Chapter 11
Izzy
"I can't sleep."
My voice cuts through the darkness, and I hate how small it sounds. Vulnerable. Like admitting insomnia is admitting defeat.
Sergei's lying beside me—close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him, but far enough so that our bodies aren't touching. The space between us might as well be a chasm. Charged. Dangerous. Begging to be crossed.
We've been like this for over an hour. Both pretending to sleep while hyperaware of every breath, every shift, every moment the sheets rustle and we don't accidentally touch.
This is torture.
Mila's asleep down the hall, her door cracked open the way she likes it. The house is quiet, except for distant traffic and my pulse hammering loud enough that Sergei can probably hear it.
"Neither can I," he finally admits.
I turn onto my side, facing him. Moonlight filters through the blinds, painting silver across his profile. Sharp jaw. Silver threading through dark hair. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow that I traced with my tongue four nights ago.
Don't think about that.
Too late. Already thinking about it.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something real."
He shifts, mirroring my position. Those slate eyes find mine in the shadows. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Your Bratva years. What you did. Who you were before Mila and pancakes and this—" I gesture at the bed, the room, the domestic life he's built. "Before you became someone who makes his daughter breakfast."
"That's not a bedtime story."
"I don't want a bedtime story." I move closer.
Dangerous. The sheets slip, my tank top—his tank top that I stole from his drawer—rides up, and his eyes drop to exposed skin before he forces them back to my face.
"You know everything about me. My inheritance, my family, my dead father.
I know nothing, except you kill people without hesitation. "
The silence stretches.
I think he's going to deflect. Shut down. Put distance between us.
Then his hand finds mine in the darkness. Fingers threading through mine. Gentle. At odds with everything he is.
"I was fifteen," he says quietly, "when I made my first kill."
My breath stops.
"Pakhan's nephew was being extorted by Chechen gangsters. They came to collect at a club in Brighton Beach—small place, back room where they did business." His thumb traces circles on my palm. Grounding. "I was supposed to be watching the door. That's it. Just watch."
"What happened?"
"Three men walked in." Pause. "Two walked out."
The third. Fifteen-year-old Sergei. Blood on his hands for the first time.
"The Pakhan saw potential. Smart kid, no hesitation, willing to do what needed doing." His voice goes flat. Reciting facts like they happened to someone else. "By eighteen, I was his enforcer. By twenty-five, I was The Wolf. The guy you called when someone needed to disappear. Permanently."
I squeeze his hand. Feel the calluses. The strength. The hands that have killed dozens—hundreds?—and are now holding mine, like I'm something precious.
"How many?" I have to know.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered."
"I want answers. All of them."
He pulls our joined hands to his chest. My palm presses against his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Alive despite the body count.
"Enough so that I stopped counting," he finally says. "Enough that I still wake up most nights with blood on my hands. Phantom blood. Gone when I look, but I can still feel it. Still smell it."
The confession lands heavy.
This man. This dangerous, violent man who kills without hesitation.
Has nightmares.
Feels guilt.
I shift closer, eliminating the space entirely. My forehead rests against his. His breath ghosts across my lips.
"My father used to take me sailing." My turn. Fair exchange. "Before Mother decided it was too dangerous for the Davenport heiress. He'd point at the horizon and tell me that's where freedom lived. Just past where water meets sky."
Sergei's quiet. Listening.
"Now I dream about water and fire. The explosion. Him drowning while the boat burns. Or burning while he drowns. I can never tell which. But I'm always there. Always watching. And I can never reach him." My voice cracks. "I can never save him."
His free hand slides into my hair. Cradles the back of my head. Pulls me closer until there's no space left between us.
"I think my mother knows." The words tumble out. "Who killed him. The way she panicked when I told her about us. The fear in her voice. She's terrified of you, Sergei. Which means she knows something. Something bad enough that The Wolf scares her."
His grip tightens in my hair. Not painful. Possessive. "I'll find out what."
"I know you will." I press closer. Bodies flush now. Every point of contact sending awareness through me—his chest against mine, his legs tangled with mine, his hand in my hair. "I hired a PI today, Wesley Cahill. Best in the business. He's going to investigate the explosion."
"Good." His mouth brushes my forehead. Barely making contact. "But you should've told me first."
"Why? So you could do it yourself?"
"So I could protect you while you dig up whatever your family buried." His lips trail to my temple. My cheekbone. Hover near the corner of my mouth. "People who commit murder don't appreciate investigators, kotyonok."
"Then it's lucky I married someone who kills them back."
The sound he makes—half growl, half laugh—vibrates through both of us.
"You're either the bravest woman I've ever met," he murmurs, "or the most reckless."
"Can't I be both?"
His mouth captures mine.
This kiss. This slow, deliberate, devastating kiss.
Not desperate, like the window. Not grief-fueled, like before. This is Sergei taking his time. Learning me. Memorizing the taste of me, like he plans to keep it.
His tongue traces my lower lip and I open. Let him in. Let him consume me.
We don't escalate.
Just kiss. Hands exploring over clothes with something closer to reverence than lust. His palm slides under my tank top—his tank top—fingers splaying across my ribcage. Feeling my heart slam against his touch.
"Tell me more," I breathe against his mouth. I need to know. I need to understand this man I've bound myself to. "About who you were."
"I was empty." He admits between kisses, between soft touches that make me ache. "Violence was all I knew. Kill, collect payment, repeat. No attachments. No weaknesses. The Wolf doesn't have a pack. He hunts alone."
"And now?"
His hand tightens on my ribs. "Now I have a daughter who thinks I hung the moon. An ex-wife who wants to take her away. And a wife who sees more than the monster."
"Sounds complicated."
"Sounds like a life worth protecting."
He rolls me onto my back. His weight settles over me, and I feel every inch of him through our clothes. Hard muscle. Controlled strength. Those grey eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes breathing optional.
I arch into him. Wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him closer, even though closer is impossible.
"You saved my life," I whisper. "Twice now."
"That's just violence pointed at different targets." His hips rock against mine, and we both groan. "Same monster. New purpose."
"My monster."
Something breaks in his expression. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air. His hand slides up my thigh, under the edge of my—his—shorts, and I'm ready to beg, ready to say fuck Mila being down the hall, ready for anything—
He stops.
Pulls back.
Rests his forehead against mine with his eyes closed.
"We can't." The words sound torn from him. "Not tonight."
"Why?" I'm not above begging at this point.
"Because Mila's down the hall." His eyes open. Storm grey. Filled with want and restraint in equal measure. "Because when I have you again—and I will have you again—I want to hear you scream my name without worrying about waking my daughter."
My entire body is on fire.
"Sergei—"
"Soon." He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. Tucking me against his side. His arm bands around me, holding me close enough that I can feel his heart still racing. "But tonight we just... be this."
"Be what?"
"Two broken people trying to sleep without nightmares."
I press my ear to his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Steady despite everything. Despite the blood he's spilled, the people he's killed, the darkness he's lived in.
"My father used to say everyone deserves grace." I trace patterns on his chest. Over his heart. "Even monsters."
"Your father was a better man than I'll ever be."
"He liked you. Said you were honest about what you are. That's rarer than you think."
Sergei reaches across me. Opens the nightstand drawer. I'd put Dad's lighter in there after our chess game—old habits, needing it close even when I'm not holding it.
He pulls it out. Sets it on the nightstand beside his gun and phone.
Gold and scorched and sacred.
A talisman. A reminder. A promise I made to a dead man.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Sleep, kotyonok."
I close my eyes. Breathe in earth and safety.
His heartbeat drums beneath my ear. Steady. Sure. Alive.
Outside, the city continues. Traffic and sirens and life moving forward without caring about our complications.
But here, in this darkness, with Sergei's arm around me and my father's lighter keeping watch, I finally feel something I haven't felt since Dad died.
Safe.
Not because I'm protected.
Because I'm not alone.