Page 14

The elevator opens directly into my suite—one of the perks of penthouse living.

She steps out without hesitation, taking in the space.

It's exactly what she'd expect—minimalist, expensive, panoramic views of the city spread out like an offering.

The furniture is all clean lines and dark colors, no personal touches except for a few pieces of art that cost more than most people's houses.

It's a space designed to impress and intimidate, not to live in.

She walks to the windows, taking in the view. The city sprawls below us, lights twinkling like earthbound stars. From up here, everything looks small, manageable. It's an illusion, but a comforting one.

"This is how you see the world," she says. "From above. Controlling."

"Usually." I move behind her, not touching but close enough to feel her warmth. "Not tonight."

She turns in the space between my body and the glass. "Why not tonight?"

"Because tonight you're choosing."

"Then I choose this." She reaches up, fingers threading through my hair, and pulls me down to her.

Five years of waiting pours into the kiss.

Every moment of watching, wanting, imagining—none of it prepared me for the reality of her mouth on mine.

She tastes like whiskey and possibility, like everything I've denied myself in the name of patience.

Her body presses against mine, soft where I'm hard, yielding where I'm rigid, and I have to fight not to just take what I've wanted for so long.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

Her pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from the kiss.

"You’re sure this isn’t because of Njal?" I have to ask. "Revenge?"

"Yes." Her hands are already working at my tie, surprisingly deft for someone who's been drinking. "This is because I'm choosing this, because I want to know who you are when you're not watching from a distance."

Clothes come off with purpose, not frenzy.

I've imagined this a thousand different ways, but never like this—her in control, me following her lead.

Each button she undoes feels like unwrapping a gift I'm not sure I deserve.

"Scars," she observes, tracing a bullet wound on my ribs. "This one's new."

"Six months ago. Territory dispute with the Colombians."

Her fingers find another across my shoulder, the skin still pink and angry. "This?"

"Knife. Three years ago. Someone thought they could take me in a pub fight." I catch her hand before she can catalog more damage. "Do you want the history of every mark?"

"I want to know what I'm getting into."

"Violence," I say simply. "This is what you're getting. A man who's killed for you, who'll kill again if necessary. Who has more enemies than friends and more scars than birthdays."

"I know." She pulls me toward the bedroom. "I'm choosing it anyway."

My bedroom is more of the same—dark colors, expensive everything, no personal touches.

The bed is massive, designed for someone my size, with sheets that cost more than most people's rent.

She looks small in the space, but not overwhelmed. Never overwhelmed.

"Last chance," I offer as she sits on the edge of the bed.

"If you ask me that one more time, I'm leaving." She reaches for me. "I know what I want, Doran. Question is, do you?"

I answer by kissing her again, deeper this time, letting her feel exactly how much I want this.

Want her.

My hands tangle in her dark hair, messing up the style from earlier.

She makes a sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight through me.

"Five years," I murmur against her mouth. "Five years of wanting this."

"Then stop talking and show me."

I lay her back on the bed, taking my time even with every instinct screaming at me to rush.

This might be our only night—she might wake up tomorrow and retreat behind her walls again.

I need to memorize every second.

Her skin is soft under my hands, warm and flushed from the alcohol and arousal.

I map every inch with fingers and lips, learning the sounds she makes when I find sensitive spots.

The curve where her neck meets her shoulder makes her gasp.

The inside of her wrist makes her shiver.

The spot just below her ear makes her arch against me.

"You're studying me," she accuses, breathless.

"Always." I move lower, tasting whiskey and perfume on her skin. "But this is different from how I normally do it."

"How so?"

"This I get to keep just for me."

She pulls me back up, kissing me hard. "Stop overthinking. Just... be here. With me."

So I do.

I stop cataloging and analyzing and just feel.

The way she moves against me, the sounds she makes, the heat of her skin—it all blurs together into sensation and need.

When I finally slide inside her, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the moment.

"Okay?" I ask, forehead pressed to hers.

"More than." She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper. "Move."

I do, setting a rhythm that has her nails digging into my back.

Everything narrows to this—to her beneath me, around me, the taste of her gasps and the feel of her body responding to mine.

Five years of fantasy could never compare to the reality of Revna coming apart in my arms.

She comes with my name on her lips, and I follow her over, burying my face in her neck to muffle my own sounds.

We stay locked together, both trembling with aftershocks, neither willing to separate just yet.

"Fuck," she breathes finally.

"Eloquent."

She smacks my shoulder weakly. "Shut up. I'm still processing."

I roll to the side, pulling her with me so she's sprawled across my chest. "Process away."

We lie in silence, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on my skin.

I play with her hair, marveling at finally being able to touch freely.

Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but up here we're in our own world.

"This doesn't change anything," she says quietly.

"It changes everything."

"The wedding still happens. The arrangement still stands."

"Yes. But now it's not just an arrangement." I tilt her chin up to look at me. "Now it's a choice."

She kisses me instead of answering, and maybe that's answer enough.

We make love again, slower this time, learning each other's rhythms and preferences.

She's not passive—she takes what she wants, shows me what she likes, demands her own pleasure.

It's exactly what I should have expected from a woman who tells her father to fuck off in front of killers.

Afterward, we raid through the small kitchen in my suite—she's wrapped in my shirt, me in just boxers, both of us giggly from orgasms and lingering alcohol.

She sits on my counter while I make sandwiches, occasionally stealing bites before I'm done.

"You know, for a Bratva prince, you make a decent sandwich," she observes.

"I have many hidden talents."

"I'm starting to see that." She hooks her ankles behind my back, pulling me between her legs. "What other surprises do you have?"

"Patience," I say, kissing her. "I waited five years for this."

"Was it worth it?"

"Ask me in the morning when we're both sober."

We go back to bed, curling around each other like we've done this a thousand times.

She falls asleep first, mouth slightly open, one hand fisted in my chest hair like she's anchoring herself.

I stay awake longer, memorizing the feeling of her weight against me, the sound of her breathing, the way the city lights paint her skin silver.

I wake before dawn, habit and instinct pulling me from sleep.

She's still curled against me, hair spread across my pillow like she belongs there.

Because she does.

The certainty of it hits me like a bullet—she belongs here, with me, always.

Carefully, I extract myself and pull on my pants.

The city is just beginning to wake below, lights flickering on in windows as people start their normal lives.

I make coffee—exactly how she likes it, no sugar, just a splash of cream—and stand on the balcony thinking about how everything has shifted.

In twelve days, she'll be my wife. But now she'll also be my lover, my choice, my equal.

"Running away?"

I turn to find her in my shirt, legs bare, looking like every fantasy I've never admitted to having.

Her hair is a mess, mascara smudged under her eyes, and she's never been more beautiful.

"Making coffee." I hand her the mug. "Though running did cross my mind."

"Why?"

"Because now I have something to lose." I pull her against me, her back to my chest, so we can both watch the sunrise. "Before, you were an idea. A future possibility. Now you're real."

"I was always real."

"Not to me. Not like this." I breathe in the scent of her hair—my shampoo mixed with her perfume. "Twelve days until the wedding."

Her phone buzzes from inside—multiple times in rapid succession.

She sighs but doesn't move.

"Dalla," she says. "I should go."

"I'll drive you."

"I can?—"

"I know you can. I'm offering."

She turns in my arms, studying my face. "Okay."

Getting dressed feels like putting armor back on.

By the time we're ready to leave and have finished our coffees, we're back to being Doran and Revna instead of whoever we were last night.

The elevator ride down is nothing like the one up.

She stands apart from me, walls rebuilding with each floor we descend.

I want to pull her close, but I respect the distance.

Last night was a gift—I won't ruin it by pushing for more than she's ready to give.

"Regrets?" I ask as we reach the parking garage.

"No." She meets my eyes, and I see truth there. "But that doesn't make this simple."

"I never expected anything simple."

"Good. Because complicated doesn't begin to cover what we are."

I drive her home as the sun continues to rise, painting the city in shades of gold and possibility. She's quiet, processing, and I let her.

The radio plays softly—some morning show host talking about normal things like traffic and weather, oblivious to the fundamental shift in my universe.

"Last night—" she starts as I pull into the driveway.

"Happened. Will happen again if you'll let it."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of us." I catch her hand before she can leave. "Twelve days, Revna. We can make them count."

She leans across the console and kisses me, quick but intense. "We'll see."

Then she's gone, disappearing into Everly’s house while I sit in the car like a teenager after his first date.

Except I'm not a teenager, and this is far more than a date.

My phone rings—Mikhail, probably wondering why I haven't checked in yet.

I ignore it. For once, the empire can wait.

Twelve days left, and now I know what I've been missing by watching from a distance instead of touching.

Twelve days to convince her that choosing me isn't just about duty or arrangement.

Twelve days to prove that the boy who bought a horse and the man who'd burn the world for her are the same person.

And that maybe, just maybe, that's exactly who she needs.

I finally answer on the fifth ring. "What?"

"We have a problem," Mikhail says. "Njal's missing."

The warmth from the night evaporates instantly. "Since when?"

"His apartment's empty. Looks like he left in a hurry. Vadim found his cut on the bed."

A biker leaving his cut means he's either dead or running.

Either way, it's a problem.

"Find him," I order. "Quietly. And Mikhail? Double the security on Revna."

"Already done."

I hang up and look back at Everly’s house.

In twelve days, she'll be my wife.

If we make it that far.

Because Njal missing changes everything.

A desperate man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous kind.

And he just became my problem to solve.