Chapter 9
Izzy
The door closes behind us, and I still can't let go of his hand.
My fingers are locked around his like he's the only solid thing in a world that just showed me its teeth.
Twenty minutes ago, I watched him kill a man.
Watched him press his forearm against a throat and hold until the struggling stopped.
Watched death happen in real time, up close, brutal and necessary.
I should be horrified.
I should be calling the police, a therapist, anyone who can explain why I'm standing in a killer's kitchen still holding his hand instead of running.
But I'm not running.
I'm not letting go.
"Izzy." His voice is low, careful. The voice you use with wild animals or women on the verge of breaking. "You should sit down. Drink something. The adrenaline crash is going to—"
"I don't want to sit down."
"Then what do you want?"
The question hangs between us. I look at him—really look. Blood drying on his shirt. Knuckles split from the fight. Silver threading through dark hair that's fallen across his forehead. Those slate-grey eyes, watching me like I'm a bomb he's trying to defuse.
He killed someone tonight.
For me.
Put a man in the ground without hesitation because that man was going to hurt me. And now he's standing here, violence still humming under his skin, asking what I want like my answer matters more than anything else in this moment.
"You." The word comes out raw. Honest. "I want you."
His jaw tightens. "You're in shock."
"No." I step closer, releasing his hand only to press my palm flat against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my touch—proof he's not as controlled as he pretends.
"I'm awake. For the first time in months, maybe years, I'm actually awake.
And I want to feel something that isn't fear or grief or this constant waiting for the next disaster. "
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." I fist my hand in his bloody shirt. "Don't tell me this is a bad idea. Don't tell me I need rest or water or time to process. I know what I need. I need you to stop treating me like I'm fragile and start treating me like I'm yours."
Something shifts in his eyes. The careful distance evaporating, replaced by heat that makes my stomach clench.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
For three heartbeats, he doesn't move. Just stands there, every muscle coiled, fighting some internal battle I can't see. I think he's going to walk away. Going to be noble and protective and all the things that make him infuriating.
Then his hand fists in my hair and his mouth crashes into mine.
This isn't gentle. This isn't careful. This is weeks of tension igniting, fear transforming into hunger, two people who almost died claiming proof of life from each other's bodies.
He tastes like violence and desperation. His tongue invades my mouth, and I open for him, moaning against his lips, my hands scrambling at his shirt. I need it off. Need to feel skin instead of blood-stained fabric.
"Upstairs," I gasp between kisses.
"Can't wait that long."
He lifts me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion, stepping between my thighs. The cold granite shocks through my jeans, but his hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my face, sliding under my jacket to grip my waist—and I can't think about anything except getting closer.
"This okay?" he asks against my mouth, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.
"Yes. God, yes."
He strips the shirt over my head, then the bra, exposing me to the cool kitchen air. For a second, he just looks. Those grey eyes tracing every curve like he's memorizing me for later.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "Fucking beautiful."
Then his mouth is on my breast, and I stop thinking entirely.
He sucks one nipple while his thumb works the other, rolling and pinching until I'm arching into him, hands fisted in his hair. The pleasure is sharp, almost painful, exactly what I need to anchor me to this moment instead of the violence that came before.
"More," I demand. "I need more."
He growls against my skin—actually growls—and lifts me off the counter. My legs wrap around his waist automatically. He carries me toward the stairs, still kissing me, somehow navigating without looking.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
Halfway up the stairs, he presses me against the wall, grinding between my thighs. I can feel how hard he is through our clothes, and the knowledge that I did that, that he wants me this badly, makes me dizzy.
"Bedroom," I manage. "Now. Before I combust."
"Demanding."
"You like it."
His smile is dark, promising. "I do."
He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door bangs open, and then I'm on my back on sheets that smell like him, watching as he strips off the bloody shirt and reveals the body underneath.
Christ.
Tattoos cover his chest, his arms, snake up his neck. Wolves and roses and words in a language I don't understand. Scars interrupt the ink—puckered lines that speak of knives, of bullets, of a life that tried to kill him and failed.
He's terrifying.
He's beautiful.
He's mine.
"See something you like?" He echoes my words from the park; the teasing edge sharpened now with something darker.
"Take off your pants, and I'll show you exactly what I like."
He obliges. Belt unbuckling, zipper sliding down, jeans and boxers dropping to the floor. He's thick, hard, already leaking at the tip, and the sight makes my mouth water.
"Your turn." He moves over me, hands finding my waistband. "Up."
I lift my hips and he peels the jeans down my legs, taking my underwear with them. Then we're both naked, skin to skin, nothing between us except the heat we're generating.
"I need to taste you." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Been thinking about it for days. Every time you steal my coffee. Every time you hum in the shower. Wondering if you taste as sweet as you smell."
"Then find out."
He kisses down my body—throat, collarbone, the space between my breasts. His tongue traces my navel, dips lower, and I'm trembling before he even reaches his destination.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out.
He eats me like a man starving, like I'm the only thing keeping him alive. Long, slow licks alternating with focused pressure on my clit. His fingers join his mouth—one sliding inside, then two, curling to find the spot that makes my vision go white.
"Sergei—" I'm gasping, hands fisted in the sheets, hips rolling against his face. "I'm going to—"
"That's the point." He seals his lips around my clit and sucks.
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me, wave after wave of release that leaves me boneless and shaking. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs.
"Good?" he asks, chin glistening.
"Get up here."
He crawls up my body, and I pull him down for a kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. It should be dirty, obscene. Instead, it feels intimate in a way that makes my chest ache.
"I need you inside me." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Now."
He positions himself at my entrance but doesn't push in. Just holds there, tip teasing my slick folds, watching my face with an intensity that makes me squirm.
"Sergei. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me." I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Stop teasing and fuck me."
He enters me in one deep thrust.
The stretch is perfect—full, almost too much, exactly what I need. I cry out, back arching off the bed, and he stills to let me adjust. His jaw is tight with the effort of not moving, every muscle trembling.
"Okay?" His voice is strained.
"Move. For the love of God, move."
He pulls back slow, then drives forward hard. Sets a rhythm that's relentless, punishing, each stroke hitting deep enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. The headboard slams against the wall. The bed creaks in protest. Neither of us cares.
"You feel incredible." He's panting against my neck, words rough and ragged. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
"Harder."
He obeys. Hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle so he hits even deeper. I'm moaning constantly now; nonsense sounds that might be his name or might be prayers or might be nothing at all.
"Touch yourself," he commands. "Want to feel you come around my cock."
My hand slides between us. I find my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks me, and the dual sensation builds the pressure impossibly fast.
"Close," I gasp. "So close—"
"Come for me, Isabelle." His eyes lock on mine. "Let me see you fall apart."
I obey.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first, my entire body seizing around him. I scream his name, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood, and he follows seconds later—burying himself to the hilt and groaning my name like it's the only word he knows.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. He's still inside me, softening slowly, and I can't bring myself to let him go. My legs stay locked around his waist. My hands stay pressed to his back, feeling the scratches I left.
"I'm sorry about your back," I murmur against his shoulder.
"Don't be." He presses a kiss to my temple. "I'll wear them like badges."
"Possessive."
"You have no idea."
We lie there for minutes or hours, time losing meaning in the darkness. Eventually, he rolls to the side, pulling me with him, arranging us so I'm tucked against his chest. His arm wraps around my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear.
I trace the tattoos on his forearm. Wolves and thorns and something in Cyrillic I still can't read.
"What does this say?"
"It's complicated."
"Try me."
He's quiet for a beat. "It says 'The wolf does not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.' Old Bratva saying. Got it after my first year with the organization. Thought it made me untouchable."
"Did it?"
"For a while." His hand slides into my hair, stroking gently. "Then I had Mila. And suddenly the opinions of one very small sheep mattered more than anything else in the world."
My heart cracks open a little further.
"You're a good father."
"I'm a dangerous father. Different thing."
"No." I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "You're both. Dangerous to anyone who threatens her. Good to her. That's exactly what a father should be."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. He's not used to people seeing him clearly. Not used to acceptance without conditions.
I want to give him that. Want to be the person who sees the monster and the man and doesn't ask him to choose between them.
I reach over to the nightstand and grab Dad's lighter. The gold gleams in the darkness, scorched but whole. I hold it between us, thumb tracing the familiar engraving.
"My father gave me this," I say quietly. "The day I graduated from college. It was his father's before him. He said it was a reminder that Davenports carry fire with them. That we don't wait for someone else to light the way."
"Richard Davenport sounds like a good man."
"He was." My voice catches. "He was good and kind, and he tried to use his money to help people instead of hoarding it. And someone killed him for it. Blew up his boat and made it look like an accident because he threatened their greed."
Sergei's arm tightens around me. "We'll find out who. Make them pay."
"I know." I set the lighter on his nightstand next to his gun. Fire and violence side by side. "That's why I married you. Not just for protection. Because I knew you'd help me burn them down."
"Is that all I am? A weapon?"
"No." I curl closer, my hand finding his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat.
"You're the man who killed for me tonight without hesitation.
Who carried me home and asked what I needed instead of telling me what I should feel.
You're not a weapon, Sergei. You're the first person in months who's made me feel like I might survive this. "
His breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough to tell me the words landed.
"This wasn't supposed to be real," he says quietly. "The marriage. The arrangement. It was business."
"Do you want it to stay business?"
Silence stretches between us. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, can see the war playing out behind his eyes. He's scared. The Wolf is actually scared of what he's feeling.
Good.
I'm scared, too.
"No." The word comes out rough, raw. "I don't want it to stay business. I want—" He stops. Starts again. "I want to know what it feels like to have something real. Even if it destroys me later."
"It won't destroy you." I rise up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "We might destroy everything else. But not each other. Our only rule is 'not each other.'"
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Deal."
"Deal."
We kiss again—slower this time, deeper, a promise instead of a collision. When we break apart, I settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow.
My eyes are heavy. The adrenaline crash finally hitting, exhaustion pulling me under. I should fight it. Should stay awake to process everything that happened, everything that's changing between us.
But I feel safe.
For the first time since Dad died, I feel actually, genuinely safe.
"Sergei?"
"Hmm?"
"I sleep better when you're there." The words come out mumbled, half lost to the drowsiness dragging me down. "Just so you know."
His arm tightens around me. His lips press against my hair.
"Then I'm not going anywhere."
I fall asleep with his heartbeat beneath my ear, and his promise wrapped around me like armor.
Outside, Brooklyn continues—sirens and traffic and the ordinary violence of a city that doesn't know what happened tonight.
Inside, a killer holds me while I dream of fire.
And for the first time, I don't wake up afraid.