that? Miron, you…you took a bullet for me; you almost died.”

Miron exhaled sharply, tilting his head to look at me. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, softened. “But I didn’t. I’m here, aren’t I?” There was no edge to his words, only quiet curiosity. “Besides, the bastard was such a sloppy shot.”

“Miron, none of this is funny.” I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. “I’m such an emotional, psychological, and physical mess because of you,” I admitted, because there was no other reason. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to him. Because I—

“I love you, Hazel.”

The words shot through me like bullets. Bad joke. And I stared at him, stunned, my breath catching.

Love was sacrifice.

Love was pain.

And love, at its purest, asked for nothing in return, only the quiet promise that we would carry its load with grace.

With Miron, nothing made ordinary sense. How did we get here? How did this man become the only thing I could think about? The only man I believed with deep conviction that I needed, maybe a bit more than air?

“You love me?” It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him; I just didn’t believe he would say it. And hearing it out loud was the only confirmation I needed to clarify my feelings.

I cupped his cheeks, my voice trembling, but the certainty in my chest was solid. “I love you,” I said, and laughed, because it sounded surreal. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a while now, Miron.”

A breath of something close to relief passed between us before I moved without thinking, closing the space between us. I threw my arms around him, pressing my face against his shoulder, nearly forgetting the bandage wrapped around him.

Miron grunted slightly but didn’t pull away. Instead, he chuckled, the sound rumbling against me. “Careful, baby,” he murmured, amusement laced in his voice.

“Baby?” I chuckled on his shoulder. “What happened to moy dorogaya Kheyzel .”

“You don’t know what that means, do you?”

“It’s not like you’ve cared enough to enlighten me.”

Softly, he brushed his thumb against my cheek. “ My dear Hazel .”

A sudden warmth passed between us, and I snorted, my eyes flickering to his lips. “I could have easily figured that one out.”

Before he could respond, the door swung open, and the doctor stepped in. I quickly pulled back, my face burning, but Miron didn’t look away from me. Even as the doctor checked his wounds, even as instructions were given, his gaze stayed locked onto mine.

And I was sure of one thing: He wasn’t letting go of me, and I wasn’t letting go of him, either.

Him for me, and me for him.

***

It was exactly a week since the scare with Alina, and Miron had been resting well these past few days, though he’d never admit it was because I insisted on taking care of him. He didn’t need much; the man was as strong and stubborn as a mule.

But I found comfort in tending to him, making sure he ate, ensuring his bandages were fresh, watching over him even when he teased me for fussing. He didn’t push me away. I knew he enjoyed my presence, even if he only showed it in quiet moments, in the way his fingers lingered on mine when I handed him a cup of tea, in the rare softness in his gaze before he looked away.

A day after he was cleared and discharged from the hospital, Miron asked me to move in with him, to his actual house and not the penthouse. I said yes, and found it oddly comforting sharing the space with him. It felt more intimate than the steamy nights we enjoyed.

Tonight, though, I found myself alone in his empty bedroom, the sheets still warm from where he had been resting. His absence tugged at me like that damn drawstring, even though I knew where he was: in his study, speaking with Damir.

I slipped from the room, moving carefully through the dimly lit hallway. Did I say Miron’s house was an actual mansion? Oh, it was. He made Damir give me a grand tour, and I fell more in love with every décor and design as the days went by. Though cold, it felt like home.

The external structure stood like a fortress of quiet power with a dark stone facade. Tall, arched windows gleamed under the moonlight, framed by sleek black ironwork and tinted glass.

A long, curved driveway led to massive double doors of polished ebony, carved with intricate details.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather and aged whiskey. The grand foyer boasted a sweeping staircase with wrought-iron railings. A chandelier of black crystal hung above, releasing fractured light onto the marble floors, dark-veined and cool underfoot.

The master bedroom, the one we shared, was both indulgent and understated. A king-sized bed with dark silk sheets stood against a backdrop of shadowy grays and deep blues, the colors of midnight and his sexy eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city below. Standing close enough and gazing through made me feel like one of those Disney princesses. Only difference was, my Prince Charming was in the Mafia.

Damn. I was living the dream.

About the living room? It was a masterpiece of restrained luxury with deep, tufted sofas in shades of charcoal and espresso, a grand fireplace framed in onyx, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with first editions and relics of a life lived in power. A sleek bar stood in the kitchen, stocked with the finest scotch, cognac, imported cigars, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t know.

The study was his sanctuary. I’d seen it yesterday and, knowing he was there, drew my feet toward it. I couldn’t help it; I missed him.

The door to the study was slightly ajar, and I hesitated just outside. Dark wood paneling lined the walls while a massive mahogany desk dominated the space. A single gun rested in a glass case behind him. A leather chair, worn from late nights, sat before a wall of monitors displaying security feeds, ensuring that nothing within these walls escaped his gaze.

Miron’s voice was sharp and audible enough for me to hear a large scoop of his conversation with Damir.

“What do we do with her? She’s too dangerous and unstable to simply let go.”

Alina. My stomach twisted.

“Remember Ivanova? She comes from power and a strong Russian background. This could get complicated. I know you have the Pakhan’s blessing, but there is no way he will agree to you starting a war,” Damir answered, barely seething like Miron. He played with a rubber ball and busied himself with it while his boss paced the room.

Miron leaned against his desk and drew his lip between his teeth, like he was considering something.

“I don’t care how complicated it is. I want her to suffer.”

My breath caught. Honestly, I could stand there and watch him all night, but the man was drawing up strategies for murder. I had to intervene somehow. I stepped back, my fingers gripping the doorframe to steady myself. This was the side of Miron I knew existed but rarely saw so clearly: the cold, ruthless part of him, the man who carried vengeance in his veins as easily as breath.

But I’d accepted him and the baggage that accompanied living this reality, hadn’t I?

Still, my heart ached for him. I wanted to go to him, to pull him from the dark, to remind him that revenge wouldn’t heal the wounds that still bled beneath his skin. But I knew better than to step inside that room now.

Instead, I turned, retreating quietly.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I would remind him that there was still warmth to be found. That no matter how much the past demanded retribution, he didn’t have to let it consume him whole.

I was almost past earshot when I heard him suggest taking her to some underground prison and leaving her there until her father found her corpse, and my heart couldn’t take it. I rushed back, pushing the door open with urgency.

As I stepped into the room, Miron and Damir turned to me. “Baby, what are you—”

“Before that gunshot, you asked her to leave,” I said softly, holding Miron’s gaze as I walked up to him slowly. “I know you did it because of me, but you did it, nonetheless. So, please, let her go.”

“You’re joking, right? Maybe you don’t understand; Alina wouldn’t have hesitated to blow your brains out if I didn’t show up.”

“I understand. But you did show up, and I’m here.” I sighed. I was tired of the past following us like an annoying hangover. It needed to go, and we had to focus on starting together as…whatever we were—two odd humans madly in love with each other. She needed to go.

“Let her go, Miron.”

Miron scoffed, folding his arms as he leaned against the table. “You never cease to amaze me, Hazel. After everything, you’re just…letting her go?”

I looked down, fingers tracing the edge of my long sleeve. “She was a woman in love, Miron. And in one cruel moment, she lost everything.” I remembered the pain of Nathan’s betrayal. “That doesn’t make what she did right, but I know how that pain can drive you to do the unthinkable. She wasn’t evil or insane. Just blinded by love.”

Miron let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You really can reason your way through anything, can’t you? Okay, I’ll let her go, but I’m not doing that without making her have a taste of the chaos she created by herself. Damir, we’re canceling all our deals with Ivanova. The plan is to drain them until they have nothing left. Luxury was a drug to Alina, and now I’m going to take it all away. Before now, I told the Pakhan I would work harder to restore any loss my decision would cost.”

Damir rose to his feet, tossing the rubber ball on the table, before marching toward the door. “Got it.” Then his eyes flicked to mine with a glimmer of something similar to amusement. “Anything else, Hazel? Would you like me to take her to the hospital too?”

I laughed, and Miron snatched the rubber ball from his table, aiming it at Damir’s head. Luckily, the guy was fast enough to duck before he got hit.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

The door clicked shut behind Damir, leaving us alone. Finally.

Miron winced, moved away from the desk, and pulled me to one of the corner sofas. I helped him settle on it, and he dragged me down with him.

“Miron, the doctor recommended plenty of rest. You should rest,” I whispered, but even as I said it, I was leaning closer, drawn in by his warmth and the way his eyes darkened as they watched me.

“I will,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Just stay with me for a while. I’ll probably sleep soon.”

“Really? With me like this?” I lifted a hand, tracing my fingertips over his cheek, down the strong line of his jaw. He sighed into my touch, his breath warm against my wrist. Slowly, I bent, pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth, tasting salt and something that made my whole body shiver.

He turned his head slightly, meeting me in a kiss that was soft at first, a slow, aching slide of lips. But when he made a low sound, half pain, half pleasure, I pulled back.

“I don’t know why you’re so stubborn. You’re hurt,” I reminded him, pressing my palm flat against his chest as if I could hold him still.

“Correction: I’m recovering.” His lips quirked. “I’m not dead.”

I laughed, but it faded as his hands found my waist. It was warm and urgent. His face found my chest, and he inhaled my scent through my clothes, breathing deeply, with his chest rising and falling.

I wasn’t wearing a bra, so my nipples tightened to hard pebbles, peaking through the flimsy fabric of my dress.

Miron noticed and did what he did best. His large palm covered one breast, and his mouth covered one, sucking on it hungrily through my clothes like a baby needing its mother’s milk.

Feeling lightheaded, I curved my back, driving more of me into his mouth, and I shifted, climbing over him carefully, straddling his hips, mindful of his wounds. His breath caught, and I felt him tense beneath me. His hand lingered on my waist, and his fingers drew circles at the small part of my back.

“Miron, you do insane things to me,” I mumbled, finding the courage to tell him how he made me feel. “I can’t control myself around you. It’s like you make me want to unleash.”

“And I want you to.” He squeezed my breast harder, causing pain and pleasure to shoot through me. “Baby…I want you to make me feel good. I’ve missed you, my dear Hazel.”

His eyes communicated his wants, and I caught onto them, knowing exactly what he needed.

“I know, Miron. I’ll take care of you,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss him again, deeper this time, until I felt him melt into me.

His hands traced slow paths over my body, hesitant, reverent, but I set the pace, moving against him, drawing soft gasps from his lips.

His head fell back against the rim of the sofa, eyes hooded, mouth parted, and the sight of him like this, vulnerable and wanting, made my heart ache.

I nipped on his jaw and met his mouth with mine. I took my time, not fully educated on his aggressive skills. But he held the back of my head with his functioning arm and deepened it, kissing me as if it were a matter of life and death.

He trailed his lips down my neck, breathing something about not wanting to wait. Eagerly, I reached for his pants, and he raised his hips, aiding me as I pulled the fabric down and gripped his cock out of cotton briefs. It sprung out, and my mouth watered.

But before I slid off him to take his length into my mouth, as if sensing my intentions, he planted me firmly on his thighs and bunched up my dress. “Some other time, baby. I want you right now.”

Lifting my hips to position his cock, he saw I wore no panties and squeezed my ass with a delicious groan. “Fuck, yes. You are so fucking gorgeous, baby,” he mumbled, kissing my lips.

Then he cupped my pussy, fisted it in his hands, and looked me in the eyes with a gaze darker than any brewing storm. “This fucking belongs to me, you hear? This gorgeous pussy, your tits, your ass, and your succulent lips. They’re mine, you understand?”

The pressure of his hands between my legs made me barely able to respond, so I managed a quick nod, moaning when his fingers rolled against my clit.

“ Yes, ” I breathed.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, my pussy, my ass, my tits, and my lips are yours, Miron.

“Good.” His fingers left almost immediately, and I missed them. Kissing my neck, he grunted. “Ready?”

I nodded, and he brought me down, covering my mouth to drink up the slow, steady moans that poured from my lips when his cock stretched my walls.

My body burned like a wildfire ignited by his touch, consuming me inch by inch. It was an all-consuming blaze that licked up my spine, curled around my ribs, and settled deep in my core. Every brush of his skin against mine sent another spark, another rush of fire that spread through my veins like molten lava.

My hands flew to his shoulder, biting into his T-shirt, and his hot breath fanned my neck.

His fingers slid through my scalp, grabbing a fistful of my hair as I rode him, cautiously at first, unsure what to do and what pace he wanted. I searched his eyes, and he moved his head, urging me to go faster. Increasing my tempo, I pressed my face against his throat to stifle the small sounds I made and sucked the skin.

He jerked his hips, his nails leaving my scalp and digging into my back as he thrust faster. He moved with purpose, his touch both hard and possessive, stoking the flames higher, hotter.

My breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, my nails digging into his skin to anchor myself against the inferno threatening to consume me completely.

I arched above him, feeling my body surrendering to the scorching pleasure, my world narrowing to the way he felt, the way he moved, the way he made me burn.

Tremors broke out on my skin, shivers journeying through my body like electricity, until I felt my toes curl. He exhaled, and I inhaled. Our lips joined, and our breathing intertwined.

“Oh, Miron ,” I groaned. “I’m coming.”

“Yes,” Russian. “Baby, I’m—” More Russian.

This time, I came first, bursting like a million shooting stars in the sky, with a shout that startled me. The fire finally exploded, and it was nothing short of an inferno, blinding, overwhelming, leaving nothing but raw, unfiltered sensation in its wake.

I held onto him; he was almost there, but not quite. So, I let him take as much of me as he wanted, enjoying the sweet ways he placed kisses on my face and lips. Gripping the couch behind him as he spread my ass even wider, slamming into me with determination, plunging into me with trembling fingers and feverish lips.

God, he was so beautiful, my heart clenched. I raised myself, moved my hips, and matched his rhythm, riding his cock with all the love I could give, allowing myself to show him just how much I wanted him without using words.

I took my time, savoring every inch of him, every shuddering breath, every heavy groan. And when he finally gave himself over to the pleasure, I followed again, lost in him, in us, in the quiet promise that I would always be here, holding him together even when the world tried to break us apart.