Page 51 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

My fingers found her hair, threading through the silky strands that smelled like her shampoo and smoke and fear. I combed through it gently, slowly, letting the repetitive motion soothe us both. Her breathing began to even out, the desperate sobs giving way to quiet hiccups and then to something that resembled calm.

“I thought I was going to die,” she whispered against my chest, her voice so quiet I almost missed it.

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have. If you hadn’t come….”

“I did come. I will always come.”

My fingers continued their path through her hair, down to her neck, back up to her scalp. Over and over, a meditation on the miracle of her continued existence. I felt her body soften against mine, the tension melting away degree by degree as the shock began to fade.

“The men who attacked you,” I said carefully, “they weren’t random. This was targeted. Professional.”

“I know.”

“Someone wanted to send a message. To me.”

“What kind of message?”

“That they can reach you. That my protection isn’t enough.” The words tasted like poison on my tongue. “That loving you makes me weak.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me with those hazel eyes that saw too much. “And do you believe that? That loving me makes you weak?”

I studied her face, taking in the cut on her cheekbone where glass had kissed her skin, the bruise forming on her jaw where she’d hit the car door. She looked fragile and fierce at the same time, breakable and utterly unbreakable.

“I used to,” I admitted. “I thought attachment was a liability, that caring about someone gave your enemies leverage.”

“And now?”

“Now I think anyone who mistakes love for weakness has never seen what a man will do to protect what’s his.”

Something shifted in her expression, a recognition of the truth in my words. She’d seen it today, had watched me kill without hesitation or mercy to keep her safe. There was nothing weak about that kind of devotion. Nothing soft about the violence it could inspire.

“You’re mine,” she said, echoing the words she’d spoken in that blood-soaked alley. “And I’m yours.”

“Yes.”

“Then we face this together. Whatever comes next.”

“Eleanor….”

“No arguments. I’m not going to hide in this house while you fight a war for me. I’m not going to be the fragile wife who needs protecting from reality.”

“You almost died today.”

“But I didn’t. And you know why? Because you taught me something without even realizing it.”

“What’s that?”

“How to be ruthless when it matters.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she’d shifted in my arms, pressing her lips to mine in a kiss that tasted like salt tears and iron determination. It wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was claiming, possessive, the kind of kiss that left no doubt about who we were to each other.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

“I love you,” she whispered against my mouth, and the words hit me like bullets to the chest. “I love the man who reads me bedtime stories through security cameras. I love the killer who paints streets red to keep me safe. I love all of you, Maxim, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The declaration hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying in its completeness. I’d spent so many years believing I was unlovable, that the violence in my soul had burned away anything worth keeping. But here was Eleanor, looking at me like I was something precious instead of something poisonous.