Chapter 30 Nadya
NADYA
The apartment is warmer than I've felt in days, heat flooding through vents that chase away the chill clinging to my skin.
Xander guides me through the doorway with gentle hands, his touch careful as if I might shatter under too much pressure.
I'm not a fragile thing, but the past almost seventy two hours have worn me paper thin.
"Bath first," he says, leading me toward the bathroom.
"You need to warm up."
I don't argue.
Three days in the Sokolovs' custody left me filthy and exhausted, my body aching from restraints and abuse.
The promise of hot water sounds closer to heaven than anything I've experienced in months.
So I let him guide me again like he's herding a sheep or a small child, and I make no protest as he pulls out a towel and wash rag while I stare at my gaunt expression in the mirror.
I'm shocked by what I see, but I shouldn't be.
What I endured would be traumatic for anyone.
Xander starts the water, testing the temperature with his hand before adding bath salts.
When he straightens and turns to me I catch his expression in his reflection and feel sad that I've put him through so much.
"Can you undress yourself?" he asks, his pale eyes searching my face for signs of injury he might have missed.
"I think so."
My fingers shake as I work the buttons on my shirt.
Xander's jaw tightens as he watches me peel back layers of fabric that show more bruising, rage flickering behind his expression before he masters it.
"They're dead," he reminds me as he gently kisses the back of my shoulder.
"Every man who touched you is feeding worms now."
I don't like that it comforts me when he says it, but it does.
Justice has been served in the only language he understands—blood for blood, death for suffering.
His punishment came as swiftly as the crime was committed and I'm back with him now.
I step into the bath, water embracing me with heat that makes my muscles unclench for the first time in days.
Steam rises around me with a thick herbal scent from the bath salts and Xander offers his hand for me to steady myself as I lower down into the water and wince as it stings in a few cuts I have on my knees from sliding around that van.
He kneels beside the tub, producing a wash rag and soap.
"Let me," he says and all I can do is yield to him.
I don’t have the strength to fight him, nor do I want to.
I've never seen him so empathetic.
He begins washing me with movements so gentle they bring tears to my eyes.
His hands, capable of such terrible violence, now clean dirt and blood from my skin like he's worshipping me and I break.
My whole body is wracked with sobs and I shake until he wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheeks over and over.
I intended to put my foot down, to tell him it was over.
I was going to hide from him, tell the police, do whatever it takes to make him understand that I am not his possession and that I have to honor my sister's wishes about better choices.
But now I'm not sure what to do.
I can't just walk away from him.
I love him.
And he loves me.
And we're going to have a baby together.
He hasn’t even brought it up but I know when he does, I'll never be able to walk away.
"I thought you wouldn't come," I whisper.
"When they took me, I thought maybe you'd decide I wasn't worth the risk."
His hands still, cupping both of my cheeks, letting the wash rag drop to the water.
"How could you think that?"
"Because the Pakhan told you to let me go. Because I'm just a cleaner and nothing more."
Xander presses a kiss to my forehead then sits back, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"If you had died in that bakery, I don't know what I would've done. Burned the entire city, probably. Killed everyone who played any part in taking you from me."
"Xander—"
"I love you, Ptichka. More than I love my own life. Markov can order me to abandon you, but I'll disobey every time."
His words are so forceful I can't think straight.
He means every single syllable and it only makes the tears come faster.
"I love you too," I manage between gasping breaths.
"I love you and I'm so sorry for trying to walk away."
"Shh. You're safe now. That's all that concerns me."
He finishes washing me, then helps me from the tub and wraps me in towels so soft it feels like it was woven from angels' feathers.
My legs barely support my weight as he guides me toward the bedroom where he lays me down gently, then strips off his tactical vest and bloodstained clothing.
When he joins me on the bed, skin against skin under the comforter, the world narrows to just us.
His finger tips touch every bruise and scrape left by my captors and I see the rage in his eyes as he comes to understand how much this whole thing affected me.
When he lifts his eyes to meet mine I swear I see tears there.
"I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever hurts you again," he murmurs against my throat.
"You can't promise that," I tell him, trying to protest, but he takes my chin in his hand and forces my eyes to meet his.
"Watch me," he says before kissing me tenderly.
His lips linger against mine, and I cling to him with what little strength I have left.
The kiss is tender, not claiming.
It’s a vow, whispered in the way his mouth moves against mine, in the way his hand steadies my face so carefully.
I let myself sink into it because I don’t have to be strong here.
“You’re mine,” he grumbles against my skin.
“No one will ever take you from me again.”
He moves his hand down my side, over the towel still clinging to me, skimming bruises without pressing.
When his palm cups my breast through the terrycloth, a soft sound escapes my throat.
He peels the towel away, baring me inch by inch as though unwrapping something precious.
“Every mark they left, I’ll erase,” he murmurs.
“With my hands. With my mouth.”
His head lowers and his lips follow the path his fingers traced, kissing each bruise, each scrape, until heat blooms where pain used to live.
The restraint in him is palpable—shoulders tight, jaw set—but he’s holding it back for me, not because he doubts but because he’s determined not to hurt me.
His hair is thick under my fingers, coarse against my skin.
He pauses there, exhaling hot breath against my stomach, and for a heartbeat I think he’s going to stop.
Instead he turns his head, pressing another kiss just below my navel, then another, lower still.
The sound that leaves me is more whimper than word.
My thighs shift, opening without thought, and his hands slide down to hold them, not hard but firm enough to steady me.
His palms are warm, the calluses rough against my softer skin, and in his hands, I feel wanted.
He glances up at me from between my legs.
His pale eyes, darker now, catch mine and hold me there.
“This is mine to heal,” he murmurs.
“Mine to worship.”
Then his mouth is on me.
The first stroke of his tongue rips a gasp from my chest, my hips jerking before I can stop them.
He keeps me anchored with one hand on my hip, the other stroking my thigh, and works me with a slow, devastating patience. He’s not taking—he’s giving—each motion coaxing life back into my body.
I fist the sheets, then his hair, trembling as heat builds under his tongue.
My breath turns ragged.
He murmurs something in Russian that sounds like a promise, the vibration of his voice making me moan, “Xander…” It comes out broken, desperate.
He answers by pressing his mouth harder against me, tongue circling, sucking lightly until my back arches.
Pain lingers in my muscles, but the rush of pleasure makes it worth every ache.
My body fights between exhaustion and need, but he doesn’t relent.
He gives me no choice but to feel, to shudder, to break.
The climax builds until I can’t hold it back, breaking over me in waves that keep cresting again and again.
My thighs clamp around his shoulders, shaking uncontrollably as he drags more and more cries from me.
I sob his name, gasping through the peaks, each contraction wringing me tighter until I am trembling everywhere.
And he doesn’t stop.
His tongue and mouth relentlessly force me to ride out every surge of pleasure until the edges blur and all I can do is cling to him.
He holds me there through the shudders, licking, soothing, coaxing more release until I melt into the bed, spent and breathless, the room filled only with the harsh sound of my breathing and his low growl against my skin.
When he finally rises, his mouth slick, his eyes blazing, he crawls up my body and kisses me deeply.
I taste myself on his lips and don’t care.
All I care about is the heat of him, the steadiness of his hands, the way he’s looking at me like I’m still whole.
He shifts higher on the bed, bracing his weight so he doesn’t press too hard against me.
His mouth finds mine again, while his hand moves between my thighs.
The blunt slide of his cock against me makes me gasp, my body already slick and ready from his mouth.
He pushes forward, entering me with steady control, stretching me until my nails dig into his shoulders.
I bite back a cry, but he kisses me harder, swallowing the sound.
The sting fades into a deep, pulsing ache, and when he drives the rest of the way in, I shudder around him.
“Nothing will take you from me,” he mutters against my cheek.
His hips roll again, pulling another gasp from my throat.
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
Each thrust grinds deep, rubbing against the ache in my muscles until it blurs into something sharper, something I need more of.
My breathing turns ragged, every movement drawing me higher.
“Xander…” My voice breaks on his name as I clutch him tighter.
He catches my face in his hand, forcing my eyes to his.
“Stay with me. Feel me.”
I nod, unable to answer as the rhythm builds.
My body clamps down around him, the pressure tightening until I come apart again, gasping through the release.
My body writhes, and he pins me down, holding me through it, his own thrusts growing rougher, his jaw clenched as he fights for control.
But it doesn’t last.
A guttural sound tears from his chest as he buries himself deep and spills inside me.
The rush of warmth makes me cry out, my body clenching around the flood of him, holding him tight until he collapses against me, both of us shaking.
Xander pulls out slowly, letting his seed drain from my body, and his arm circles my waist, his hand sliding down to rest over my stomach.
His breathing is ragged from exertion, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks.
“You’re pregnant?"
Tears sting my eyes as I cover his hand with mine.
“Yes.”
I knew that when Sokolov told him, it would be a shock to him.
I was terrified that perhaps he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
He's got a whole life and probably no time to worry about a baby.
If his enemies went to all those lengths to use me against him, what would they do with a child?
"Are you angry?"
"Angry?"
He shifts so he can look at me directly, his pale eyes bright as a half smile crests on his lips.
"Why would I be angry about the woman I love carrying my child?"
"Because it complicates everything. Because a baby makes me even more of a liability—"
"Stop."
He silences me with a kiss.
"You're not a liability. You're my future. Both of you are."
The certainty in his voice eases some of the fear that has been eating at me since I saw those two pink lines, and his hand rubs a small circle on my belly where within a few months our child will announce his or her presence.
"But Irina," I protest.
"She threatened to keep Anya and Mikhail away from me if I didn't quit what I'm doing for you… And now with a baby coming—"
"I'll talk to her," Xander says.
"Okay? I won't let your family fall apart."
"You'd do that?"
"I'd do anything to keep you in my life, little bird. Anything at all."
Relief floods through me, so powerful it brings fresh tears.
"Thank you."
"The Sokolov threat is finished," he continues, his thumb strumming over my navel.
"Every enemy who knew about you is dead. You're safe now, truly safe. We can build whatever life you want."
"What if I want a normal life? A family, a home where children can grow up without fear?"
"Then that's what we'll have."
His conviction leaves no room for doubt.
"The war is over, Nadya. I can step back from active operations, focus on the business side of the organization. We'll find a house outside the city, somewhere with a garden and space for children to play."
The future he describes sounds impossible, a fantasy that men who kill for a living don't get to claim. But looking into his eyes, I see determination.
"I want to believe you," I whisper.
"Then believe me. I'm not letting you go, Ptichka. Not now, not ever. You and our baby are mine to protect, and I've never failed at anything I've committed to."
Maybe miracles do happen.
Maybe even monsters can find redemption through the women who love them despite their sins.
Maybe we'll survive this after all.