Chapter 42
ALENA
I'm kneeling on the kitchen floor with a loaded gun in my hand and absolutely no idea what the fuck to do with it.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog in the cold air. The temperature dropped again—ghosts or panic, I can't tell anymore. Everything's blurred together into one nightmare I can't wake up from.
What the fuck should I do? The men are still outside. At every door. Every exit. Trapping me in my own house like some kind of—what? Prisoner? Protection detail? Hallucination?
How can I escape? The gun is heavy. Heavier than I remember. My hands shake so badly the barrel wavers, drawing invisible patterns in the air.
Then I hear it. A door opening. Front door. The lock clicking. Hinges creaking. Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.
Fuck. Okay. Okay. You have a gun. Use it.
I push myself up. Legs trembling. Back pressed against the counter. Both hands on the Glock because one isn't steady enough.
The footsteps get louder. Closer. A shadow fills the kitchen doorway. Huge. Broad-shouldered. Blocking out the light from the hallway.
I don't think. Just squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot cracks through the kitchen—deafening, world-ending loud. The recoil slams through my wrists. I barely keep hold. Fire again. And again. Eyes half-closed because I'm too terrified to aim properly, too panicked to do anything except keep pulling the trigger until—
"JESUS!" The shadow drops. Hits the floor hard.
"Thank god your aim is shit, woman! You almost shot me!"
That voice. That voice. "Drogo?!"
My legs give out. I slide down the cabinet, gun clattering from my hands. The shots—I almost—oh my god—
"Drogo!" I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. "I almost killed—I didn't know—"
He's already moving. Pushing himself up from where he dropped, coming toward me. No blood. No wounds. I missed. Thank fuck I missed.
Relief crashes through me so hard it hurts. He's here. He's real. He's the only safe thing in this nightmare.
I scramble toward him on hands and knees. Throw myself into his arms. "Drogo, there are men here! Outside! They won't let me leave! They have guns and they—"
"I know." He cuts me off. Voice calm. Too calm. I pull back. Stare at him. "What?"
"They're mine," he says simply. "My men. They're here to protect you."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense. "Protect me? They're trapping me! I can't leave! I tried and they—"
"I know. I told them to."
Silence. Just the sound of my breathing. His heartbeat under my palm where I'm pressed against his chest.
"You—" My brain struggles to catch up. "You told them to trap me in my house?"
"Yes."
"Why?!"
"Because you're not safe out there yet." His hands come up to my shoulders. Steady. Grounding. "Until things settle. Until I know you won't do something stupid—"
"Stupid?!" I shove him. Hard. He barely moves. "You disappear for two years! TWO YEARS! And then you break into my house, fuck me while I'm blindfolded for another man, leave me unconscious on the couch, and now you've imprisoned me with armed guards?!"
I hit his chest. Once. Twice. Fists pounding against muscle that doesn't give. "And you think I'm the one who'll do something stupid?!"
He takes it. Every hit. Just stands there watching me unravel.
"Are you done?"
"NO!" I hit him again. "Fuck you! FUCK YOU!"
He grabs my wrists. Gently but firmly. Stops me mid-swing. "You need a shower," he says. "Now."
"I don't need—"
"You smell like him. Like Oliver. And I can't—" His jaw tightens. "I can't think straight while you smell like another man. So. Shower. Now."
Before I can protest, he bends down. Scoops me up. One arm under my knees, the other around my back.
"Put me down!"
He ignores me. Walks toward the bathroom like I weigh nothing.
"Drogo! Put me the fuck DOWN!"
Still nothing. Just that steady march through my house, carrying me like a child throwing a tantrum. I hit his chest. His shoulder. Anything I can reach. "You can't just—I'm not some—PUT ME DOWN!"
We reach the bathroom. He sets me on my feet. I immediately try to bolt. He catches me by the waist. Spins me back around.
"Alena." His voice drops. Serious now. Dangerous. "You can shower willingly, or I'll put you in there myself. Your choice."
"You wouldn't—"
He reaches for the zipper of my dress.
I slap his hand away. "Don't you dare—"
He grabs the fabric instead. One hand on each side of the neckline. And rips.
The dress tears down the middle like paper. Black fabric splitting, falling away, leaving me in nothing but the destroyed remains pooling at my feet.
"YOU ASSHOLE!"
He kneels. Reaches for my heels. I try to kick him. He catches my ankle easily. Unbuckles the strap. Removes the shoe. Then the other one. Gentle despite everything.
Then he stands. Guides me—pushes me, really—toward the shower. "In."
"No!"
He leans down. Presses a kiss to my forehead—soft, achingly tender—and then pushes me gently into the shower stall.
I stumble. Catch myself on the tile. "FUCK YOU!" I yell as he turns on the water. Hot spray hits me. Soaking my hair. Running down my body. Washing away—Oliver. The dried wetness between my thighs. The evidence. I hate that he's right.
Drogo leans against the bathroom counter. Arms crossed. Watching me through the glass door with that infuriating half-smile.
"Are you going to stand there the whole time?!" I snap.
"Yes."
"Pervert!"
"I've seen it all before, babe. Multiple times. From multiple angles."
My hands freeze on the body wash. I open my mouth to respond and then close it. Fuck, he is right. We have been together for so long he can draw my body without even looking. His smile widens like he read my mind.
I lather soap. Rinse conditioner. Turn off the water. Stand there dripping, naked, furious.
"Happy?"
"Very."
"Towel," I demand.
He grabs one from the rack. Holds it open. I step out. Let him wrap it around me. His hands linger on my shoulders for a moment. Warm. Solid. Real.
He guides me toward the bedroom. "You need rest. We'll talk tomorrow—"
"No." I stop. Pull away from his hand. "No. We talk now."
"Alena—"
"NOW, Drogo!" My voice cracks. "Either you tell me everything right now, or I'm done. I mean it. I'm DONE."
He looks at me. Really looks. And I see it—the moment he realizes I'm not playing anymore. That this isn't negotiable. That if he walks away without explaining, I'll never let him back in.
He exhales. Hard. Long. Like he's been holding his breath for two years. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
We sit on the edge of my bed. The silence stretches between us like a chasm.
"Babe…" He starts. Stops. Runs his hand through his hair. "I left because my father ordered me to New York."
I freeze. "What?"
"My father. He—I found him. Several years ago."
The shock hits like ice water. "You found your father?" My voice is barely a whisper. "Several YEARS ago?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The hurt bleeds through. "Why didn't—"
"Because he's in the Russian mafia."
I gasp. Actually gasp. Terror flooding through me. "The—the mafia?"
"Yes. The Bratva. And he wanted an heir. Someone to—"
"And you joined?!" I stand. Stumble back. Stare at him like I'm seeing a stranger. "You joined the MAFIA?!"
He lowers his head. Unbuttons his shirt slowly. Pulls the fabric apart. Shows me his collarbones. The eight-pointed stars tattooed there. Russian. Brutal. Unmistakable.
"No," I breathe. "No no no—"
I slap him. Hard. As hard as I can. The sound cracks through the bedroom. His head doesn't even turn. He just takes it. Stares at the floor.
"I left," he says quietly, "because he threatened you."
Tears flood my eyes. "Drogo—" My voice breaks. "We are ONE. We were for SEVENTEEN YEARS and you didn't tell me that? THAT?!"
I slap him again. He doesn't move. Doesn't defend. Just lets me.
"There's more," he says. Voice flat. Dead.
"I kill people, Alena. I torture people.
It's my job now. It's what I do. What I've become.
I'm a monster. The kind Klaus wanted. The kind who—" His voice cracks.
"The kind who put a bullet in a man's head tonight because he—I couldn't stand the idea of his hands on you. "
I'm looking at him in terror. Oliver. Fuck. Why don’t I care?
Oliver is dead, Drogo kills people, and the only thing that touches my heart is that Drogo is in trouble.
Fuck, I am a horrible person. Shit. I start shaking.
This is Drogo. Drogo who wouldn't hurt a fly.
Drogo who cried when we found that injured bird when we were fifteen.
Drogo who carried spiders outside instead of killing them.
But I also know how protective he was. How he'd take beatings meant for me. How he'd stand between me and anything that tried to hurt me. Always. For seventeen years. Always.
"If you want nothing to do with me—" True fear flashes in his eyes. Raw. Desperate. "I'll understand. I'll leave. I'll make sure you're safe and I'll—"
I start crying. Violently. Remembering him when we were teens.
Offering me a flower he'd stolen from someone's garden.
Coming to the dirty little squat we shared with Marcus and Lucy—bruised, bleeding, smiling like it was nothing.
Shielding me from landlords. From social workers.
From men who looked at me wrong. From everything. Always from everything.
"Fuck you!" I sob. "You didn't have to do that! You didn't have to—"
He stands. Fast. "And let him hurt you?" His voice rises. "NEVER. I would never—"
I slap him again. He slowly—so slowly—takes my hand. Brings it to his lips. Kisses my palm. Then rests it against his cheek. Closes his eyes. Leans into my touch like he's been starving for it.
I tremble. My other hand comes up. Cups his other cheek. Both hands holding his face now. He looks at me—shock and anticipation and fear all mixed together.
"I never sent you that note," he says. Voice cracking. "The one that said I was leaving. I could never abandon you. I tried, Alena. I tried to talk to you. But you would be in danger. I couldn't—" His voice breaks completely. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
I lean forward. Rest my forehead against his.
He makes a sound—half sob, half relief—and his arms come around me.
Crushing. Desperate. His big, muscled body shields me from the world like it always has.
Like it always will. I cry into his chest and he holds me tighter.
So tight I can barely breathe but I don't care.
Because he's here. Because he's always been here.
We stay like that. Minutes. Hours. I don't know. Just holding each other. Him whispering "I'm sorry" over and over. Me crying so hard my body shakes.
Then I push him back. Gently. Look at his face. And there it is. That look. The one I know he has only for me. Desperation. Need. Love so intense it borders on obsession.
The look that says I'm his entire world. That he'd burn everything down for me. That he already has.
"Leave," I whisper.
Pain flashes across his face. "What?"
"Leave the room. I need—" My voice shakes. "I need to process this. Alone. Please."
He nods. Slow. Reluctant. "I'll be downstairs. If you need-"
"I know."
He stands. Walks to the door. Stops. Looks back one more time with that desperate, devoted look that makes my heart shatter and rebuild simultaneously.
Then he leaves. Closes the door softly.
I sit on my bed. Wrapped in a towel. Surrounded by the truth. Drogo is in the mafia. Drogo kills people. Drogo tortured someone tonight. Drogo shot a man in the head for calling me a whore.
And despite everything—the horror, the shock, the terror—one thought keeps circling.
He's been mine for seventeen years. And I've been his. And nothing—not the mafia, not the violence, not the blood on his hands—will ever change that.
Yes, now he is a monster, but he's my monster.