Page 116 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Mine.

The word rises violent and certain. Not his claim on me—my claim on him.

"I've never begged before." The admission comes out barely above a whisper. "Never lost control like that. Never felt..."

"Safe?"

The word hangs between us like a revelation.

Safe. That's what last night was. Not just losing control but feeling safe enough to lose it.

"Mikhail trained that out of me when I was seventeen." I trace the bite mark on his neck, watching him shiver. "Said begging was weakness that would get me killed."

"He was wrong." The conviction in his voice makes me look up. His eyes burn with something fierce and protective. "Everything he taught you was wrong."

"Was he?" I look up at him, my hand still on his neck. "I'm completely exposed right now. No defenses, no walls. If you wanted to—"

"I want to make you breakfast." His hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his neck like he wants me to leavea mark. "Every morning. Want to learn more Russian words to mangle. Want to make you smile until you remember what happiness feels like."

The words hit harder than any physical blow. This man is offering something I don't have defenses against.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve it." His voice drops to that rough register that makes heat pool between my legs. "Because underneath all that training, there's a girl who danced in her mother's kitchen. And she deserves to feel safe enough to dance again."

I think about that girl. How she believed beauty could exist without violence.

"She died when she was sixteen."

"Did she?" He gestures at my feet, which have shifted back into first position. "Because I see her right here, remembering what love tastes like."

Love.

The word should terrify me. Should send me running. Instead, it settles into my chest like coming home. Like something violent and possessive and mine.

I kiss him. Not strategic, not calculated. Pure need to be closer to someone who sees me as more than weapon or asset. My body presses against his, cataloguing new bruises from last night, wanting to add more. My core clenches with memory and fresh want.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. I straddle his lap, body seeking contact that has nothing to do with strategy.

"Your mother," he says quietly, hands finding my hips over the same bruises he left. "She'd be proud of who you are."

"She'd be horrified."

"No." His conviction surprises me. "She'd be proud you survived. That you still remember her syrniki. That you can still say ??????? and mean it."

"Maybe." I roll my hips slightly, feeling him respond beneath me, my body already wet despite the soreness. "Or maybe she'd just be happy I found someone who makes me remember what love feels like."

The word love hangs between us, too big and too soon but somehow exactly right. My body hums with the need to mark him again, to leave evidence that he's mine in ways that won't fade as quickly as bruises.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The possessive loop in my head should terrify me. Instead, it feels like truth.

"???????," I say again, just to see him smile.

"Moya dorogaya," he mangles back, just to make me laugh.

And for the first time in thirteen years, I think maybe some broken things can be rebuilt. Not fixed, not erased, but rebuilt into something new. Something dangerous in completely different ways.