Page 93 of Scarlet Thorns

Professional, he’d said.

Just business.

Bullshit.

Nothing about the way our bodies responded to each other could ever be classified as professional. The man makes me wet just by being in the same room as me. How the hell would we manage months of pregnancy-related doctor’s appointmentsand discussions about hormone cycles without combusting from sexual tension?

I kick off the Egyptian cotton sheets and pad barefoot to the windows. Budapest glitters below like scattered diamonds, all those lives going about their normal business while I lie here contemplating surrogacy arrangements with Russian criminals.

AllegedRussian criminals, I correct myself, though the weapons cache pretty much settled that question.

The house around me feels alive with secrets, humming with energy I can’t identify. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that Osip is sleeping somewhere in this house, all that unchecked sex appeal finally at rest. The thought of him unconscious and vulnerable does something twisted to my insides— makes me want to see him with his guard down, discover what he looks like when he’s not performing the role of a restrained businessman.

Fresh air.

That’s what I need.

Something to clear my head and wash away the scent of expensive cologne and dangerous possibilities that seems to cling to everything in this place.

I slip into leggings and an oversized sweater, moving quietly through hallways lined with artwork that probably belongs in museums. Every surface gleams with the kind of wealth that insulates people from consequences, the kind of money that makes problems disappear.

As I pass Osip’s bedroom door, sounds from within make me freeze.

“Galina… save her… our child! No!”

The words tear through the silence, raw with pain that makes my chest tighten in sympathy. I pause with my hand on the banister, torn between the urge to help and the knowledge that I’m already in dangerous territory with this man.

Another anguished shout decides for me.

Nobody should suffer alone in their sleep.

The door stands slightly ajar— whether from carelessness or some subconscious need for connection, I can’t tell. Through the gap, I can see him thrashing against silky sheets, his powerful body contorting with the force of whatever demons are chasing him through his dreams.

“Galina,” he cries again, and things start to make sense with devastating clarity.

Galina.

The pregnant woman in the photograph.

Understanding crashes over me like an icy wave. This isn’t just about wanting a child— it’s about replacing one. Someone named Galina was pregnant with his baby, and something happened to them both. Something that still haunts his sleep months or maybe years later.

I don’t remember making the decision to enter his room. One moment I’m hovering in the hallway, the next I’m standing beside his bed. The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminates the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the tension that persists even in sleep.

“Sshh,” I whisper, my hand settling on his shoulder before I can second-guess the impulse. “It’s okay. You’re just having a nightmare.”

His skin burns beneath my palm, fever-hot and slick with sweat. The contact seems to reach him through whatever hell he’s experiencing— his body relaxes slightly, the violent thrashing subsiding into restless shifting.

For a moment, his eyes flutter open. Silver-gray in the darkness, unfocused but achingly vulnerable. He looks directly at me without really seeing me, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. Then his lids drift closed again, and I realize he’s not truly conscious.

But his body knows I’m here.

Responds to my presence in ways that make my breath catch.

He tosses again, kicking off the sheet with an impatient movement that leaves him completely exposed.

Holy shit!

The moonlight turns his skin to marble and shadow, highlighting every sculpted muscle and intricate tattoo. He’s beautiful naked— all that power on full display, dangerous even in vulnerability. My gaze travels over his impossibly broad chest, down the defined ridges of his abs, to—