Chapter 48
ALENA
I wake up to the feeling of being completely surrounded by warmth and muscle and Drogo.
He is wrapped around me like a vice, one arm under my head, the other draped over my waist, his legs tangled with mine in a way that makes it nearly impossible to tell where I end and he begins.
His face is pressed against my head, breathing deep and even, still completely asleep.
I press a soft kiss to his chest, right over my name tattooed above his heart, and try to pull away slowly and carefully.
The moment I move even an inch, his arms lock around me, pulling me back against him with surprising strength for someone who is supposed to be unconscious.
I gasp, freezing completely, but his breathing doesn't change and his eyes stay closed.
Still asleep. His body just… knows. Automatically holding onto me even in sleep like he is afraid I will disappear if he lets go.
Okay then. Plan B. I start moving very, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, trying to extract myself from his grip without waking him.
It takes what feels like an hour but is probably only five minutes before I finally slide free and nearly tumble off the bed in my haste to escape before his sleeping instincts catch me again.
I practically run to the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as possible behind me.
Yeah, romance and cuddling and all that is wonderful, but man, I am going to pee myself if I don't get to a toilet in the next thirty seconds.
After taking care of business, I jump in the shower for a quick rinse, washing away the evidence of last night's activities.
The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles, and I am definitely going to be walking funny today just like he promised.
Bastard. When I tiptoe back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, Drogo is still dead asleep, sprawled across the bed now with one arm reaching toward where I had been.
Something about that image—this dangerous, powerful man unconsciously seeking me even in sleep—makes my chest ache.
I get dressed quietly in yoga pants and one of his oversized shirts, then head downstairs to make breakfast. It is 5:26 AM according to the kitchen clock, way too early for any sane person to be awake, but my internal clock is still adjusting to having Drogo back.
I start opening cabinets, looking for something, anything.
The problem is that Drogo is always the one making breakfast, always the one cooking and caring for me, and I suddenly realize I have no idea where he keeps half the things I need.
After he came back into my life his people rearranged my kitchen.
To his orders. And they brought things he needs.
More things like this weird apparatus that I have no idea what it does.
Maybe lobotomy? Also, now my closet is split in half.
His clothes are there. I guess, now we live together.
Damn, this is weird. I should know my own kitchen.
I finally find the eggs and pull them down, counting out ten because the man eats like he is feeding an army every morning.
How is that even possible? No one knows.
Then I grab the steak from the fridge and the kale because Drogo has always eaten dinner food for breakfast when we could afford it, even back when we were teenagers.
Old habits die hard. I look at the eggs.
The men are outside all night. Maybe, they could also take breakfast with us? I bring more eggs and steaks.
My attention turns to the avocados sitting in a bowl on the counter, and I stare at them like they are some kind of exotic puzzle.
I have no idea how to pick a ripe one. Drogo always did that for me and when he was gone, I just didn’t eat them.
I tried but turns out, avocados scare me.
It must be soft, right? I start getting up close and personal with each avocado, squeezing them gently.
Avocado picking is hard. Who knew? I give up and turn my attention back to the eggs and meat.
I was wrong. So very wrong. As I cook the steaks and scramble the eggs simultaneously while also trying to sauté the kale, smoke starts pouring from the pans in thick, acrid clouds. Everything seems like a war zone now—smoke everywhere, grease splattering, something definitely burning.
Then the fire alarm starts screaming, and I think oh damn just as the kitchen door bursts open with explosive force.
A man with a gun in his hand rushes in and immediately pulls me behind him with one strong arm while two others rush through the main entrance, weapons drawn and scanning for threats.
And then there is Drogo, appearing in the doorway in nothing but his boxers, his chain necklace and bracelet and his index finger ring, with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes.
Damn, boy, who gave you the right to be this fine?
The four men just look at each other in stunned silence while the fire alarm continues its ear-splitting shriek. Oh shit. I raise one hand from behind the guard and say as cheerfully as I can manage, "I made breakfast?"
Drogo's expression transforms instantly from deadly to amused, and he starts laughing—actually laughing—as he approaches me. The three guards step aside quickly, lowering their weapons. "Babe," Drogo says, pulling me into his arms and pressing a kiss to my temple. "Smells wonderful."
"I made extra for the rest of you," I say, pointing at the three guards.
They all exchange shocked glances with each other like they cannot quite believe what they are hearing.
Drogo pulls on a pair of sweatpants and gestures for everyone to sit, and somehow we all end up at the table with plates of burnt food.
The eggs are too dry, the steak is charred on one side and raw on the other, and I am pretty sure the kale is actually just ash at this point. But they eat. Politely. Without complaint. "Oh, this is crap!" I finally say. "I will order something—"
"No, babe, this is wonderful!" Drogo interrupts, pulling my chair closer to his until our thighs are touching. He takes another bite of the cremated steak.
The men start talking in rapid Russian. Then Drogo stands up and grabs a bulb of garlic from the counter, breaking it in his hand and popping a raw clove into his mouth like it is candy.
Two of the other men immediately do the same.
The hell? I stare at them chewing raw garlic at 6:30 in the morning like this is completely normal behavior.
By the time 7 AM rolls around, I stand up and lean down to kiss Drogo on the cheek. "I am going to go get ready," I say. His hand wraps around my wrist gently but firmly, stopping me in place, and all three guards' eyes snap to me with intensity. "For?" Drogo asks, his voice low and careful.
Something in his tone makes my hackles rise. I look down at where his hand is holding my wrist. "Let my hand go now," I say slowly and clearly. He does, immediately, his fingers releasing me. But his eyes stay locked on mine, waiting, and the three guards are still watching me like hawks.
I smile sweetly. "Car, editor, and Lucy for brunch.
" Then I turn and walk toward the stairs, feeling their eyes boring into my back with every step.
Behind me, I hear the guards exchange rapid words in Russian, their voices tight.
This is going to be a problem, I can feel it.
But right now, I am going upstairs to get ready for my day, and Drogo and his Bratva buddies can deal with their control issues on their own time.