WHEN MY EYES FLUTTEREDopen again, I was still in his arms.
Naked, cocooned against his chest beneath the covers, his body curved protectively around mine like a shield.
His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath my cheek, grounding me. One arm lay draped across my waist; the other cradled the back of my head, fingers threaded gently through my hair as if he’d never moved.
I shifted slightly, testing reality.
His hand lifted immediately, giving me room without fully letting go.
“Did you sleep?” I asked softly. My voice was raw, scraped thin by tears.
“How could I?” he murmured. “When every man who laid a hand on you... still draws breath.”
The quiet fury in his tone sent a shiver through me.
I pushed myself upright slowly. He let me, though his hand lingered on my hip, reluctant, protective.
The room was dim, washed in faint silver moonlight slipping through the curtains. Shadows carved his features sharp.
His eyes were red-rimmed. Exhausted.
Furious.
I reached up before I could think better of it and brushed my thumb across the damp track on his cheek.
“You cried,” I whispered.
He didn’t deny it.
“So did you,” he replied, just as quietly.
I looked down at the ring on my finger—the one he’d slid there on the airstrip, cold metal warmed now by my skin.
The diamond caught the moonlight and fractured it into sharp white sparks that danced across the ceiling. It felt heavier than it should have. Like a promise. Like a threat.
“What happens now?” I asked quietly.
Dmitri shifted beside me and sat up, the mattress dipping with his weight. He reached for me without hesitation, drawing me closer until our knees touched, until our foreheads rested together. His breath brushed my lips, steady and warm.
“We pretend,” he said. His voice was calm, deliberate—the voice of a man making a plan, not a plea. “During the day. In front of Seraphina. In front of the staff. In front of anyone watching.” His thumb traced a slow arc over the back of my hand. “They think I’m broken. Weak. Confused. You’re the rescued girl who doesn’t know her place yet.”
“And at night?” I whispered.
“At night,” he said, softer now, “we rebuild.”
My chest tightened.
“You tell me everything,” he continued. “Every memory. Every lie they fed me. Every truth I lost. I listen. I don’t interrupt. I don’t defend myself. I learn.” His forehead pressed more firmly to mine. “And when the time comes—when I’m whole again—we take back what’s ours.”
I swallowed hard. The weight of it all—hope, fear, exhaustion—pressed down until my ribs ached.
“And the girls?” I asked. “Bianca?”
His expression hardened instantly, like steel snapping into place.
“Already in motion,” he said. “I sent men out before we even reached the house. Quiet ones. No Volkov insignia. They’re tracking the five who escaped—border crossings, emergency rooms, underground shelters, churches, anywhere women like you would run.” His jaw tightened. “As for Bianca...”
He paused, just long enough for my heart to stutter.