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His stubble scratches against my digits as he nuzzles into my caress. He turns his head and kisses my palm with his soft lips before guiding my hand to the mattress and tucking the blankets around me.

I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep before he even turns the light off and wake what feels like seconds later—with an ease I never thought possible again—but the stiffness in my joints and fogginess in my brain suggest otherwise. I lift my hand to wipe my eyes and freeze when my pillow shifts.

My big, hard pillow.

Dimitri Volkov. My husband.

The Russian bratva assassin I married and gave head to less than two days after I met him.

He lies on top of the blankets on the far edge of the bed with his hands behind his head and his trousers securely fastened around his waist. I rolled in my sleep and cuddled up with him. The blankets lie smushed between us, but my head rests on his bare chest.

Wonder and mortification spear through me as I shift my gaze up to his face and meet his half-lidded eyes. With visible stubble on his chin and his hair mussed from sleep, he’s dangerously handsome.

I clear my throat and look away before checking for drool, which thankfully isn’t present.

A glance at the clock reveals I slept all evening and into the next morning. My stomach rumbles, furthering my embarrassment.

Without a word, we rise from the bed and dress ourselves in comfortable silence. I move slowly, my joints painfully stiff, and grit my teeth in frustration when leaning down to don my socks proves too daunting.

Dimitri takes my socks from me and kneels at my feet. Queasiness grips my stomach as echoes of my nightmares replay in my mind, but another, smoother voice holds them at bay.

Dimitri fought my demons last night. Again.

Guilt batters at my insides, but the reverence in his hands as he slips my socks and sneakers onto my feet clears it away.

Emotional exhaustion fuzzes the edges of my brain. I sigh and thank my husband before limping into the bathroom and shutting the door between us, needing a few minutes to gather myself before facing the day.

He lets me retreat without a word. I wash my face and apply a light layer of makeup before twisting my hair into a simple but elegant updo. With my shields in place, I exit the bathroom and follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen.

Expecting the cabinets and fridge to be empty, I blink in surprise as I find my husband in front of the stove with eggs and sausage sizzling in a pan. With his sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearms and his shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, he’s a drool worthy specimen.

The toaster pings on the counter and toast pops up as the coffee maker gurgles its last few drops.

My heart squeezes at the unexpected sight of Dimitri Volkov, the renowned killer of Russia’s most powerful bratva family, in such a domestic setting.

Regret pulses through me. I wish I could have seen him care for his children when they were babies. His first wife was a very lucky woman.

A sudden, inexplicable surge of determination plows through me. I will not waste time mulling over what cannot be. Instead, I’ll protect what I want most.

Which means strengthening my body and sharpening my mind.

In the meantime, I need to learn how to use what I have now so I can provide Dimitri’s children with another layer of protection.

He looks up as I step into the room, spotlighting me in his sharp gaze.

“I want to have my first self-defense class with Loretta before your children get here,” I say.

After studying my expression, he narrows his eyes in pleasure and nods, so I pull out my phone and call Loretta as I rummage through the cabinets in search of herbal tea. By the time the kettle boils, I finalize our plan and plop the tea bag into my cup as I end the call.

Despite the feast Dimitri prepared, I stick with toast and tea, unwilling to upset my stomach for fear of vomiting during my lesson with Loretta. Or worse, from nerves when I meet my stepchildren for the first time.

Already, apprehension coils up my spine.

Dimitri mentioned they’ve scared away several nannies. I doubt they’ll go easy on me just because their father married me. I’m a stranger to them, and I don’t know how to not be one beyond just spending time with them.

I force the bite of toast down my throat and take a sip of tea before meeting Dimitri’s gaze.

“Are we bringing your children here?” I ask.

“They are no longer only my children, Camilla. They are yours, too. Ours. And yes, we will stay here.”

“What do we need to prepare for them? Do they share rooms?”

“ Da . The boys will sleep in the front room and Zoya will share a room with Nanny Olga. I have ordered furniture and supplies,” he says.

Uncertainty flows through me.

“What is wrong?”

He reads me too well. I shake my head.

“Do you not want to share a bed with me?” he asks.

I stiffen.

“I… I do want to share a bed with you, but is it really okay for the nanny and Zoya to share a room?” I ask.

He props his elbow on the table and offers me his hand. I take it.

“It is common practice in Russia,” he says.

I nod. The idea doesn’t sit right with me, but I don’t want to cause issues, so I move on to my next concern.

“Can you still hunt Feliks from here without putting everyone in more danger? You can’t hide me away. I want to help.”

“Yes and yes. You will help. Yerik caught two mudaks yesterday. We will visit him this morning so you can confirm their involvement before we attend your self-defense lesson,” he says.

My stomach twists. I sip the last few drops of tea from the bottom of my mug, using the moment to center myself, and nod in agreement.

After tidying the kitchen and grabbing our bags, we exit the front door into the morning breeze and lock both the house door and the gate on our way to the car.

A shiver races up my spine as Dimitri settles me into the back seat, but when he meets my stare in the rearview mirror, I push my dread away and relax against the backrest.

Nothing about my life over the past year has been easy, but the next few hours will be pure hell, even with Dimitri by my side. Hearing my attackers will bring it all back.

It doesn’t matter. Like I vowed before, I’ll rip myself to pieces a million times if it means keeping my family safe, but now, with my Russian husband protecting and nurturing me, I know it won’t take as long to pull myself back together afterward.

I’m not alone. I have Dimitri Volkov.

My angel of death, avenger, and future lover.

Because it’s no longer a question of if I’ll be able to handle physical intimacy with him.

It’s a matter of when.

And by the way my panties dampen from a single glance from him, I hope it’s sooner rather than later.