Chapter 11
DROGO
The kiss was everything I'd spent seventeen years pretending I didn't need.
Soft, slow, like we had all the time in the world now that the dam had finally broken.
Her hands around my neck felt like coming home.
Her body still pressed to mine, still trembling from me, still holding traces of us between her thighs.
For one perfect heartbeat, the universe made sense.
The corner of the room seemed darker than it should be. A shadow pooling where the moonlight didn't quite reach. I blinked, and it was gone.
But Alena tensed.
Then I felt it—the shift. The way she stiffened, just slightly, like a deer catching a scent on the wind. Her breath caught, not in pleasure anymore, but in something sharper.
I pulled back slowly, searching her face. The panic was already there, swimming in those dark eyes I knew better than my own reflection. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She was retreating, right in front of me, pulling the walls back up brick by brick.
That's not a good sign.
My instinct kicked in—the same one that had carried her through nightmares, across cold floors, to balconies and couches and anywhere she needed to feel safe. I reached for her, arms sliding around her waist to lift her, to hold her until whatever storm was brewing passed like it always did.
But she pulled back.
Not playfully. Not teasing. She actually pulled away from my touch.
My hands froze mid-air. My eyes snapped open wide.
What the hell is happening?
"Alena?" I said, voice low, careful, like I was talking someone off a ledge.
I reached again, slower this time, just wanting to touch her cheek, to ground her, to ground us.
She flinched. Pulled back again.
The bed tilted under me.
My heart slammed against my ribs—violent, frantic. Terror clawed up my throat, cold and vicious.
Was she regretting this? Regretting us?
No. Damn no. Not happening.
I pulled her to me before she could retreat further—firm but gentle, hands spanning her waist, thumbs stroking circles over her hipbones. Grounding. Claiming.
"Hey," I said, voice dropping low, steady. The same tone I used when she was drowning in nightmares. "Look at me, baby."
Her eyes met mine—wild, afraid, beautiful.
"You're panicking," I said, not a question. "I can feel it. But you don't get to run from this. From us."
She opened her mouth to protest, but I kept going, pulling her flush against me, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her hip possessively.
"I know you're scared. I'm fucking terrified too.
" My voice dropped lower, rougher. "But that?
" I gestured vaguely toward the bed, the dresser, the evidence of what we'd just done.
"That wasn't a mistake. That was seventeen years of truth finally breaking free.
And I'm not letting you convince yourself otherwise. "
Her breath hitched, eyes wide.
"You're mine now, Alena." The words came out fierce, final, like a vow I was branding into both of us. "Mine. Not just tonight. Not just until morning. Forever. And I'm yours—I've always been yours. That's not negotiable. That's not something we're taking back or pretending didn't happen."
The words came out rougher than I meant, but I didn't take them back. Couldn't. Because they were true, and if she thought for one second I was going to let her convince herself this was nothing, she was out of her fucking mind.
I cupped her face, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were falling. "We're not going back. We can't. And I don't want to."
She stared at me, lips trembling, and I saw the war raging behind her eyes—fear battling hope, doubt wrestling belief.
"But what if—" she started.
"No what-ifs." I cut her off gently, pressing my forehead to hers. "We figure it out. Together. Like we always do. But you don't get to run from me. Not now. Not ever."
Her hands came up to grip my wrists, holding on like I was the only solid thing in her world. Maybe I was.
She nodded finally, and I felt the tension drain from her shoulders.
Relief flooded through me so hard my heart almost stopped.
Then reality hit me like a freight train.
Shit.
I leave in the morning.
Heathrow. New York. My father.
The thought crashed through the moment like ice water. I had—what? Six hours? Seven? Before I had to walk out that door and disappear, leaving her here thinking I'd chosen to leave after this.
She'd never forgive me.
I had to tell her. Right now. Give her something so she'd understand why I wasn't here when she woke up.
But what the hell do I say?
Hey, baby, by the way, my mafia father threatened to kill everyone I love, so I'm flying to New York tomorrow to meet him. Don't worry, I'll be back. Probably.
No. Hell no.
Telling her about the Bratva, about the threats, about her address in his mouth—that would terrify her. Put her in more danger. She'd panic, try to help, get herself killed in the process. I couldn't risk it.
But I had to give her something.
A work trip. Emergency project. Last-minute client meeting in New York. She'd believe that—I'd done it before, taken red-eyes for demanding clients.
It was a lie. But it was a lie that kept her safe.
And I'd come back. I'd handle my father, neutralize the threat, and come back to her. Days, not weeks. I'd make sure of it.
Because now she was mine, and I'd burn the world down before I let anything—including my psychotic dying father—take her from me.
"Bed?" she said softly, pulling me from my spiral.
The word hit me with unexpected force. All the nights we'd done this, and now everything had changed. But I held steady, kept my voice calm.
"Bed," I agreed.
She moved first, adjusting her body on mine—head on my chest, leg between mine, hand over the tattoo of her name.
I let her, watching her, memorizing the way she moved, the curve of her spine, the faint marks I'd left on her hips.
And the not so faint on her ass. Christ, how hard did I hit her?
And damn. She took it well. I pushed back her hair, and I looked at her face.
She smiled at me. Nothing will ever be more beautiful than this. Than her. Smiling.
Home.
I wrapped my arms around her, crushing her closer. One hand in her hair, the other spanning her lower back.
"Drogo?" she whispered into the dark.
"Yeah, baby?"
A pause. Then, quietly: "This feels different."
"It is different," I said, meaning it. My hand tightened on her back. "But better different."
She smiled and my heart returned to its place. Jesus, I loved her smile more than oxygen. I loved her more than anything.
"Yes, better," she said.
But the time was pressing. I had to tell her I was leaving in the morning.
I took a breath.
"I have to leave tomorrow morning. Early." The words came out rough but steady—or I tried to make them steady. My voice caught slightly on the next part. "Emergency work trip. Client meeting in New York. Came up last minute. I'll be gone a few days."
The lie tasted like ash, but I forced it out as calm and certain as I could manage.
She tensed slightly against me. "Tomorrow? After tonight?"
"Yeah." I tilted her chin up gently, making her meet my eyes in the dim light. "I know the timing's shit. But it's not a choice, baby. Work. I have to go."
She stared at me for a long moment, searching my face. "Your eyes are lying to me," she whispered.
My heart stopped.
"No," I said, voice firm, even as guilt twisted in my chest. "I just hate leaving you. Especially now."
Not a lie. Not entirely.
I hated lying to her. Hated it. But the truth would get her killed.
Silence. I could feel her processing, heart beating against my ribs.
"Will you come back soon?" Her voice was so small it cracked something in my chest.
"Yes." No hesitation. "I'm coming back soon, Alena. I promise. A few days, and I'm back. To you. To this."
Another pause. Then, softer: "Do you think this—us—would actually last?"
I looked down at her, this woman I'd loved for seventeen years, who'd just let me claim every inch of her, who was lying in my arms like she'd always belonged there.
Because she had.
A smile pulled at my lips—genuine, soft, the one I only ever gave her. And I thought: Yes. When I come back, I'm putting a ring on that finger. Making this permanent. Making sure you never doubt us again.
But I didn't say it. Not yet. Too much, too soon, even after everything we'd just done.
Instead, I kissed her forehead—slow, deliberate, reverent—and said: "Yes, babe. Yes. Also, now you don't have a choice."
I pressed two fingers in her pussy. She moaned and clenched around me. So, my babe wants more?
I pushed them in hard, feeling her stretch around me, wet and ready despite everything we'd just done.
I started fucking her with my fingers as she trembled against me, her breath coming in short gasps.
She was so wet I could feel her dripping down my wrist, coating my hand.
Even though she was tight, I managed a third finger in, stretching her wider.
She started to shake, her whole body trembling. My cock was hard again, aching.
"No... please Drogo... I can't— Fuck!"
I smiled, took my fingers out and brought them to her mouth. She licked them clean, tongue swirling around each digit, making my dick jerk. "Fuck..." I gasped. She swallowed, eyes locked on mine.
"See? You are mine now. We talked about it. You took the deal. No way out."
Then something in me turned darker. A feeling I never had before. I imagined her wanting to leave me and something cracked inside my chest—primal, possessive, terrifying.
I grabbed her chin—firm, commanding—and brought her face to mine. "No. Way. Out. Mine."
She smiled against my chest. Actually smiled. I felt it—the curve of her lips against my skin, the way her body relaxed completely into mine instead of tensing.
I locked her in my arms, caging her against me. My girl knew. Even though I grabbed her chin hard, she knew I would never hurt her. Never squeeze. In a way, I was hers completely. If she ordered me dead, I would pull the trigger with a smile. And it would be my honor.
She was safe with me. Always.
I held her close, breathing her in—smoke and vanilla and us. My fingers traced patterns on her spine, soothing, claiming, promising.
She was already drifting, her breathing evening out, body going soft and heavy against mine.
My hand slid down to rest on her belly—flat, warm, soft. I wondered if my come was still inside her. If she could feel it. If part of me was already taking root.
The thought should've terrified me. Instead, it felt right.
But I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling as dawn crept closer, one hand in her hair, the other resting possessively on her stomach.
She was mine. Finally, completely, mine.
She shifted in her sleep, murmuring my name, fingers curling tighter over my heart. Over the tattoo of her name.
I pressed another kiss to her hair, arms tightening around her like I could keep the world out through sheer force of will.
"I love you," I whispered into the dark, so quiet she couldn't hear.
The sky started to lighten—soft grey bleeding into pale blue. Sunrise.
Time to go.
I looked down at her one last time. Hair spilled across the pillow, lips slightly parted, one hand still curled over my chest. Peaceful. Beautiful. Mine.
God, I didn't want to leave.
But I had to.
I carefully extracted myself from her arms, moving slow so I wouldn't wake her. She stirred slightly, reaching for me in her sleep, and I froze. Then she settled, rolling into the warm spot I'd left, and my chest ached. Shit. That broke my heart.
I leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Let my lips linger there, breathing her in one more time.
"I love you," I whispered against her skin as I felt my eyes burn.
Then I stood up, forcing myself to walk away. Every step felt like tearing myself in half.
In the kitchen, I moved on autopilot. Set up the coffee machine—her favorite blend, timer set so it'd be ready when she woke. Made her a sandwich, raw tuna and avocado, exactly how she liked it in the morning. Wrapped it carefully, left it in the fridge.
Then I grabbed a pen and the notepad she kept by the phone.
Baby,
Coffee's ready, sandwich in the fridge.
I had to go early, but fuck I miss you already. As I always miss you when I'm two steps away from you.
Think of me when you drink the coffee. Think of me when you're alone. Think of me every second until I come back.
I love you, Alena.
Wait for me, please.
- D
I stared at the note for a long moment. Wanted to write more. Wanted to tell her everything. But this would have to be enough.
I left it on the counter where she'd see it, then grabbed my clothes from the chair. Dressed quickly—jeans, shirt, boots.
One last look back toward the bedroom.
She was still asleep. Still safe.
For now.
The corner of the room seemed darker than it should be—shadow pooling where the early light couldn't reach. For a second, I thought I saw it move.
I blinked. Nothing.
I moved silently, muscles coiling, ready to destroy anything that posed a threat to her.
Stepped into the room. Scanned every corner. The closet. Under the bed. Behind the curtain.
Nothing.
Just her. Sleeping peacefully, curled into the warm spot I'd left.
But the feeling didn't leave.
I moved through the apartment—silent, methodical. Kitchen. Bathroom. Living room. Checked the windows. The locks. The balcony door.
Nothing.
Every room empty. Every shadow just a shadow.
I stood in her hallway, fists still clenched, jaw tight.
Maybe it's just my paranoia. The guilt of leaving her. The weight of what's waiting in New York.
I looked back toward her bedroom one last time. She was still asleep. Still safe.
Still mine.
I walked out, closing the door softly behind me.
The Ducati sat where I'd left it, gleaming in the early morning light. I swung my leg over, settled into the seat, and turned the key.
The engine roared to life—loud, powerful, ready to take me away from her.
Away from everything I'd just found.
I revved it once. Twice.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
Unknown number.
The message appeared on screen:
"Safe travels, son. She will be waiting."
I stared at the screen, blood running cold.
He was watching. Right now. Somewhere.
I looked up, scanning the street, the windows, the shadows.
Nothing.
I revved the engine hard.
Fuck me sideways.