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Yelena

The ride from the hospital back to the penthouse is silent, but the air is thick—charged with everything unspoken.

Aithan’s hand is wrapped tightly around mine, but his grip is too firm, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

The weight of everything—the blood, the bodies, the fact that I came so damn close to dying—it presses down on me, wrapping around my chest like a vice.

I should feel relief. I should feel… something.

Instead, I feel nothing. I feel empty.

Lazaro is dead.

His blood stains Aithan’s hands.

His body rots in that warehouse.

But the war didn’t just take him down.

It took pieces of me too.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool window of the car. The city lights blur past.

I should feel safe. But I don’t.

Aithan notices.

" Agápi mou , talk to me." His voice is low, raw. More emotion than he ever lets anyone hear.

I don’t answer.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because if I do, I might break.

As soon as we get back to the penthouse, I head straight to the shower as if I can scrub the memory of what had just happened away. After bathing, I sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to my chest. My arms wrap around myself, but I can’t stop shaking.

Blood. Thick, warm, and sticky still feels like it’s on me. I shudder at the memory of being under Lazaro’s feet with his gun pointed at me.

What if Aithan hadn’t busted in when he did? No doubt my skull would have been blown open.

Then there is the sound of the gunshot, the feel of Lazaro’s body hitting the ground — it’s all replaying in my head. Over and over.

I feel Aithan’s presence before opening my eyes. He is kneeling in front of me, his large hands covering mine. “Yelena.” His voice is low, rough.

I meet his gaze, my throat burning. “I almost died.”

“I know,” he says, his eyes dark with guilt. “And I almost lost you.”

“You didn’t.” My voice cracks. “But it could have been different.”

His hands tighten around mine. “I’m not going to let anyone touch you again.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can,” he says fiercely. “I’ve already proven it.”

I lean into him, my head resting against his chest as his arms wrap tightly around me. His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear. His lips brush the top of my head, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

Aithan

The drive back from the hospital is silent. The kind of silence that isn’t empty—but full. Heavy.

Yelena sits beside me in the car, her posture relaxed, but I can see through the calm she’s trying to project. She’s exhausted. The bruises along her wrists and neck are faint now, but they’re there—ugly reminders of Lazaro’s hands on her.

The doctor assured us that nothing is broken, that her wounds will heal. He didn’t say a damn thing about the ones I can’t see.

She almost died. Again.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I pull up to the penthouse.

I should have killed Lazaro slower.

The brutal execution of Lazaro and Basilis has already rippled through the underworld. Word spreads fast. The message is clear: I am not my father. I don’t give second chances. I don’t grant mercy. You betray me, and you die.

I feel Yelena’s eyes on me as I park the car, but I don’t look at her. Not yet.

When we step inside, the scent of her—something soft, something sweet—hits me first. The penthouse is the same, but I am different.

Colder. More ruthless.

I carry her into the bedroom, but she asks for a moment to herself. Everything inside me screams to stay with her, but the look on her face tells me it is best I let her have this moment. She obviously has never taken a life before and she will need time to process that. I know this was exactly how I felt the first time I took a life. It’s always easier knowing they deserved it, and in her case it was kill or be killed.

The penthouse is dark except for the dim glow of city lights spilling in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. I stand there, drink in hand, staring at the skyline like it holds answers I’ll never find.

Yelena is asleep in our bed—our bed. But the weight in my chest keeps me from joining her. We had both taken a long cleansing bath earlier, and I had talked her into going to bed without me. Her bruised body needed to rest.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the slow movement, the way it clings to the sides before settling again. A lot like me. I can go through the motions, pretend I’ve got it together, but the second I stop moving? The past drags me back.

I should feel victorious. Lazaro is dead. Basilis too. The council knows I’m not a man to cross.

But I don’t feel victorious. I feel empty.

Because none of it changes what I lost.

What we lost.

My jaw tightens, and I down the rest of the whiskey, but it does nothing to dull the ache inside me.

I don’t know how to sit with this kind of grief. I don’t know how to be the man Yelena needs. I’m too ruthless. Too damaged. Too much of a monster.

And she deserves better. So much better.

I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. The thought has been gnawing at me for days—should I let her go?

Would it be the right thing?

She deserves more than a man with so much blood on his hands. More than a husband who doesn’t know how to hold on to the people he loves.

I lost my first family.

I lost my child.

What if I lose her too?

Maybe I’m cursed. Hexed to lose anyone I love.

The bedroom door creaks open, and I turn to find her standing there, wrapped in a silk robe, her hair tousled from sleep.

“Come back to bed,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

She studies me, then slowly steps forward. “Talk to me, Aithan.”

I scoff. “Talk?” I set my glass down a little too hard. “I told you I don’t do that.”

She crosses her arms. “You will with me.”

I look away and exhale sharply. “You deserve more than this, Yelena. More than me.”

Silence. Then she steps right into my space, her hands pressing against my chest. “You don’t get to decide you’re not worthy of me.”

My throat tightens.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers. “Don’t push me away because you think you are too scarred for me. I love you because of those scars. You earned every one of them and should wear them with pride.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how to give you a real future, Yelena. I don’t know how to be—” I swallow hard. “How to be good.”

Her eyes search mine. “I never asked for good, Aithan. I asked for you.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

She grips the front of my shirt. “You are not sending me away. You are not deciding for me. I made my choice the day I married you.”

I shake my head. “I should have protected you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.” I let out a bitter laugh. “I let you lose my child. I let you get kidnapped.”

Her fingers tighten. “We lost our child.” Her voice cracks. “Not just you, Aithan. We.”

The pain in her eyes guts me.

“I don’t know how to grieve,” I admit, my voice raw. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Her arms wrap around me, holding me tight. “Then let’s grieve together. Let us fix this together.”

And just like that, the last of my restraint shatters.

I bury my face into the crook of her neck, my hands gripping her like she’s the only thing keeping me standing. Because she is.

I’ve never let myself break before. Not like this.

But Yelena doesn’t run. She doesn’t recoil from the shattered pieces of me.

She just holds me.

And for the first time, I let someone carry the weight with me.

We lost.

But we survived.

And maybe—just maybe—we’ll find a way to heal. Together.