Page 19

Katya

The city lights blur through the penthouse windows as I pace, checking my phone for the hundredth time, but none of it brings me closer to knowing if he’s alive. No messages. No calls. Nothing from Nikolai since he left yesterday morning.

I eye the elevator, wondering if I could override the security code. The fancy panel mocks me with its blinking red light. Between the cameras and his guards downstairs, escaping seems impossible. Not that I want to leave anymore, but old habits die hard.

My eyes drift shut somewhere between midnight and dawn. When they open again, sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I wake to the soft scrape of a chair against the floor.

And there he is.

Nikolai sits in the leather armchair across from the bed with blood staining his white, unbuttoned shirt. His hair’s a mess, falling over his forehead in unruly strands. One eye is swollen and purple, and there is a nasty cut runs along his forearm.

“Jesus. Did you crawl through a warzone to get here?” I say, voice scratchy from sleep.

“Good morning to you, too, krasivaya.” His lips quirk up despite the exhaustion etched into his features. “You sleep like a dead thing.”

“Because I didn’t think you were actually coming back.” I shoot back, even though my chest feels lighter at the sight of him.

I slide out of bed, padding over to examine his wounds. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Just business.” He says it like it’s nothing. “Got any coffee?”

“No, but I could brew you some blood instead. Seems like you’re fresh out.”

A grin tugs at his mouth, though it looks like it hurts him to smile. “You’re funny when you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Just curious why you look like roadkill.”

“Roadkill’s usually dead.” He drags himself to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen. “Guess I got lucky.”

I follow him. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“No.” He pours himself a glass of water, leaning against the counter. “You gonna stop asking?”

“No.” I fold my arms tighter. “You’re limping.”

“You’re nagging.”

“I’m concerned. Big difference.”

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m a ballerina.” I grab a towel, dampen it, and toss it at him. “At least clean yourself up before you drip blood all over your fancy floors.”

He catches the towel, his expression twitching with something that might be amusement. Or maybe he’s just delirious. “Thanks.”

“You look like shit,” I say. “But you’re alive, so…good for you, I guess.”

He smirks—or tries to. It comes out as more of a wince. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Katya. I might start thinking you care.”

“I don’t.” The lie tastes bitter. “I just need you alive so I can get answers.”

“Right,” he says, dabbing at his cuts. “Because this is all about your sister.”

“Exactly.” There’s something in the way he looks at me, something that makes me feel like he’s stripping away every lie I try to hide behind.

“Speaking of which,” he says, voice dropping. “Your sister—” Pain flashes across his face. “Katya...”

My stomach drops. “No. Don’t you dare.”

“I tried everything.” His voice rasps. “But she...”

The door bursts open. And there she is.

“Surprise!” Irina grins, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I freeze, staring at my sister’s face. She looks exactly the same yet completely different – harder edges, sharper smile.

“Irina?” My voice cracks, my body moving before my brain can catch up. I throw myself at her, my arms wrapping around her shoulders. She clings to me just as tightly, her familiar perfume enveloping me as we cling to each other. But alive. Beautifully, impossibly alive.

“You absolute bastard,” I breathe, whirling on Nikolai. His smirk tells me he planned this all along.

“I missed you so much, little sister.”

“I thought—” My words break. “I thought you were dead.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything.”

“They told me you were gone, too,” she sobs. “I couldn’t find you. I tried, but—”

“You’re here now. You’re here.”

Nikolai rises silently, heading for the door. I catch his arm, careful to avoid the cut. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

I turn to him, still holding Irina. “Wait.”

He arches a brow. “What?”

“Thank you,” I say, the words awkward and stilted. “For…for finding her. For bringing her here.”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

I can’t help but laugh, the sound tangled with tears. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying,” he says. But there’s a softness to his voice, something almost affectionate. “I’ve got to go into the office, but I’ll be back later.”

He cups my face, kissing me with an intensity that steals my breath. “Make it up to me later. I have meetings, but I will be home tonight.”

Another searing kiss and he’s gone, leaving me torn between running after him and staying with my sister. Irina’s knowing smile decides for me.

“So.” She perches on the bed. “Tell me everything about you and the scary Russian.”

“He’s impossible,” I mutter, shaking my head as Irina and I settle onto the couch. “Half the time I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to. The way he looks at you is enough to tell you how crazy he is about you. I’m glad you found that, Katya.”

Irina and I spend hours talking, laughing, and crying. Everything’s a blur, like we’re trying to shove years of separation into one night. She tells me about the jobs, the debts, the people she had to cross just to stay alive. Her eyes dart around the room like she expects someone to burst in and rip her away from me again.

The weight I’ve carried since she disappeared finally lifts. But my thoughts keep drifting to Nikolai – his hidden gentleness, the way he gave me back my sister, how completely he’s worked his way under my skin.

Nikolai never said anything about how he did it. Just showed up like it was nothing, blood-slicked and exhausted.

The rest of the week, when I’m not with Irina, I’m watching Nikolai. Making sure his wounds aren’t festering. Cleaning the cuts he’s too stubborn to bother with himself. He grumbles about it, but never pulls away. Sometimes I catch him looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out.

Days pass, blurring together. I spend most of my time with Irina, trying to make up for lost years. But my mind keeps drifting to him.

I find myself listening for his footsteps, waiting for the low rumble of his voice, craving the stupid little arguments that always end with me wanting to slap him or kiss him.

I’m falling for him. It’s stupid and reckless, but it’s happening.

By the weekend, I attempt to surprise Nikolai with dinner. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances I barely understand how to use. I’m chopping vegetables when the knife slips.

“Shit.” Blood wells from my finger. Not deep, but it stings.

Nikolai appears behind me. “You really do have a death wish,” he growls. “Can’t leave you alone for five damn minutes.”

“I was just cooking,” I snap, but there’s no heat to my words. “You act like I stabbed myself.”

“You’d probably do that, too,” he mutters, dragging me over to the sink. His hands are rough, but his touch is careful.

“You care,” I say before I can stop myself. “It’s just a cut.”

He freezes. “Of course, I care. You could’ve made it worse. I need you in one piece.”

“Why?”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “Because you’re mine to deal with.”

The words stick in my chest, refusing to settle. I should reprimand him for saying that. For thinking he can claim me like some possession. But all I feel is heat spreading through me until my hands shake.

I try to pull away. “But it is nothing.”

He examines the cut with careful precision. “Let me clean it.”

“It is barely a scratch.”

“Humor me.” He runs cool water over my finger, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “What were you doing anyway?”

“Trying to cook for you. Clearly failing spectacularly.”

His eyes soften. “You do not need to cook for me.”

“I wanted to thank you for Irina.”

He wraps a bandage around my finger with practiced ease. “You do not owe me anything.”

“I know. But I...” How do I tell him that everything I thought I knew about him was wrong? That the thing which started as a mission has turned into something else entirely? I have told him before, but how can I show him?

He lifts my bandaged finger to his lips, pressing a kiss there. “Next time, let me help with the knife work.”

“Are you offering to cook with me?”

“I am offering to keep you from bleeding all over my kitchen.”

I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck. “My hero.”

His hands settle on my waist, pulling me closer. “A dangerous man to call hero.”

“Good thing I like dangerous.” I kiss him, slow and deep, trying to pour everything I cannot say into it.

He responds with equal intensity, backing me against the counter. When we break apart, his eyes burn with promise. “Dinner can wait.”

“Can it?” I arch against him deliberately.

“Unless you object?”

Instead of answering, I pull him down for another kiss. The bandaged cut throbs faintly, a reminder of how thoroughly he’s worked his way into every part of my life. Into my heart.

I should be terrified. His world is violence and power games, everything I tried to protect myself from. But watching him with Irina, seeing the care beneath his dangerous exterior... I am done fighting this.

I choose him. All of him.