Page 29

“Didn’t say you could walk on it,” he mutters, like my pain offends him. Like my defiance is personal. “You should’ve rested. If you’d stayed, I would’ve told you that.” His voice is low, taut with restraint. “Should’ve kept off it. Elevated it.”

“It’s my ankle,” I murmur. “Not a bullet wound.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sinks down, slow and deliberate, until his mouth hovers over the bruised skin.

Then—

A kiss. Barely there. A flicker of heat over the ache. Reverent. Possessive. Like he’s marking it.

I freeze. “You’re crossing a line.”

He lifts his gaze. Cold fire. Shadowed hunger.

“No,” he says. “You’re not afraid enough.”

He taps pills into my palm—careful and exact.

“Take them,” he says.

I do what he says and don’t protest. I’m tired, and there’s no need to. It’s time for me to trust him, to know that he’ll take care of me.

I’m starting to get used to this.

There’s a quiet buzz from his phone. He checks it, then silences it immediately. I glance over. Alarm icon.

“What was that? ”

“Reminder to time your pain meds. I don’t want you to get behind on these.”

I blink. “You’re tracking when I take my meds?”

He shrugs. I look away, unexpectedly emotional, and swallow hard.

The meds kick in fast—heat blooming under my skin, safety masquerading as surrender. I feel the edges soften, the ache dim. Everything blurs at the corners.

But I don’t stop watching him.

Even as my body melts into the couch.

Even as my eyes begin to close.

Because his eyes haven’t left me once.

And whatever’s happening between us—it’s not mercy.

It’s a storm waiting to claim me.

I remember the weight of his arms around me, the way he lowered me into soft sheets like I’m something breakable. It’s all so comforting, so familiar.

When I wake up, I look around me quickly.

Did I sleep in the guest room?

No . There he is.

I’m in his bed. The pain meds have worn off, but my ankle feels better. I wriggle it a bit. Healing.

So I roll over and look at him.

He’s still asleep, his face unguarded. For once, I can just… look .

God, he’s beautiful. He looks so young like this. The lines between his brows are soft, his lips parted, full and just slightly pink like Luka’s. When he shifts the pillow in his sleep, his tattoos and muscles ripple under the blankets, and I love every inch of him.

I love him. I do. There’s no use in denying it anymore.

I think about what Zoya said, and I’m… proud of us. That we didn’t give in last night. Because looking at him now? God, I want to. Who wouldn’t?

And then I make a decision.

I reach for his phone. Text the nanny.

We won’t be needing you today.

Scratch that. I won’t. The swelling’s already gone down, and this?

This is where I want to be.

I stare at the phone.

The message is sent. The choice made.

I won’t be needing her today.

Because I need this. Him. The quiet. The illusion. This small, would-be family.

He shifts, muscles flexing beneath the sheet, a sound low in his throat. His lashes flutter, and then—those eyes. Storm clouds, waking.

And seeing me .

I expect the armor to slam back into place. It always does. But not this time. Not when he sees I’m still here. Still in his bed. Still watching him like he’s something I’ve earned.

“You stayed,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and something deeper.

I nod, suddenly shy. “Didn’t feel like going anywhere.”

A silence blooms, heavy with all the words we haven’t dared say.

Then—he reaches for me.

His palm finds my cheek, rough fingers tracing over my skin like he’s learning it. Like he needs to.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby.”

He pulls me closer, mouth brushing mine with reverence, not hunger. But I feel the tremble in his hand. The restraint. The war he’s still fighting.

“You don’t know what I am, Ruthie.”

I look him in the eyes, cup his rough jaw in my hand, and whisper, “Then show me. Stop hiding behind the mask.” I sigh. “I know what you are with me.”

And that ignites him.

He rolls me onto my back like I’m something fragile, something to be cradled and consumed all at once. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast—slow, worshipful, desperate .

“You don’t get to leave me,” he growls, forehead to mine. “You don’t get to light a fire and walk away.” He kisses my forehead. “Tell me to stop.” He breathes against my skin.

I press my knees around him instead, careful not to hurt the ankle.

“I won’t tell you to stop.”

The kiss that follows is molten—melting every defense, every fear, every wall he’s ever built. He slides inside me like it means something, like it’s the only thing that has ever meant anything. His forehead presses to mine, his hands caging my face like a vow.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers, voice cracking. He doesn’t speak what we’re both thinking: like her.

I dig my fingers into his back, anchoring myself to the truth of it.

“Then don’t let go.” His hips still every few strokes as if he’s trying to hold himself together.

And we fall.

God, we fall.

His rhythm is slow and deep, like he’s trying to memorize how I break. I meet every thrust with a gasp and moan, a plea.

We shatter together. And then the world stills, and our mingled breath slows. He stays.

When we’re tangled in each other afterward—sweat cooling, breath syncing—he doesn’t pull away. He holds me tighter .

“Stay,” he says into my hair, his voice barely a sound. “Just… stay.”

I nod against his chest, eyes burning.

“I want to.”

I mean it. God, I mean it.

But then the phone rings.

Not his.

Mine.

My mother’s contact flashes on the screen.

And I know.

I sit up, the sheets falling. My skin instantly pebbles at the loss of his heat as Vadka is instantly alert, already reaching for his pants.

I answer.

“Mom?”

But it’s not her voice that answers—it’s the nurse—shaky and urgent. But I can hear my mom screaming in the background.

“Ruthie, help me. I’ve been attacked.”

Attacked?

“I’m coming,” I say, already moving.

“No,” Vadka orders, stepping in front of me. “ We’re coming. But we’re not bringing Luka.”

His voice is different now. Sharp. Cold. Dangerous.

“Rafail,” he says, his call already connected. “You’re taking my boy. Ruthie and I?—”

“We’re going in,” I finish, pulling on yesterday’s clothes with trembling hands.

The warmth is gone now.

But the fire between us?

Still burns. And now it has something to protect.