Chapter 50
ALENA
I wake up two days later to the feeling of my legs trembling and an empty bed beside me.
The sheets are still warm where Drogo had been, but the space feels strangely hollow without his weight pinning me down.
It is almost seven in the morning according to the clock on the nightstand, and the room is quiet—too quiet.
For the past forty-eight hours he has been glued to me, his arms, his breath, his body never far away, like he is afraid I will vanish if he lets go for even a second.
Now the bed is empty, and the silence presses against my skin.
My thighs are sticky with dried come—his come—from all three times he filled me last night, and I groan softly as I shift, feeling the evidence of our activities smeared between my legs.
Damn. We have a lot of sex. A lot of sex.
And all of it unprotected. The thought floats through my mind like a lazy cloud: maybe I should take a pill or something, get on birth control before this becomes an actual problem instead of just a theoretical one.
But even as I think it, something stubborn inside me resists. I push the idea away for later.
I sit up slowly, wincing at the delicious soreness in my muscles, and look around the bedroom. Something feels… different. It takes me a moment to place it.
No shadows. No cold spots brushing my skin. No whispers at the edge of my hearing. No ghosts.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, the room is empty of them. Completely silent from the supernatural. No flickering lights, no temperature drops, no faint pressure of being watched by something not quite human.
I should feel relieved. I don’t.
Instead, a strange ache settles in my chest. I start to miss them.
Why the hell am I missing the ghosts that have haunted me my entire life?
I miss their contacts, the way they would communicate through flickering lights or sudden chills.
I miss the stories they told in fragments, the way they made the dark feel less lonely.
What the hell is wrong with me that I am sitting here wishing my ghost friends would come back?
I shake my head at my own weirdness and drag myself out of bed.
The floor is cool under my bare feet. I pad to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the hot water pour over me.
It washes away the evidence of last night—the stickiness between my thighs, the faint bruises on my hips from his grip, the ache that reminds me exactly how thoroughly he claimed me.
The steam fills the small room, fogging the mirror until I can’t see my reflection anymore, and for a moment I stand under the spray with my eyes closed, letting the heat soak into my bones.
When I finally step out and towel off, I feel more human. More awake. I pull on soft yoga pants and one of Drogo’s oversized t-shirts—his scent still clinging to the fabric—and head downstairs.
The house smells like coffee and gun oil.
Drogo is sitting at the kitchen table in nothing but grey sweatpants, bare-chested, the eight-pointed stars on his collarbones catching the morning light.
He is methodically cleaning a gun with practiced efficiency—disassembling, wiping, reassembling—like it is the most normal thing in the world to do at seven in the morning.
When I appear in the doorway, he looks up.
That devastating smile spreads across his face—the one that still makes my heart skip—and he immediately stands, crossing to me in three long strides.
He kisses me softly, then deeper, his hands sliding around my waist like they belong there.
Before I can catch my breath, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he carries me to the table, setting me down gently in a chair before turning to bring me coffee and a tuna sandwich.
“Oh, coffee!” I say when he places the steaming mug in front of me. He leans down to kiss my forehead while I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic.
“Hey,” I say after the first sip, the bitterness grounding me. “I was thinking of taking a pill or something.”
He pauses, plate in hand, looking at me from across the counter. “What pill?”
“Like… for preventing a pregnancy?” I say it casually, like it is no big deal, but the way Drogo’s eyes immediately darken and turn dangerous tells me I have just stepped on a landmine.
“The hell are you talking about?” His voice is low, sharp, edged with something possessive and raw.
I laugh because what else can I do when he is looking at me like I just suggested burning down an orphanage. “You want a baby?”
“Yes!” He says it loud enough that I blink in surprise.
“You are a mafia boss,” I point out, raising an eyebrow.
“Not yet, but soon. And your point is?”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Ha! A mafia boss is serving me breakfast. I just realized how weird that is.”
He smiles at me—slow, devastating—and sets the plate down in front of me. “Is that so weird?”
“A little. Like, okay, before, you were my Drogo. Now you are all… this.” I gesture at the gun on the table, the stars on his collarbones, the way he moves like a man who has killed and will kill again.
“I am still and always will be your Drogo,” he says seriously. “I know it is bad. But babe, that is our life now.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, the words settling over me like a heavy blanket. “Our life.”
He repeats it slowly, tasting the words. “Our life.” Then, before I can take another sip of coffee, he lifts me up again—what a ridiculous thing to do when I am literally sitting down eating—and kneels in front of me.
What the hell?
“Alena…” He takes a breath, looking at the floor for a second, and I feel my heart start to race. “Damn, I had a speech prepared.” He exhales hard and pulls a black velvet box from his pocket, and oh my god, oh my god, this is happening.
“I know it is not the most romantic scene,” he says, his voice shaking slightly.
“But I know you hate crowds and romantic shit, so…” He opens the box, and I stop breathing.
A huge black diamond sits on an engagement ring—dark and beautiful and absolutely perfect.
He remembered. Ten years ago, I had said to him casually that I will only accept to marry someone if he brings me a black diamond.
A big one. Fuck. I had only said it once.
“I was yours from the moment I saw you,” he continues, his eyes finally meeting mine. “And for seventeen years I was praying that you would be mine.” He takes a broken breath, and I can see his hands trembling. “Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”
I am shocked. Completely, utterly shocked. My legs go weak and I almost slide back to the chair or maybe just the floor. I want to see his face, and I start kneeling in front of him. I can’t stop my smile, but he catches me immediately with one strong arm.
“You kneel to no one,” he says fiercely.
I give him my hand, my voice shaking when I speak. “Yes.”
Are those tears in Drogo’s eyes? Holy shit, he is crying.
Actually crying.
The man who has killed without blinking, who has stared down death like it owed him money, who has built an empire of blood and stars on his skin—has tears sliding down his cheeks.
Silent, slow, like he doesn’t even know they’re there.
His lashes are wet, his blue eyes glassy and bright, and for the first time in seventeen years I see the boy underneath the monster.
The boy who offered me stolen flowers and promised he’d always come back.
He stands slowly, like he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he moves too fast, and takes my hand again.
His fingers tremble as he slides the black diamond onto my finger.
It fits perfectly—dark, dangerous, glittering like a piece of the night sky caught in metal.
He stares at it for a long second, thumb brushing over the stone as if he can’t believe it’s real.
Then he looks up at me.
And he laughs.
It’s a small, broken sound—half sob, half joy—and it cracks something open inside my chest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough and thick. “I thought I’d be calmer than this.”
He laughs again, softer this time, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand like he’s embarrassed. “I’ve killed men without blinking. I’ve stared down Klaus himself. But putting this ring on you? I’m shaking like a damn kid.”
I laugh too—shaky, wet, surprised—and it bubbles up out of me like relief. “You’re crying,” I say, reaching up to brush a tear from his cheek with my thumb. “You big, scary mafia man is crying.”
He catches my wrist gently, presses his lips to my palm. “Yeah, babe. I’m crying.” His voice cracks on the word. “Because I never thought I’d get this. Seventeen years of wanting you, watching you, protecting you from the shadows… and now you’re saying yes. You’re mine. For real. Forever.”
He pulls me up into his arms, crushing me against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. His heart is thundering under my ear, fast and wild, and I can feel the tremor in his shoulders. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling like he’s trying to memorize the scent all over again.
“I’m so fucking happy,” he murmurs against my temple. “You have no idea. I’ve waited my whole life for this. For you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and pull him down for a kiss—slow at first, soft, tasting the salt of his tears.
Then deeper. Harder. Pouring everything I can’t say into it: the years of missing him, the rage when he left, the relief when he came back, the love that never stopped burning even when I tried to hate him.
When we finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in, he smiles—small, devastated, and so damn beautiful it hurts.
“I love you,” he says, voice raw. “More than anything. More than the empire, more than the blood, more than my own life. You’re it for me, Alena. Always have been.”
I smile back, tears stinging my own eyes now. “I love you too,” I whisper. “My monster. My Drogo. My husband.”
He laughs again—quiet, shaky, joyful—and kisses me once more, soft and lingering, like he’s sealing a vow.
And in that moment, with his arms around me, his tears on my skin, and the black diamond heavy on my finger, I realize something simple and terrifying and perfect.
This is real. We’re doing this. We’re getting married.
When we break apart, I push him gently back into the chair and kneel between his legs, my hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants. “Well,” I say, looking up at him as I pull them down to free his cock. “I kneel to one man.”
I pull my shirt off over my head, tossing it aside, and Drogo smiles—a small, devastated smile—as he wraps his fingers in my hair.
I lean forward and take him in my mouth, and his head falls back immediately with a groan. He is already hard—probably has been since the proposal—and I work him slowly at first, taking my time, using my tongue to trace the vein on the underside before swirling around the head.
“Damn,” he breathes, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Babe—”
I take him deeper, as deep as I can manage, and his hips jerk involuntarily. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy. His other hand comes to join the first in my hair, not pushing or controlling, just holding on like he needs the anchor.
I pull back to lick along his shaft, then take him deep again, setting a rhythm that has him groaning and moaning with every movement.
His breathing gets faster, more ragged, and I can feel him getting closer.
I suck harder, move faster, wanting to taste him, wanting to feel him come undone because of me.
“Alena—” he warns, his voice strangled. “I am going to—”
I do not pull away. I take him as deep as I can and suck hard, and he comes with a shout, his whole body shaking as he spills into my mouth.
I swallow everything, then keep sucking gently as he rides out the aftershocks, cleaning him thoroughly while he gasps and trembles above me.
His come is so much it drips on my chin, but I don’t care. I still suck him gently.
He is still trying to catch his breath when the door suddenly opens, and before I can even process what is happening, I am pressed tightly against Drogo’s bare chest, his arm locked around me protectively. His other hand is pointing a gun at the door.
“Sorry, boss!” I hear a male voice stammer, and Drogo barks something in rapid, furious Russian. I can hear the man practically stumbling over himself to leave, and the door slams shut.
Drogo turns his face to mine, still holding me pressed against him. “My love, I am so sorry.” He reaches for my shirt, but first—because of course—he leans down and sucks my nipple into his mouth for a long moment before pulling the fabric down to cover me.
“This will not happen again,” he promises, and then he stands and walks to the door. I hear more Russian—angry, commanding Russian—and I run upstairs laughing because damn, he is possessive.
When I reach the bedroom, I close the door and lean against it, still laughing. Then I look down at my hand, at the black diamond glittering on my finger, and the laughter stops.
Shit. I am officially engaged. To a mafia boss. Who just proposed to me in our kitchen while cleaning a gun. Who wants babies. Who has men walking in on us. Who protects me even when I am naked by pressing me against his chest and pulling a weapon.
I stare at the ring for a long moment, turning my hand to watch the black diamond catch the light. It is beautiful. Dark and dangerous and perfect, just like him. Just like us.
And despite everything—the violence, the danger, the absolute insanity of our lives—I cannot stop smiling.
Because I am going to marry him. My Drogo. My monster. My salvation. And maybe, if the universe is feeling particularly generous, we will actually survive long enough to make it to the wedding.