Page 52 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“You shouldn’t,” I said, the words torn from some deep place I’d tried to keep locked away.

“Too late. Already done.”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, then again, insistent and demanding. The war was calling, wanting updates and strategies and blood. But I ignored it, focused instead on thewoman in my arms who’d just handed me her heart like it was something I deserved.

Eleanor’s eyes had grown heavy, exhaustion finally catching up with the adrenaline crash. Her fingers were still curled in my shirt, holding onto me like I was her anchor in a storm she couldn’t quite escape.

“Sleep,” I murmured, settling us both more comfortably against the pillows.

“Will you stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded, trusting me in a way that made my chest tight. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, her body finally surrendering to the peace she’d earned.

I lay there in the gathering dusk, Eleanor’s weight warm against my chest, and tried to process everything that had changed in the span of a single afternoon. Someone had tried to kill my wife. Had come close enough to succeeding that I could still taste the terror on my tongue.

But they’d failed. And in failing, they’d shown me something I’d been too scared to acknowledge: that Eleanor wasn’t just surviving in my world. She was transforming it. Making it something worth fighting for instead of just something to escape from.

The blood on my knuckles had dried to a rusty brown, a reminder of the violence that had marked this day. But beneath it, I could still feel Eleanor’s touch. The killer and the man, both claimed by a woman who’d looked into the abyss and decided to make it home.

My phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. Lev or Rafael or Cassandra, wanting updates on the attack, demanding strategy sessions and retaliation plans. The machinery of war grinding on, hungry for direction and blood.

Let them wait. Let the war simmer for another hour while I held my wife and counted her heartbeats against my chest. Let the enemies circle and the allies demand answers while I memorized the feel of her in my arms, alive and whole and mine.

Tomorrow, there would be consequences. Tomorrow, I’d hunt down every motherfucker who’d put Eleanor in danger and teach them what happened when you threatened a Bratva wife. Tomorrow, the streets would run red with retribution.

But tonight, there was only this: Eleanor’s soft breathing, her fingers twisted in my shirt, her trust offered freely despite everything she’d seen and suffered.

Tonight, there was only love wrapped in violence, tenderness born from brutality, and the impossible miracle of finding something worth protecting in a world built on destruction.

I rested my chin on top of her head and closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair and letting myself have this moment of peace before the storm broke over us again.

The war could wait. Let her sleep.

Let me pretend, for just a little while longer, that love might actually be enough to keep her safe.

Chapter 15 – Eleanor

I woke slowly, consciousness filtering through the haze of exhaustion like sunlight through storm clouds. The first thing I registered was warmth. Solid, steady warmth beneath my cheek and the rise and fall of breathing that wasn’t my own.

Maxim.

My head was pillowed on his bare chest, his arms wrapped around me with a gentleness that contradicted everything the world thought they knew about him. Not tight, not possessive, just there. Present in a way he’d been avoiding for weeks.

But even in sleep, even holding me like I was something precious, I could feel it. The distance. The careful space he maintained, even when there was no physical space between us.

The ache in my chest returned, sharp and familiar. Not from fear this time, not from the memory of bullets and blood and Viktor’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing. This was different. This was the peculiar pain of loving someone who wouldn’t let himself be loved back.

I shifted slightly, propping myself up on my elbow to look at him. His eyes were already open, those storm-gray depths watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. How long had he been awake? How long had he been lying there, holding me while his mind built walls I couldn’t see but could feel in the careful way he breathed?

“You’re doing it again,” I said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Pulling away. Even when you’re right here, you’re somewhere else.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he was memorizing it. Finally, he ran a hand down hisface and exhaled, a sound heavy with things he didn’t know how to say.