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Alexandr angled his head down at her, one brow lifting in mild amusement. ‘ Claro .’

She smirked. ‘Why is your first name, Alexandr-Alexandr, a double?’

His mouth twitched, then he chuckled, a timbred, rough sound that warmed the space between them. ‘Tis an old story.’

She inclined her ear, inviting, waiting.

‘My parents were both stubborn as hell,’ he rasped. ‘Each wanted me christened after their father. The problem was that both my grandfathers were named Alexandr. Neither side would back down.’

Savvine blinked. ‘So, they just repeated it?’

He gave a slight shrug, lips quirking. ‘ Sí. They would not risk insulting either side. Not naming me after each abuelo might have sparked a family feud.’

She laughed. ‘Forget the drama of our mafia-families-in-space. That’s the wildest ode to bloodline allegiance I’ve ever heard.’

‘Right?’ he smirked. ‘Try being a kid and hearing it shouted twice every time I got into trouble. Sounded like a damn echo chamber.’

She was still grinning as their steps slowed near a pair of dwellings.

The cabin Xander led her to was nestled at the quiet bend of the lake, tucked under a canopy of moon-dappled trees.

Its sleek frame, dark steel softened by native wood, gleamed in the twilight like something grown rather than built.

Lantern-like lights glowed from within, casting soft gold across the grass as they stepped inside.

It was, unsurprisingly, beautiful.

It was minimal, with touches of well-appointed luxury.

The stone-tiled floors warmed beneath her bare feet as she entered, her gaze sweeping the space.

Xander remained at the entrance door, leaning against the jamb, hands crossed over his massive chest, as she wandered further in.

The living room included a generous divan, armchairs, and a fireplace that gave off notes of pine and wood smoke.

A small kitchenette sat to one side.

The single bedroom was spacious, the bed enormous, draped in shimmering silken cream sheets. A hand-stitched, heavy, woven throw rested at the end.

One wall held a touchscreen climate panel; another opened to a bathroom with a rainfall shower.

When her tour was done, she found him waiting in the same spot, framed by the door and the moonlit mystery pouring in from outside.

‘You’re safe here,’ Xander rasped. ‘No external transmissions, no feeds. This cabin is off-grid from general ship comms.’

He crossed the room to the built-in wall console near the kitchen alcove and moved beside her, pressing a small keypad.

He tapped it once, and it lit up, the holo screen blinking to life.

‘This is your secure intercom. It links only to my lodge next door, Miral, and the bridge team. If you need anything, ask for it; if you see it, use it.’

She nodded, eyes still roaming the space, soaking in the impossible comfort.

He gazed at her momentarily, then inclined his head. ‘Rest, mi cielo . You’ve earned it.’

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned.

He crossed the floor with that smooth, stalking grace, part man, predator, and wolf, and opened the door.

She thought she imagined flashes of a glowing charge whipping around him.

He paused, just once, glancing back over his shoulder.

The gaze was all heat, heavy-lidded and smoldering beneath the cool.

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him.

Fokk , that man could cast a spell.

How was she going to last without wanting to fling herself at him?

She needed a shower to cool her heated skin right down.

Grabbing her bag, she headed into the bedroom, stripped, and entered the bathroom.

She turned on the water and let the delicious steam envelop her, the rainfall effect cascading down her back like warm silk.

The heat eased her muscles, yes, but not the wildfire going off under her skin. Not the slow, electric pulse that still radiated from where Xander’s fingers grazed her hand, waist, and spine from earlier that day.

She took her time, letting the citrus-scented soap ease across her body, rinsing away the day, but not the memory of his voice.

Not the curve of his mouth when he said mi cielo like it meant something far more dangerous than endearment.

She toweled off, then stood in the bathroom’s center for a beat, staring at her reflection.

Flushed cheeks, pupils blown, hair still damp and curling at the ends.

She appeared like a woman haunted.

Or hunted.

In the cedar wood drawer beside the bed, she found a complimentary sleep set wrapped in a bow on which sat floral sachets.

Inside were black lace shorts and a soft, loose top that whispered over her skin.

She slipped into it, eschewing her cotton pajamas for the luxury of silk.

She ran a hand through her hair, brushed her teeth at the sink like muscle memory, then padded back to bed, pulling the sheet over her. The cabin was warm and quiet, the walls thick enough to muffle the din of faraway life on the ship, but not the lake.

The waves lapped outside. The night air pulsed with soft forest murmurs, leaves rustling, owls hooting in the trees.

Still, she couldn’t sleep.

She turned onto her side, then onto her back.

Uncomfortable, she tossed again to face the other wall.

Still, he lingered in her soul, in her every exhale.

Her body was wired, mind reeling, every part of her attuned to his echo.

No man had ever knocked her off-center like this.

Alexandr-Alexandr Levine Roman was an enigma wrapped in stillness, sensuality, and slow-burning heat.

She was spiraling, so finally, with a frustrated sigh, she tossed off the blanket, rolled out of bed, and crept toward the window on silent feet, not sure what she hoped to see.

She cracked the curtain, and her breath hitched.

There he was.

On the veranda of the cabin next to her own, silhouetted in amber light and lagoon mist.

He stood shirtless, bare-chested, wearing nothing but dark shorts.

Barefoot, smoking a cheroot, the smoke curling around him like a second skin.

He faced the lagoon, relaxed and completely still, like a carved sculpture pulled from the dreams of old-world gods.

The glow from the residence behind cast a gold over the angles of his jaw, the flex of his shoulders, the trail of shifting ink licking down his back.

He lifted a hand, brushing his amethyst-streaked hair from his face, and in that one ripple of movement, she perceived everything: the power, the patience, the predator at rest.

Then, as if feeling her gaze, he turned.

Their eyes locked across the dark. The breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding rushed from her lips.

She dropped the curtain, took a deep inhale, and fled to bed.