Page 168 of Sweet Deception

Hours later, the doctor emerged. “She’s stable. The bullet missed anything vital. It’s a shoulder wound, clean through. She’ll recover with rest.”

Relief hit me like a tidal wave, but it didn’t erase the terror. I’d almost lost her. And for what? To keep her safe from my enemies, my family, my own damn restraint?

When they let me see her, she was awake, pale but smiling faintly. “You look awful,” she murmured.

I sank into the chair beside her bed, taking her hand. “You don’t get to scare me like that again.”

She squeezed my fingers. “Not planning to.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. I watched her breathe, every rise and fall of her chest a reminder of how close I’d come to an empty life. She was mine, not just by marriage, not just to protect, but because I couldn’t survive without her. I’d been a fool to think distance would keep her safe. It wouldn’t. Only I could.

Days later, we were back home. She was still weak, her arm in a sling, but alive. The garage was quiet as we stepped out of thecar, her leaning on me, my arm around her waist. She glanced up, teasing, “You’re hovering.”

“Get used to it,” I muttered.

She laughed softly, and that sound, God, it undid me. I stopped, turning her to face me. Her eyes widened at the intensity in mine. “Gleb?”

I didn’t answer with words. I pressed her against the car, gently, mindful of her injury, but firm enough to feel her gasp. My lips crashed into hers, desperate, hungry, pouring the last few hours of pent-up fear and longing into that kiss. She froze for a heartbeat, then melted, her good hand clutching my shirt.

I pulled back, breathing hard, my forehead against hers. “I almost lost you.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Not enough.” My hands slid to her hips, careful but possessive. “Anna, you are my anchor. No one else gets to take you from me.”

Her breath hitched, eyes searching mine. “Then don’t let them.”

That was it, the breaking point. I kissed her again, deeper, my fingers finding the hem of her shirt. She shivered as I lifted it, my lips trailing down her neck, her collarbone, avoiding her bandaged shoulder. I needed her, needed to feel her alive, warm, mine.

I lifted her onto the car hood, her legs parting instinctively. Her jeans were next, unzipped with shaking hands. She gasped, wide-eyed, but didn’t stop me. “Gleb...”

“Tell me to stop,” I rasped, giving her the out I knew I’d hate myself for offering.

She didn’t. She pulled me closer instead.

And that was all I needed.

***

The house was quiet, save for the faint clatter of pans in the kitchen. Anna was there. humming softly, a sound I’d never heard from her until these past few days. Since the bullet, since the hospital, something had shifted. She was still weak, her left arm in a sling, but she’d insisted on moving around today. Stubborn as hell.

I leaned against the doorway, watching her. She stood at the counter, chopping herbs with her good hand, awkward but determined. The smell hit me, borscht, my favorite, rich with beets and dill. She’d remembered. After months of cold distance, then nearly losing her, that small act twisted something deep in my chest.

Her hair fell loose, brushing the nape of her neck, and her shirt, too big, one of mine, slipped off her uninjured shoulder. She didn’t notice me yet, lost in her task. Vulnerable. Alive. Mine.

I crossed the room in three strides, my boots heavy on the tile. She startled, turning halfway, a smile flickering. “Gleb, I didn’t...”

“Quiet,” I said, voice low, rougher than I meant. I stopped behind her, close enough to feel her warmth. My hands hovered, then settled on her hips, firm but careful. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking.” Her breath hitched as my fingers tightened. “Your favorite.”

I leaned in, lips grazing her ear. “I’ll taste you first.”

She froze, the knife clattering to the counter. “Gleb...”

I didn’t wait for more. My hands slid up, one cupping her waist, the other brushing the bare skin where her shirt had slipped. She shivered, and that sound, soft, unguarded lit a fire in me. For the past few momths, I’d held back, hated her, feared her, protected her. Now I couldn’t stop.

I turned her, slow, mindful of her sling, until she faced me. Her eyes were wide, dark with something between nerves and want. I didn’t give her time to think. My mouth crashed into hers, hardand claiming, swallowing her gasp. She tasted like salt and heat, and when her good hand gripped my shirt, pulling me closer, I groaned.