I rush forward, hands trembling as I trace the cuts and bruises along his face, feel the tension in his shoulders, the heat of him even through sweat and blood. He lets me fuss over him—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Something inside me trembles at the trust, the raw vulnerability he allows in my presence.
When I start to pull back, he catches my wrist with a grip that’s both gentle and absolute. He presses my palm to the center of his chest.
“Feel that?” His voice is low, rough, dangerous even in exhaustion.
I nod, closing my eyes, letting the thrum of his heartbeat sink into me. Fast. Strong. Steady. Alive.
“It’s yours. My heart beats for you,moya dusha.”
I lean into him, pressing my forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of him—smoke, sweat, and something only Konstantin carries. For a moment, the blood, the chaos, the war, all the danger fade, leaving only this: him. Alive. Mine. And in this fragile, stolen peace, I let myself finally breathe.
Someone clears their throat behind us, and we turn to see Nik. “The brothers are waiting in the study,” he says.
I feel a frisson of irritation rise. “Konstantin just arrived,” I tell him. “He’ll want to shower first.”
Nik’s eyes widen. He glances at Konstantin, who smirks. “You heard my wife,” he says, voice low, amused. “I’ll be there in a few moments.”
I tug Konstantin gently toward our room, refusing to let the moment slip.
He laughs behind me, deep and warm. “You look hot.”
I snap, breathless and half-exasperated, half-shy, “Shut up. I was afraid.”
He hums something under his breath, playful and dangerous, brushing his lips against the back of my neck as we cross the threshold. The chaos of the night fades behind the closed door, leaving only the quiet, heated pulse of us.
He leans in for a kiss, and for a fleeting moment, I let him—letting the tension of the night melt into his warmth. Then I pull back, a teasing reprimand in my voice. “Your brothers are waiting.”
He groans softly, but I’m firm. “Now, shower. Quickly.”
I shed his clothes, tossing them aside, and set about laying out fresh ones for him while taking out the first-aid kit.
Moments later, he emerges, naked and grinning like a boy who’s just gotten away with something. I roll my eyes and fling him his clothes. He catches them laughing, pulls them on with ease, and then collapses onto the bed beside me, still grinning.
I stand in front of him, carefully cleaning his bruises, hands moving over the evidence of his battle. “Tell me,” I say softly, “what happened?”
He exhales, a long, rough sound, then begins—every kill, every move, every sharp turn of the chase. His words are precise, controlled, but every so often, the raw fury of the night bleeds through. I listen, attentive, letting each detail etch itself into my mind. The man who returns to me is the same Konstantin who protects, who hunts, who kills—and yet, here he is, under my hands, letting me care for him.
I reach the worst bruises, the cuts from the concrete, and he flinches slightly, lips parting. I press a kiss to the top of hishand, grounding him. “You’re here,” I murmur. “Alive. That’s what matters.”
He studies me for a moment, jaw tense, eyes dark with memory and adrenaline. Then, softly, almost like a confession, “I would’ve done it all again for you. Every second.”
My throat burns. I tighten my grip on the cloth in my hand. “I’ll never let you do it again.”
He laughs, low and rough. “Killjoy.”
When I finish tending to the last bruise, he rises from the bed, already shifting back into the man the world fears. “I should go. They’re waiting.”
I frown immediately. “I’m coming with you. I’m not leaving you alone.”
I brace myself for the refusal. For the command. For the wall.
Instead, he turns back to me, one brow lifting, something warm and amused cutting through the steel. “I like the clingy version of you more,” he says. “You should be this way all the time.”
I laugh despite myself and hook my arm through his, holding on as if I mean it—because I do.
He glances down at me, satisfied, possessive, alive.
Together, we head for his study.