The door shut.
Only then did I draw a breath.
It barely made it all the way into my lungs before a knock sounded—soft, controlled, almost polite.
My spine went rigid.
Better not be Seraphina.
“Who is it?” I called, keeping my voice steady.
“I trust you’re still fully dressed.”
Of course.
Dmitri.
I closed my eyes for half a second, then crossed the room and opened the door.
He slipped inside quickly, closing it behind him without a sound, like a man used to moving unseen.
The air shifted the second he entered—heavier, warmer, charged in a way I hadn’t let myself acknowledge all night.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“No one can know I came,” he said immediately.
Before I could step back, his hands came to my arms.
Not rough. Not claiming. Just firm enough to anchor. Then he pulled me into him.
Hard.
I stiffened for half a heartbeat—pure reflex, muscle memory screaming danger.
Then my body betrayed me.
My arms came up on their own, sliding around his waist. My face pressed into his chest, breath knocking out of me as if I’d been holding it for years.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my cheek—fast, uneven.
His arms tightened, not possessive but desperate, like he was afraid I’d evaporate if he loosened his grip.
I hated how much I’d missed this.
The warmth.
The solidity.
The way he smelled—leather, cedar, smoke, something unmistakably him.
He bent his head and pressed his lips to my cheek. Not rushed. Not demanding. Almost reverent. The kind of kiss that carried restraint instead of hunger—and somehow felt more dangerous for it.
When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered at my sides, reluctant.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, control hanging by a thread.
He moved to the bed and sat on the edge, posture deceptively relaxed, then patted his thigh.