Chapter 5
DROGO
I woke up with my hand under her hoodie, cupping her bare breast.
This wasn't new. Seventeen years of sleeping in the same bed will do that—your body finds familiar territory in the dark. My thumb had traced her nipple in my sleep, and now it was hard against my palm.
I should pull away. I know I should.
But I can't help it.
My fingers move—just slightly, circling the tight peak. Feeling it harden further under my touch. She makes this small, sleepy sound in her throat, arching into my hand like she's chasing the pressure even in dreams. My cock goes painfully hard against her thigh.
Fuck.
I do it again. Roll her nipple between thumb and forefinger, gentle, testing. Her breath hitches, a tiny whimper slipping out. My dick throbs in time with my pulse.
I have to stop.
I start to pull away, slow, careful not to wake her.
Her hand catches mine in her sleep. Weak, instinctive. Presses it back against her breast. Holds it there.
"No," she mumbles, voice thick, barely conscious. "Now I'll be cold."
Fuck.
I leave it. Warm skin. Her heartbeat steady under my palm. I try not to think about how perfectly she fits in my hand. How many times I've woken up like this. How many times I've pretended it meant nothing.
But now she's holding me there.
And I'm not strong enough to fight it.
My thumb brushes her nipple again—slow circles, then a light pinch. She sighs, body shifting closer, leg sliding over mine. The movement drags her thigh along my cock, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet.
I want more.
I want to lift the hoodie. See her in the dim morning light. Take that hard peak into my mouth. Suck. Taste. Feel her wake up around my tongue.
My free hand moves before I can stop it. Fingers find the hem of the hoodie. I drag it up—slow, careful, inch by inch. Cool air hits her skin. Her nipple pebbles tighter.
I stare.
Pale skin. Perfect curve. The dark pink tip begging for my mouth.
I lean in. Breath against her skin. Close enough to feel her warmth. Close enough to taste if I just…
My lips brush the underside of her breast. Soft. So fucking soft. I open my mouth, tongue flicking out, tracing the curve before I close over her nipple. Gentle suction. Just once. Just to feel.
She moans—low, sleepy, needy. Her hand tightens on mine. Her hips rock forward, pressing her heat against my thigh.
Fuck.
I suck harder. Tongue circling. Teeth grazing. Her body arches, offering more. My cock leaks against her leg.
I want to flip her onto her back. Spread her thighs. Bury my face between them. Make her come on my tongue until she screams my name.
But then her eyes flutter.
Not fully awake. Not yet.
Reality slams into me like cold water.
What the fuck am I doing?
I pull back fast. Hoodie falls back down. Hand jerks away from her breast.
She mumbles something incoherent, rolls closer, and settles again. Still asleep. Still safe.
I lie there, heart hammering, cock aching, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.
I almost crossed the line.
I almost ruined everything.
And the worst part?
I still want to.
I still want to wake her up with my mouth on her.
I still want to hear her say my name like that when she's fully conscious.
But I can't.
I won't.
Because if I do, and she doesn't want it the way I do…
I lose her.
And that's the one thing I can't survive.
· · ·
Twenty minutes later, I was in the shower with my hand wrapped around my cock.
I tried to make it quick. Clinical. Just release the pressure and move on.
But my mind went straight back to last night.
Her straddling my lap. Lace panties the only thing between us. Her thighs spread wide over mine, weight pressing down on my dick.
I grabbed her ass—pulled her forward, dragged her pussy along my cock. The friction. The heat. Her gasp. Her hands flying to my forearms, gripping tight.
I stroke myself harder, remembering.
How wet she was. I felt it through the lace. Through my sweatpants. How close I came to tearing those panties off her. To flipping her over, pinning her down, and finally—finally—taking what I've wanted for seventeen years.
My hand moves faster.
In my head, I do it. I rip the lace. Slide into her. Feel her tighten around me. Hear her moan my name.
"Drogo—"
I come hard, forehead pressed against the tile, biting back a groan.
When I catch my breath, reality crashes back.
She was just playing. Doesn't mean shit. Right?
I slam my fist against the wall, hating myself.
· · ·
My head was pounding like a drum solo gone rogue. Loud noises felt like nails on a chalkboard, and coffee? Coffee was useless—just bitter brown disappointment. Yet here I was, driving to a paintball field with gear in the trunk like some warlord who'd lost the plot.
Last night Alena had fallen asleep with her cheek on my tattoo, breathing steady against my skin. This morning I left her in my bed, her hoodie still pushed up, one breast exposed to the cold London air.
I should've covered her. I didn't.
The road stretched ahead, empty and bright. I should've felt lighter—free, even. No complications. Just a day with Marcus and Lucy, like the old days. Simple.
But my mind kept circling back to Alena straddling my lap on the balcony. Her weight pressing down on me. That casual "I know your dick by heart" like it was nothing. Like she wasn't destroying me one cigarette at a time.
My phone rang through the car's Bluetooth.
Unknown number. US area code—New York.
I almost let it go to voicemail. But something—instinct, years of learned paranoia, dread I'd carried since childhood—made me answer.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Static. Then a voice I didn't know but somehow recognized anyway. Older. Gravelly. Mid-Atlantic accent with faint German underneath—the kind you only get from growing up in two worlds at once.
"Hello, son."
My blood turned to ice. My free hand clenched into a fist at my side, but I kept my voice level. Calm. "Who is this?"
"You know who it is." A low chuckle—wet, sick, triumphant. "Your father."
I didn't react. Didn't give him the satisfaction. "You're dead to me."
"Not yet." Another cough—deep, rattling, like his lungs were full of broken glass. "But soon. Cancer. Stage four. Doctors give me months. I want to see you before I go. Meet my boy. The one I made."
I stayed silent. Waiting. In the pit, I'd learned to read opponents—when they talked, when they moved, when they showed their hand. This was no different.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" His voice shifted—casual, conversational. "England looks lovely in the morning. Clear roads. Quiet countryside. Easy to see things clearly."
My spine straightened. I turned slowly, scanning the road. Cars passing. Fields. Nothing.
"You're on your way to play paintball," he continued. "Marcus and Lucy are waiting. Good friends. Loyal. They've been with you since the beginning, haven't they? Since those bridge days."
He was watching. Right now. Somewhere.
My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice flat. "What do you want?"
"Smart boy. Straight to business. I raised you well, even from a distance." Another cough. "I want to see you. Make peace before I die. I've made arrangements. Private jet leaves Heathrow the day after tomorrow at eight AM. Terminal 5, private gate. Car will pick you up at six. Come alone."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll come to you." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "And I won't come alone. You know who I work for, Drogo. You looked into me years ago. Hired that sad little PI in Manchester. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
Fuck.
"The Bratva doesn't like loose ends," he continued.
"And you're a very loose end. My son. My blood.
My liability. If I die without settling accounts, they'll come for you.
For everyone you love. Those friends waiting at the paintball field.
That horror writer in her flat in Bow—number forty-seven, blue door, leaves the kitchen light on when she writes at night—"
My hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. My breath caught in my throat. Alena. He knew where she lived. What she did. When she was vulnerable.
"—They'll burn it all to protect themselves. Unless—"
I forced myself to breathe. To stay calm. To not give him the satisfaction of hearing me break.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you come. Meet me. Hear what I have to say. And then—if you're smart—you'll take what I'm offering and walk away clean. No debts. No obligations. Free."
"You don't get to make deals with me."
"I'm not making a deal. I'm giving you a choice." His voice hardened. "Come willingly, or I'll send people to collect you. And when they come, they won't be gentle. Not with you. Not with Marcus or Lucy. Not with Alena in her flat. Do you understand?"
I understood perfectly. This wasn't a request. It was a hostage situation. Come, or everyone I loved would pay.
"Where are you?" I asked, my eyes still scanning the horizon. "Right now. Watching me."
"Close enough." A smile in his voice. "But you won't find me. I've been invisible for thirty-two years, boy. You think you're going to spot me in broad daylight?"
"Try me."
He laughed—genuine, delighted. "There it is.
The fight. The pride. That's my blood. You can't help it, can you?
Even knowing what I am, even knowing what I can do, you still want to swing at me.
Just like in your little pit. How many men have you beaten, Drogo?
Fifty? A hundred? Did it make you feel strong?
Did it make you forget where you came from? "
"I came from my mother. Not you."
"Your mother was weak." Cold. Dismissive. "She refused my help. Refused my name. Died in poverty because of her pride. And you? You fought your way out. Built an empire with your fists and your brain. That's not her. That's me. That's what I made."
"You made nothing."
"We'll see. Day after tomorrow. Gate seven. Be there, Drogo. Or I'll start making calls. And you won't like where those calls lead."
"If you touch her—"