Chapter 4
ALENA
I could breathe.
The cigarette, the beer, the night... Drogo. His hands rested on my hips, keeping me steady as I sat straddling him, face to face. The faint scent of smoke and him wrapping around me like a blanket I never wanted to take off. Without him, I'd be gone.
He leaned back against the chair, looking up at the stars, smoke curling up into the dark. I took a sip of beer, following his gaze to the sky.
The nightmare tonight had been a big one. Detailed. Long. Cruel. Tomorrow, I'd find the scratches down my back, but I wouldn't tell him that. They'd fade in a day or two, leaving no scars. If I didn't finish the story on time, they'd come back. Painfully so.
He'd see them tomorrow and break all over again. I couldn't let that happen.
That last part he knew—and it broke him.
The first time he saw the marks, he hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack.
And he cried. Drogo cried. Big, shaking sobs into my neck, saying What can I do?
over and over until I wanted to disappear.
That night, in that damp Berlin basement, I swore the less he knew, the better.
He smiled at me now. Damn, that man had done too much for me. It wasn't fair.
Kissing him would've been the natural thing—but he didn't want that. Or maybe I didn't want what came after. One wrong move between us, one misstep, and I could lose him. I wished I could kiss him casually, as a thank you, to show my love. But with him, love wasn't casual. It burned. It hurt.
Last week I was on the phone with Lucy, venting about exactly this. "He's never going to make a move," I told her, curled on my own couch with a glass of wine. "Seventeen years and nothing."
Lucy snorted. "The man has your name tattooed over his heart. He's in love with you."
"No. He's just... protective. Brotherly. His body reacts sometimes—big deal. Every guy's dick twitches when a woman sits on it. Doesn't mean he wants me."
"You've sat on it?" she asked, voice dropping low.
I groaned. "Not like that. Not properly. But close enough to know he gets hard. And then he pretends it didn't happen."
"That's not brotherly, Alena."
"It is to him. Trust me. If he wanted more, he'd have done something by now."
We both went quiet. Because we both knew I was lying to myself.
I shifted on his lap. Not just getting comfortable—a deliberate roll of my hips. Testing.
I want him. God, I want him. Let me see if he'll finally react.
I adjust again, feeling him beneath me. Hard. Thick. Right where I need him.
His hands shoot to my thighs—high, gripping hard enough to bruise. Stopping me.
"Alena."
The warning in his voice makes my pulse spike. Shit. Think fast.
I freeze, suddenly unsure. Then I force a smile, too bright. "That's normal for us, right?"
His eyes are dark, jaw tight.
"I know your dick," I continue, laughing like my heart isn't hammering. "I've shaved your balls several times, remember?"
His grip doesn't loosen.
"And you know my body," I push on, desperate now. "How many times have you slid your hands to my pussy when we sleep? How many times have you cupped my tits? Several. Oh, come on, Drogo, you're overreacting."
I grab his wrist before I can think better of it.
"See?"
I guide his hand between my thighs, press his palm against my clit through the lace.
His face goes deadly serious. Not angry. Not aroused. Something harder. Something I can't read.
"All good!" I say, voice too bright. I grab his other hand, slide it under the hoodie, press it against my breast. "See? It doesn't mean anything."
He stares at me. Studies me. His hands don't move—one cupping my breast, thumb brushing my nipple, the other pressed between my legs where I'm wet and aching for him.
I can't tell if he's pissed or if he's finally seeing me.
Then he moves.
Both hands slide to my ass—firm, commanding. He grips me hard, and before I can process what's happening, he guides me. Slow. Deliberate.
He drags my pussy along his dick.
The friction hits like lightning—lace against sweatpants, his cock thick and hard beneath me. I gasp, hands flying to his forearms. Muscled. Big. Thick. Veins prominent under my palms.
He does it again. Rocks my hips forward, grinding me against him with controlled precision.
My breath catches. My thighs tremble.
Then he stops.
Holds me still.
And smiles.
"No, it's not, Alena."
His voice is calm. Final.
He doesn't set me aside. Doesn't lift me off. Just keeps me there—straddling him, his hands still on my hips, my pulse hammering in my throat.
He picks up his beer like nothing happened. Takes a long drink.
My chest tightens. Fuck. I pushed too hard.
"Sorry," I mutter, reaching for my beer with shaking hands.
He doesn't answer. Just lights another cigarette, stares out at the city.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
I fucked up. I know I fucked up.
"Drogo—"
"Don't."
I bite my lip, turn away. My eyes sting.
Lucy's wrong. If he wanted me, that would've been his moment. Instead, he pulled away.
Brotherly. Safe. Exactly what I was afraid of.
After a moment, he sighs. His arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
I nod against his shoulder, not trusting my voice.
We stay like that, drinking in silence. The easy comfort from before is gone, replaced by something careful. Something breakable.
I took another drag, staring at the sky.
I wonder if he feels it too—the pull, the fear, the what-if that keeps us both silent. Or if I'm the only one burning.
My fingers found his chest without thinking—tracing the ink that lived there. The letters of my name, curved over his heart. The date underneath: the day we both became millionaires.
My fingers outlined the letters slow, like I was allowed to claim them. His skin jumped under my touch, heartbeat kicking harder against my palm.
He took a long drag, watching me through the smoke, and smiled. That soft, devastating smile that made my chest ache.
"Do you remember when you got this?" I asked, fingertips trailing over the ink.
"You mean when you cried and called me an idiot for two hours straight?"
"You didn't ask me first."
"I didn't need to." He caught my hand, held it against his chest. "It's where you've always been anyway."
My throat tightened. From all of his tattoos—and they were many, covering his arms, chest, and thighs—that one was my favorite. But I would never admit that to him, or anyone else. I looked away, back to the stars that weren't there.
"Do you remember that night in Tower Hamlets? On the roof, lying on the concrete, looking at the stars?" I asked.
He gave me that warm, safe smile—the one that made my chest loosen—and wrapped those tattooed arms around me tighter.
"Which one? We had a few."
"The one where your hand was broken."
"Oh, when you worked three jobs to feed me because I couldn't fight?"
"You do eat a lot..."
We laughed. He brushed my hair from my face like it was second nature. He always did this. I don't know why. Maybe he didn't like hair covering my face. Maybe he just needed to see me.
"We used to lie there and play rich people," I said. "'Oh, how many millions do you have, sir?'"
"'Only a gazillion. And you, my dear?'"
We both grinned, remembering those nights when millions felt like fairy tales.
"Would you believe we'd actually make it?" I asked.
"I knew I would," he said, smiling.
"Oh, fuck you. You knew you'd make it? Just you?"
He paused, fingers tangling in my hair, eyes rolling like he was indulging a stubborn kid. "I had to."
"Why? I had to too, you know."
"Because watching you sneak me your half of a sandwich and stay hungry? That broke me."
I smirked. "You still ate it."
He scoffed. "I didn't know it was your share of the food at that moment! Marcus snitched later."
"That traitor."
Drogo chuckled, leaning back like the world was just a joke between us. "Paintball with him tomorrow."
"Do you ever, you know... work?"
He frowned, pulling out his phone like a magician revealing a trick. "Even now. Watch this."
He tapped an app. "Last hour: ￡783.91."
"Okay, Mr. Big-Shot Architect, time to see my numbers."
Before I could swipe, he caught my hands. "Nope, let me enjoy my one win."
He laughed, pulling me into his chest—the one place where the world could fall apart and I'd still be safe. His heartbeat was my favorite kind of calm.
I traced his tattoos again—the sleeve on his left arm, the scattered pieces on his ribs. Each one had a story. Each one had a scar underneath.
"You're going to get more, aren't you?" I asked.
"Probably." He took another drag, exhaling slowly. "Running out of space, though."
"Good. You're already a walking art gallery."
"Says the woman with zero tattoos."
"I don't need them. I have you."
The words came out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too close to the truth. I felt him tense beneath me, just slightly—enough that I knew he'd heard it the way I meant it.
The air between us went thick, like one wrong breath could shatter everything. I waited for him to laugh it off, to make a joke. He didn't.
"Alena..." His voice was rough, careful.
"You're the only permanent thing I have," I said. "The only thing that doesn't fade or disappear or turn into a nightmare. You're the only real thing."
His arms tightened around me. For a moment, I thought he might say it—whatever truth we'd been dancing around for seventeen years. But instead, he just kissed the top of my head and pulled me closer.
Safe. Brotherly. Exactly what I was afraid of.
"You're not losing me," he said quietly. "Not ever. You know that, right?"
I did. And that was the problem. Because I knew if I ever kissed him the way I wanted to, if I ever crossed that line, and it didn't work—if we tried and failed—I wouldn't just lose a lover. I'd lose everything. My home. My safe place. My only family.
So instead, I stayed curled against his chest, breathing him in, pretending this was enough.
We stayed like that, staring up at stars that London was busy hiding, beer after beer. I could see the exhaustion in him, but he stayed—for me. So I could breathe.
He held me like I was fragile glass.
"Bed?" I whispered.
He tossed the last empty can in the bin, then scooped me up. He never let me walk on cold floors.
Through the house he carried me, laid me down gently, and with a casual flick peeled off his trousers.
"Come here, you terrifying beast."
He opened his arms, and I melted into him, my cheek pressed against my name tattooed over his heart. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was the only lullaby that ever worked.
He pulled me closer, one hand sliding under the hoodie to rest low on my bare back—skin on skin, like he needed proof I was really there.
His hand slides lower, palm flat against the small of my back, fingers brushing the edge of lace.
He doesn't move further. Just stays there, warm and steady, like he's claiming the skin without crossing the line.
His hand is warm, possessive almost, spanning my lower back. I feel his heartbeat under my cheek, steady and strong.
And I wonder, not for the first time, if he'll ever let himself take more than this. Or if I'll always be the one burning alone.
Just before I drifted off, I felt his fingers in my hair again. Always my hair. Always making sure he could see my face.
"Goodnight, baby," he whispered.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it, pulls me closer.
Whatever it is can wait. I can't lose this. Not tonight.
I was already gone, safe in the only place I'd ever belonged.