Chapter 8
Natasha
Iwoke to quietness. No pain ripping through my shoulder. No pounding in my skull. No panic clawing at my lungs. Instead, I was greeted by stillness. Warm sheets. Sunlight slipping across the bed. Snow falling from the sky.
I blinked up at the ceiling, stretching slowly. My body protested in a few places, which I expected, manageable—but nowhere near the agony from yesterday. Dr. Maren had been right. Rest really did help.
Dmitri wasn’t beside me. The space where he’d slept was cool. A strange pinch of disappointment tugged at me. I pushed it away and made myself stand, testing my legs. They held. My neck stiffened a little, but nothing alarming. Shower first, then I’d go find him.
I padded into the bathroom and stepped under the warm spray, letting the heat loosen my muscles. I took my time, taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t. I felt better. More myself. Clearer. When I stepped back into the bedroom, towel wrapped around my body, I stopped dead.
A bow. On the bed. And under it? Bags. Dozens of them. High-end boutiques. Designer labels. Some brands I recognized only because I’d window-shopped them online like a broke daydreamer.
“What the…” I murmured.
Curiosity shoved me toward the bed. I loosened the ribbon, opened the first bag—and my jaw dropped.
Clothes. Soft knits. Comfortable sets. Casual outfits.
A coat. Lounge pants. Pajama sets that looked like luxury had been stitched into every seam.
Matching bra and panty sets, tasteful and delicate.
Then more clothes—enough for a week, easily.
Another bag held shoes. Sneakers cushioned like clouds.
Black leather boots that made me stare. Indoor slippers, plush and absurdly soft.
He’d bought an entire wardrobe. Overnight.
My chest tightened—part indignation, part disbelief, part something warm and hard to name.
Since I doubted I’d be leaving the house today, I picked a soft charcoal lounge set and slipped into it, grateful my muscles didn’t scream while I moved. Then I slid into the slippers, which hugged my feet like they’d been waiting for me.
I left the bedroom and stepped into the hallway—only to stop again. Voices. Movement. Boxes. People bustling in and out of rooms I hadn’t even explored yet. Decorations spilling over tables. Wrapping paper. Wreaths. Lights. And when I walked farther into the sunlit front room, I found him.
Dmitri. Standing in dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up, tattoos on display, directing three men carrying in a massive Christmas tree like it weighed nothing.
The space was big and bright—floor-to-ceiling windows, empty of furniture, echoing floors.
But the tree? It swallowed the room in the best way.
“What’s going on?” I finally asked.
His head snapped toward me instantly. He did a slow sweep downward—from my hair to the clothes he bought me to the slippers—like he was checking each detail, making sure I was comfortable, warm, safe. Approval welcomed me further into the room.
Then he turned fully, hands on his hips. “Good. You’re up.”
“I am.” I gestured vaguely at the chaos. “And this is…?”
He nodded toward the workers. “They’ll be done in an hour or so.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
His gaze softened, “Your apartment was wrecked,” he said simply. “They ransacked the place.” His jaw flexed. “And when I saw the pictures of what you had on your walls—the decorations, the tree, the stockings—I realized it mattered to you.”
A pause. A breath. Could this be?
“And if you’re going to be here,” he continued, voice dropping to something low and sure, “you’re not going without the things that make you feel like yourself.”
Warmth rushed into my chest so fast it almost hurt.
“You... did all this? For me?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “If what I ordered isn’t enough, or not right, or missing something, you’ll tell me. We’ll get more. As much as you want.”
I blinked at the towering tree, then at the garlands waiting to be hung, the boxes labeled ornaments, the spools of ribbon, the snowflake lights.
“What if I don’t even know what I want?” I whispered.
He stepped closer, just close enough that his heat brushed mine.
“Then we figure it out. Together.”
Something in me melted—slow, sweet, terrifying.
But I didn’t step back.
I not supposed to be falling for him again.
God, I repeated it like a mantra, like a warning label, like a trap I was willingly stepping into for the second time. But how was I not supposed to fall when Dmitri paced the room like a silent storm, redirecting every single worker toward me?
“Ask her,” he kept telling them. “Whatever she wants.” And… “Don’t move that until she says so.”
It was ridiculous. And impossible not to feel seen.
Every time someone asked whether the garland should go higher or lower, whether the snowflake lights fit the window frame, whether I preferred warm white or cool white bulbs, Dmitri stood back with his arms crossed, eyes on me, watching as if I were the only thing in the room that mattered.
I tried not to look at him too long. Tried not to read into the softness carved around his eyes. Tried not to get used to the way he hovered close enough to reach me if I so much as wobbled on a step stool. But the truth pressed in, warm and terrifying.
He knows everything about me... even the things I don’t say.
I got lost in decorating—untangling ribbons, shaping ornaments, fluffing the branches of the enormous tree. My hands moved on instinct. My mind slipped into the comfort of nostalgia. And every time I turned, Dmitri was there.
Not smiling. Not speaking. Just watching.
Like he was relearning me. The workers eventually finished and carried out the empty boxes. The house smelled like pine and cinnamon. Somewhere down the hall, the chef was cooking—garlic, butter, herbs drifting through the air.
I was adjusting a silver ornament when the front door opened and Cori strolled in. More like stumbling. Cori looked rough. Unshaven. Eyes glassy. Shirt half-tucked. A twitchy grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Natashaaa,” he sang, moving toward me with arms wide. “Checking on you, kiddo.”
He tried to hug me, but I leaned back instinctively, and to his credit, he stopped short. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the decorations with a nod that was a little too energetic.
“Nice place. Cozy. Expensive as fuck. Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Before I could respond, the door opened again. Georgi stepped in—sharp-eyed, composed, dark hair pulled back, oversized winter coat, the weight of seriousness wrapped around her like armor. She nodded once to me. But her gaze immediately locked on Dmitri.
“We need to talk, Daddy.” she said.
He jerked his chin toward his office. “Now.”
They disappeared down the hallway, the door shutting with a soft thud that carried too much tension. That left me and Cori. He plopped himself onto the couch with a groan, rubbing his hands over his face.
“So…” he said, peeking at me through his fingers. “You good? I heard you had a shit night. Dimitri’s been stomping around like a rabid bear.”
“I’m okay.” I sat on the edge of a chair, keeping the Christmas tree between us like a safety barrier. “And you don’t look so great either.”
Cori snorted. “I’m terrific. Thriving. Absolutely phenomenal.”
The sarcasm was thick enough to chew.
He slouched deeper. “Look, I’m not here to bitch. I wanted to make sure you’re alright, y’know? The whole family’s on high alert about that stalker situation.”
My stomach tightened. “Georgi found something?”
“Is that her name?” Cori said, nodding toward the office. “She’s fine as fuck.”
I snickered. I wasn’t about to tell Georgi’s secret. But he was right, she was gorgeous. Dmitri’s explanation about her made me positive that there wasn’t something to worry about, but I still didn’t like that she called him Daddy. It rattled my nerves and made me want to claw her eyes out.
Easy, girl.
Right. Because it’s not like Dmitri was my man. But the things that we’d done, the way he was treating me, and catering to me had me questioning why it was supposed to be a bad idea in the first place. Maybe that’s why I was in my feelings about Georgi calling him ‘Daddy’.
The chef clattered a pan in the kitchen, filling the silence with sizzling and the smell of rosemary.
Cori glanced toward the office again, jaw flexing. “Dmitri’s gonna flip his shit if they found anything bad.”
I didn’t respond.
My mind was already spiraling—what did they find? Was I in danger? Were the last twenty-four hours just the beginning? What was taking them so long to come out of there?
Cori must’ve noticed, because he sat up straighter.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “You’re safe here. Dmitri won’t let anything happen to you.”
I hated how much comfort that gave me. I hated even more how much I needed it. Nothing should have mattered about Dmitri, but it did.
Cori rubbed his hands over his face again, the heels of his palms pressing into his eye sockets like he could force clarity into himself. He looked jittery. Over-caffeinated. But not only that.
He looked wrong. His knee bounced. His fingers twitched. His pupils were a little too blown for the lighting in the room.
I hesitated, weighing my words carefully.
“Cori?” I said softly.
His knee stopped bouncing. One eye cracked open.
“Yeah?”
“When are you getting help?”
He froze.
Not offended. Not surprised. Just caught.
I kept my voice gentle. “You know you’re not hiding anything from anyone, right?”
He huffed a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Shit. That obvious, huh?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “I’m not judging you. I care. And you look—”
“Like hell?” he offered.
“Worse.”
That earned a real laugh, short and quiet. He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
“It’s not all the time,” he said. “I can handle it.”
“You couldn’t hug me because you weren’t sure if you’d fall over,” I replied softly. “So, no, Cori. You can’t.”
His jaw worked. He looked somewhere past the Christmas tree, eyes distant.
“When are you getting help?” I repeated, firmer this time.
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Natasha…” His voice cracked in a way he clearly didn’t want it to. “I’ve got a lot going on. Look, I’m not ignoring it. I know I need to get clean again. I just—” He exhaled, shaky and ashamed. “I’m not ready.”
My chest tightened painfully. “Nobody’s ever ready. You just have to want better.”
Cori blinked hard, as if the words struck deeper than he expected.
“You sound like my mother,” he muttered, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“Maybe she was right.”
He snorted. “She usually is.”
We sat in quiet for a moment, the lights on the tree flickering softly between us.
“I’m not asking you to go to rehab today,” I said gently. “I’m asking you to decide when you will.”
Cori lowered his hands and finally met my eyes.
And for the first time since he walked in, he looked sober—not chemically, but emotionally.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I wanted,” I said, offering a small smile.
He gave me a crooked one back. “You’re too good for Dmitri, you know that?”
I shrugged. “Probably.”
Cori laughed again—and for a moment, he looked like my best friend before the drugs. The guy I used to know. The one he used to be. But his eyes flicked toward Dmitri’s office, sobering instantly.
“You should know,” he muttered, voice low, “you’re good for him, and I hate to say that he’s good for you, too.”
My stomach plunged. Before I could ask anything else, the office door clicked.
And Dmitri stepped out, shadowed and furious.