Florrie
The sheets smell like him.
Spiced wood and something darker, more masculine. Clean but lived-in. I lie in Leon's bed, wearing his t-shirt and my thong, staring at the ceiling and trying to process the fact that my life as I knew it ended approximately three hours ago.
Three hours.
That's all it took to go from a bad date to... this. Whatever this is.
The house is too quiet. I can hear my own breathing, the occasional creak of old wood settling, nothing else. Leon said he'd be downstairs, but I have no idea if he's actually sleeping or if he's doing... whatever men like him do at three in the morning.
Planning more illegal arms deals, probably. Or figuring out the logistics of trapping women into pregnancy.
The thought makes my stomach clench.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up higher even though the room is warm. My mind won't stop racing, replaying everything on an endless loop.
Brad's hands on me. The relief of escaping him for a few minutes. The wrong door.
The guns.
The moment Leon grabbed me, kissed me, claimed me in front of those men without hesitation.
She's my wife.
I think about his uncle, the Pakhan, and the way everyone in that living room deferred to him with a respect that bordered on fear. The way Leon stood straighter when addressing him. The mandate hanging over him like a sword.
One year. Marry and produce an heir.
And I'm the solution to Leon's problem.
The tears come without warning. Silent at first, just wetness tracking down my temples into my hair. Then harder, my breath hitching as everything I've been holding back, the fear, the anger, the overwhelming sense of being utterly powerless, breaks free all at once.
I press my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound. The last thing I need is for someone to hear me falling apart.
A soft knock at the door makes me freeze.
"Florrie."
Oh god. It's him.
I quickly wipe at my face, but my voice still comes out thick and unsteady. "I'm fine."
"You're crying."
How does he even know? Can he hear everything from downstairs?
"I said I'm fine."
There's a pause, then the door opens.
Leon steps inside, and I realize he probably wasn't sleeping either.
He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier, though he's lost the suit jacket and his collar button is undone revealing dark ink and a smattering of chest hair.
His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks tired, and oddly, almost human.
"I heard you," he says simply, closing the door behind him.
"Well, stop listening." I sit up, pulling the blanket with me like armor. "I don't need you to—"
"To what?" He moves closer, and in the dim light from the window, I can see his expression. It isn’t cold like earlier, it’s softer. "To check that you're okay?"
"I'm not okay." The words burst out before I can stop them. "How could I possibly be okay? Everything in my life just... ended. My apartment, my job, my freedom. All of it. Gone. Because I walked through the wrong door."
He's quiet for a moment, then sits on the edge of the bed. He isn’t touching me, but is close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I know," he says finally.
"Do you?" I swipe angrily at my tears. "Do you have any idea what this feels like? To have your entire future decided for you by someone else? To be trapped—"
"Yes."
The single word stops me cold.
He's looking at me with something so raw in his eyes that the words die on my tongue.
"You think I wanted this?" he asks quietly.
"The mandate? Being forced to marry and produce an heir on someone else's timeline?
I've spent eight years building my business, my reputation, my life exactly how I want it.
And then one dinner, one announcement from my uncle, and suddenly none of that matters. "
"That's not the same—"
"It's not," he agrees. "Your situation is worse. You didn't choose this world. I was born into it. But we're both trapped in it now."
I don't know what to say to that.
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I don't, his hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"I'm sorry," he says. "About all of it. About the lack of choices. About the fear. About taking your life and turning it upside down."
"Are you?" I look at him through tear-blurred eyes. "Sorry enough to let me go?"
His jaw tightens. "No."
At least he's honest.
"But I am sorry it had to happen this way," he continues. "If there was another option to keep you safe—"
"There isn't." I laugh, but it's brittle. "We both know there isn't. Valentin would kill me. And even if he didn't, I saw too much. I know too much. So my choices are to die or... this."
"Yes."
The word hangs between us, brutal and true.
Fresh tears spill over, and I hate myself for being this weak in front of him. For letting him see how completely shattered I am.
His hand moves from my shoulder to my back, slow circles that somehow ground me.
"I don't know how to do this," I whisper. "I don't know how to be what you need me to be. I was on a first date tonight for the first time in over a year…" I laugh, but it isn’t humor. “I have no idea how to even be a good girlfriend, never mind a wife and mother.”
"Then don't be any of those things." His voice is quiet but steady. "Not tonight. Tonight, just... exist. Tomorrow we'll figure out the rest."
Something about the way he says it, so matter-of-fact and certain, makes it easier to breathe.
I lean into him without meaning to. Just slightly, just enough that my shoulder presses against his chest.
He doesn't push. Doesn't take advantage. Just shifts to accommodate me, his arm coming around to hold me more securely.
And then I'm crying in earnest, face pressed against his shoulder, his hand moving in steady circles against my spine while I fall apart.
He doesn't tell me it will be okay. Doesn't offer empty platitudes or false promises.
He just holds me.
Eventually, the tears slow. My breathing evens out. I'm left feeling hollowed out but lighter.
"Better?" he asks.
I nod against his shoulder, then tilt my head back to look at him.
He's closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his grey eyes have gone darker in the low light. Close enough that when I breathe in, my senses are dazed with the scent of him.
Close enough that I do something incredibly stupid.
I lean up and kiss him.
It's barely a kiss at first. Just a brush of my lips against his, tentative and questioning. Testing to see if he'll push me away. If he'll take advantage. If he'll—
He makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly his hand is cupping my face, angling my head, and he's kissing me back.
Not like in the warehouse. That was desperation, performance, survival.
This is something else entirely.
His mouth moves over mine with a controlled intensity that makes my head spin. Firm but not forceful, demanding without being cruel. Like he's been thinking about this for hours and finally has permission to take a taste.
I open for him on instinct, and his tongue slides against mine, hot and claiming. The hand on my face tightens slightly, thumb stroking along my cheekbone while his other arm bands around my waist, pulling me closer.
I'm in his lap before I fully register moving. My hands fist in his shirt, holding on because my head is swimming and my heart is racing and nothing about this makes sense but I don't want it to stop.
He kisses me like he's staking a claim. Like I'm already his and he's just reminding me of the fact.
I kiss him back with everything I have.
When he finally pulls away, we're both breathing hard.
"Florrie." My name sounds different from him now. Rougher. Wanting.
"I don't know why I did that," I whisper, which is a lie.
I know exactly why. Because for one moment, I wanted to feel something other than fear.
Because he was there, solid and warm and safe in a world that's suddenly dangerous.
Because some broken part of me wanted to take back even an ounce of control.
"Don't apologize." His thumb traces my lower lip, and I shiver. "Don't ever apologize for kissing me."
"I wasn't going to."
His mouth curves slightly. "Good."
We stare at each other, the air between us dangerously charged. The thought enters my head that I should move from his lap, ask him to leave. Get back into bed and go to sleep.
But I don't want to.
"Stay," I hear myself say. "Just for tonight. Just..." I don't finish, but I don't need to.
Understanding flashes across his face, followed by something that looks almost like relief.
"Okay," he says quietly.
He shifts us both, settling back against the headboard with me still in his lap, still pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around me, warm and safe. His heart beats against my cheek as I fall asleep.