Chapter 44
ALENA
I wake up early with dawn light barely filtering through the curtains and look down at him—Drogo, under me, one arm wrapped around my waist holding me close even in sleep, the other tucked under his head, breathing deep and even.
He sleeps like the dead, completely still, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before—no tension, no guardedness, just peace.
How can he be so beautiful? And how is he here? Is this real? Because if I've finally gone completely mad and this is a hallucination, some elaborate fantasy my broken brain has constructed, then fine. I'll take it. I'll live in this delusion forever.
My fingers move on their own, tracing the outline of my name over his heart—the ink I've touched a thousand times before, the tattoo he got without asking, the one that made me cry and call him an idiot for two hours straight.
Then I see them. The new ones. On his collarbones, above the other tattoos he had—eight-pointed stars, black ink, sharp geometric lines, symmetrical and deliberate.
The Bratva stars. Evidence of everything he told me last night.
My fingers travel up to touch the left one gently, and his hand closes around mine instantly, stopping me. My eyes snap to his face. He's awake now, smiling slightly.
"Morning, babe," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I whisper back, and he leans in to press a kiss to my forehead—soft, lingering, achingly gentle—before standing up. Six-foot-five of lean muscle and ink unfolds from my bed like something out of a fever dream I've had every night for two years.
"Gonna make you coffee," he says, pulling on his jeans and nothing else, just denim hanging low on his hips, exposing that perfect V of muscle that disappears below the waistband.
Naked from the waist up with every tattoo on full display, the ring still on his index finger, the chain bracelet catching the early light.
"Rest until I put the heater on—it's cold. "
How is he so damn sexy? He catches me staring and smiles wider. "See something you like, babe?"
"Get out," I mutter, and he laughs as he walks out smiling, closing the door behind him.
And then—for reasons I can't explain and will never admit to—I stand up, walk to the mirror, and freeze.
"Mother of god…" An atrocity. My hair is a rat's nest, dark circles under my eyes like I've been punched, lips swollen, skin pale.
I look like I've been dragged through hell backward.
He liked this? He had sex with me looking like this? Damn. I look like shit.
I grab my hairbrush and start attacking the tangles with frantic motions, but it doesn't help, just makes it fluffier and wilder.
Makeup—I need makeup. I yank open the drawer and grab my makeup bag, dabbing concealer under my eyes with shaking hands, but somehow it makes the dark circles look worse.
More concealer, blend harder, and now I look like a corpse wearing makeup.
Foundation makes it even worse—too much, way too much, now I look like I'm wearing a mask.
The door opens, and I shove the makeup behind my back, spinning to face him and trying to look casual.
Drogo stops in the doorway and looks at me, amused. "You look beautiful. Every second of the day."
He crosses to me and lifts me up before I can protest, carrying me out of the bedroom like I weigh nothing.
"I can walk, you know," I mutter.
"The floor is cold." He nods at my bare feet.
"You're barefoot too."
"I don’t matter," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple as he carries me to the kitchen and sets me down at the table where—my sandwich. Raw tuna and avocado cut into triangles exactly how I like it. And coffee. Black. Perfect.
I stare at it, then at him. He just smiles and sits across from me. "Eat."
I take a bite. It's perfect. Of course it's perfect. We eat in silence for a moment—comfortable, strange, surreal. Then he stands up and walks around the table to me, his expression shifting into something darker, hungrier.
"Open your legs, Alena," he says quietly, and my breath catches.
"What?"
"You heard me. Open. Your. Legs."
I should say no. Should push him away. Should remind him that we still have things to talk about, guards posted outside, a life to figure out. But instead, I find myself spreading my thighs slowly, watching his eyes darken as he drops to his knees in front of me.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and his hands slide up my—now—bare thighs since he took my pants off so fast I didn’t realize, pushing the oversized t-shirt I'm wearing higher until he can see I'm not wearing anything underneath. He groans low in his throat. "Fuck, babe. You're going to kill me."
He leans in and presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then another, working his way up slowly, teasingly, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin and making me shiver. His hands grip my hips and pull me to the edge of the chair, spreading me wider, positioning me exactly how he wants me.
"Drogo—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"I've been dreaming about this for two years," he says against my thigh. "About tasting you again. About making you come on my tongue. Let me have this, babe. Please."
Then his mouth is on me, and I forget how to breathe. His tongue drags up my center slowly, tasting, exploring, like he's savouring every second. He groans against me—deep and satisfied—and the vibration makes my hips jerk.
"Fuck," he breathes. "I missed this. Missed you. The way you taste, the sounds you make—" He licks me again, firmer this time, his tongue circling my clit before sucking it into his mouth.
I gasp and my hands fly to his hair, gripping tight.
He moans in approval and does it again, alternating between long, slow licks and focused attention on my clit, building the pressure steadily.
His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, holding me open and still while he devours me like a man starving.
He pushes one finger inside me, then two, curling them to hit that spot deep inside while his tongue works my clit relentlessly. I'm already close, embarrassingly close, my body responding to him like it's been waiting for this, for him, for two years of loneliness to finally end.
"That's it," he growls against me. "Come for me, babe. Let me taste it. Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue."
His fingers pump faster, harder, while his mouth sucks and licks and drives me higher and higher until I'm right there, right on the edge, my thighs trembling and my breath coming in gasps—
"FUCKER! I AM CALLING THE POLICE!"
Lucy's voice from outside, loud and furious, shatters the moment.
Drogo moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move. He yanks my shirt down to cover me, pulls me off the chair, and pushes me behind him in one smooth motion. His body shields me completely as we both freeze, listening.
"Don't you fucking touch her!" Marcus's voice, deeper and deadly.
We look at each other, and in unison we say, "Shit!"
Drogo runs for the door and I follow, pulling my pants up, my body still trembling from being so close to orgasm, my heart pounding from the sudden shift from pleasure to panic. He yanks the front door open and shouts, "Stop!"
Everyone freezes. The men in suits halt mid-motion. Lucy and Marcus stop on the walkway—Lucy pale and shaking, Marcus holding her upright with his arm around her waist. But Marcus's eyes are locked on Drogo in complete shock, like he's seeing a ghost.
Lucy's knees buckle and Marcus catches her fast, but his expression never leaves Drogo's face.
Drogo steps forward slowly with his hands visible and non-threatening. "Mate?" he says carefully, like he's approaching a wild animal, which knowing Marcus isn't far off.
Marcus stays frozen with his arm around Lucy and his fist clenched at his side. Drogo gets closer—two feet away, then one—and then Marcus drops Lucy—poor babe lands on the floor—and punches Drogo in the face. Hard. The crack echoes through the morning air.
Every man in a suit moves instantly with guns drawn, running toward Marcus, but Drogo raises one hand. "Stop." They freeze with guns still out but not aimed, waiting for orders.
Drogo spits blood onto the walkway and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then smiles. "Good to see you too."
Marcus stands there silent with his fist still clenched at his side, chest heaving. Then his face cracks into a smile—small at first, then wider. "You bastard," he breathes.
"Yeah."
They move at the same time, crashing into each other in a hug that looks more like a tackle, arms around each other and gripping hard, almost violent in its intensity. Marcus makes a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. "You fucking bastard. Where the hell—two years—"
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—" They're both shaking, holding each other like they're drowning and the other is the only solid thing left.
I watch from the doorway and think: oh, so this is what they call bromance.
Lucy stumbles to her feet and looks at me, then at them, then bursts into tears. I move to her and pull her into my arms while she sobs into my shoulder with huge, wracking sounds. "He's alive," she gasps. "He's fucking alive—"
"I know."
"How long have you—did you know—"
"Since last night."
She pulls back and stares at me. "LAST NIGHT?! And you didn't call?!"
"He took my phone! And my internet! And posted armed guards!"
"WHAT?!" The men in suits shift uncomfortably as I point a finger at them.
Drogo and Marcus finally pull apart, both wiping their eyes like they weren't just crying, both grinning like idiots. "You look good," Marcus says, his voice rough. "Different. But good."
"You too. Still ugly, but good." Marcus laughs and punches his shoulder lighter this time. "Fuck you." "Missed you too."
They grin at each other, then Marcus's expression shifts and hardens. "Where were you?"
Drogo's smile fades. "Long story."
"I've got time."
"Not here." Drogo glances at the guards, at Lucy and me. "Inside. Coffee. Then I'll explain everything."
Marcus nods. "Okay."
They walk toward the house together—brothers reunited. Lucy grabs my arm. "Did you know? About any of this?"
"He told me last night. About his father. The Bratva. Everything."
Her eyes go wide. "The what?"
"Russian mafia."
"WHAT?!"
"I'll explain inside. Come on." We walk inside together, and I think: this is going to be a very long morning.