Chapter 39
DROGO
She's limp in my arms. Unconscious. Breathing steady but shallow.
The ghosts did this—her ghosts, protecting her the only way they know how. Shutting her down before the shock could break something vital inside her chest.
I carry her through the dark house, my eyes adjusting fast. Years of practice moving through shadows.
Her body fits against my chest like it always did—perfectly, inevitably, like two pieces of the same broken thing finally pressed back together.
The soft weight of her head rests against my shoulder, hair spilling over my arm.
I can smell her—roses and vanilla from the perfume she wore for him, but underneath, the scent that's just Alena.
The one I've been starving for. Warm skin and something darker, something only I know.
The bedroom is closer, easier. Those Egyptian cotton sheets she loves—the ones she spent twenty minutes touching in the store while I watched through security feeds, testing the softness against her cheek like a child.
But she hasn't showered yet. And I'll burn myself alive before I let any trace of that fucker touch her sheets.
The couch it is.
I lay her down gently. The black dress is bunched around her waist—elegant and destroyed all at once.
I pull it down, cover her properly, make her decent even though there's no one here to see but me.
Then I crouch beside her. Press a soft kiss to her temple.
Linger there, breathing her in, memorizing the feel of her skin under my lips after two years of screens and surveillance and distance.
My hand moves to her hair. Pushes a strand behind her ear. Traces the shell of it with my thumb.
"Rest, babe," I whisper against her skin. "All will be okay."
Lie. Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how the next few hours go.
I stand. Button my shirt properly. Roll my shoulders back. There's work to do, and not much time to do it.
As I walk away from her a small smile forms at my lips. Ha! She shot at me!
· · ·
The dining room looks like a crime scene. Candles still burning, wax pooling onto the table. Indian food cold on the plates. Her blindfold on the floor where she tore it off. The chair where he sat. The table where he spread her legs.
I grab her phone from where it's sitting face-down near a wine glass. Swipe it open—no passcode, never has been, trusts the world too much. Scroll through recent calls. Messages. Oliver's contact info stares back at me.
I delete his number. Block it. Delete the entire text thread. Every digital trace of him in her life—gone.
Then I walk to the wall. Grab the router.
Rip it clean off—wires sparking, plastic cracking, the whole unit coming away in my hands.
No internet means no way for her to contact Lucy, Marcus, anyone.
No way to put herself in danger before I've had time to explain.
Before I've had time to settle things between us.
The cameras run through a different system. Separate network. Live feed direct to my phone. I can still monitor her. Still keep her safe. But she's isolated now. Completely. Good.
I pull out my phone. Text Konstantin: Come in.
Then I walk to the pantry. Open the door.
Oliver is awake now. Eyes wide with terror. Cloth in his mouth muffling the sounds he's trying to make. Zip-ties cutting into his wrists behind his back—he's been struggling, drawn blood, dark lines on pale skin.
I smile. Wide. Genuine. "Well, hello there!" I lean against the doorframe, hands sliding into my pockets. Casual. Like we're old friends catching up over drinks. "How do we feel?"
He tries to yell through the tape. Muffled. Desperate. Probably please or help or don't kill me. Hard to tell. Don't particularly care.
Footsteps behind me. Konstantin appears—six-three, built like a tank, face like he's seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time.
"Take him," I say in English.
"Yes, boss."
Konstantin moves past me into the pantry. Grabs Oliver under the arms, hauls him up like he weighs nothing. Oliver's legs kick weakly, uselessly.
They pass through the living room. Konstantin's eyes find Alena on the couch—just a glance, instinct, checking for threats. Then he immediately lowers his gaze to the floor. Smart man.
But I'm already looking at him. Our eyes meet. "Careful," I say. Quiet. Deadly.
"Sorry, boss. I didn't—"
"Yeah. Okay."
I switch to Russian, voice dropping lower, faster.
The language of orders that don't get questioned.
"Vyvezi yego za gorod. Kakoy-nibud' sklad, kotoryy my kontroliruyem.
Tikhaya mestnost', net sosedei. Privyazhi yego, no poka ne trogay.
Ya priyedu cherez chas, maksimum dva. Khochu s nim pogovorit' lichno. "
Take him outside the city. Some warehouse we control. Quiet location, no neighbours. Tie him up but don't touch him yet. I'll come in an hour, two maximum. I want to talk to him personally.
Konstantin nods once. "Ponyal." Understood.
"I yeshchyo—nikomu ob etom. Dazhe Viktoru. Tol'ko my dvoye." And one more thing—no one knows about this. Not even Viktor. Just the two of us.
Another nod. "Kak skazhete, boss." As you say, boss.
He adjusts his grip on Oliver—who's still trying to struggle, still trying to scream through the tape—and heads for the back door. I watch them disappear into the night. Konstantin's car is parked two houses down. Black sedan, tinted windows, plates that won't trace back to anything real.
Oliver will be gone in sixty seconds. Disappeared. Another man swallowed by London's shadows.
The door closes. Silence settles over the house like a blanket.
I stand there for a moment, breathing, centering myself.
Then I walk back to the living room. She hasn't moved.
Still unconscious. Still beautiful. Still mine.
I crouch beside the couch again, check her pulse—steady.
Her breathing—even. The ghosts shut her down clean.
No damage. Just protection. My hand finds her cheek.
Thumb stroking her skin. Two years I've been watching her fall apart through cameras.
Two years of becoming the monster Klaus wanted so I could protect her from worse monsters.
Two years of torture—self-inflicted and necessary.
And now I'm here. Touching her. Real. Present. Home.
My phone buzzes. Konstantin: V puti. En route.
Another buzz. Viktor: Klaus sprashivayet gde ty. Chto emu skazat'? Klaus is asking where you are. What should I tell him?
I stare at the message. The old man is watching. Always watching. Even now. Even when he's supposed to be trusting me. Testing me. Waiting for me to slip.
I text back: Reshau lichnye dela. Vernus' k utru. Handling personal business. Back by morning.
Viktor: Ponyatno. Understood.
Good. Klaus can wonder. Klaus can test. Doesn't matter. I'm done playing his games. She's here. She's mine. And if he tries anything—anything—I'll make good on every threat I made in that conference room.
I stand and look around the house. At the dining table where he ate her out. At the chairs where he sat. At the couch I'm about to burn. At the life she built without me that I'm about to dismantle and rebuild.
She won't like it. She'll fight me. Good. I've missed that fire.
I pull out my phone. Open the encrypted app. Start making calls.
First call: the couch. I need the vintage velvet one she's been eyeing delivered by morning. Money's not an issue—never is anymore.
Second: cleaning crew. Discreet. Expensive. The kind that asks no questions and leaves no trace.
Third: new dining table and chairs. I can't have a reminder of another man eating out my woman every time I walk into this room. Everything goes.
Fourth: new router. New security system. My security system. Cameras I control. Locks I control. Every entry point monitored.
Fifth: protection detail. I need men around her house. Good men. Men who understand that she doesn't leave. No one comes in or out. Not until I've had time to explain. Not until she's safe—from Klaus, from herself, from anyone who might use her to get to me.
I finish the last call and the guy on the other end confirms: "Da, boss. Tri cheloveka na smene. Kruglye sutki. Ona v bezopasnosti." Yes, boss. Three men per shift. Around the clock. She'll be safe.
"Good." I end the call. Put the phone away.
Walk to the kitchen. Find a notepad—the one she uses for grocery lists, her handwriting scattered across the top page. I tear off a fresh sheet.
Write in my own hand:
I missed you.
Take that shower.
Wash him off.
—D
I leave it on the coffee table where she'll see it when she wakes. Right next to the couch where I've laid her down.
Then I walk back to her one more time. Kneel beside the couch.
Brush her hair back from her face. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"For all of it. For leaving. For watching.
For letting you suffer." She doesn't hear me.
Can't. Probably better that way. "But I'm here now.
And I'm not going anywhere." I press one more kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering, a promise I intend to keep.
A claim I'll enforce with blood if necessary.
Then I stand. I take a blanket from the armchair and cover her. It’s so difficult to take a step away from her. I lower my eyes and walk to the door. Grab my jacket.
Konstantin's warehouse is forty minutes away. Time to have a conversation with Oliver.
The kind he doesn't walk away from.
Because no one touches what's mine.
Not even once.