Chapter 18
Sergei
"She's asleep."
Izzy's voice is soft from where she's standing at the kitchen sink, staring out at the dark backyard like the answers to the universe are hiding in the shadows.
"Good." I close the distance between us, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood. "The doctor said she'll be okay. Just a severe reaction to something she ate. They're running more tests to figure out what."
"I kept thinking—" Her voice cracks and she stops, gripping the edge of the sink. "What if I hadn't been there? What if she'd been alone, or with someone who didn't know to bring her in right away?"
"But you were there." I reach out, my hand finding the small of her back. She's trembling. "You saved her, Izzy."
"I was terrified." She turns to face me, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, but fierce. "She was so small in that hospital bed. So pale. And Elena was screaming at me, and I couldn't think past the monitor beeping and wondering if you'd make it in time—"
I pull her against my chest before she can finish.
She collapses into me like her strings have been cut, her face buried in my shoulder, and I feel the moment she stops holding it together.
Her hands fist in my shirt, her breathing goes ragged, and she's shaking so hard I tighten my arms to keep her upright.
"I've got you, kotyonok," I murmur into her hair. "Let it out."
"I don't—I can't—" But she does. Not crying, exactly. More like the adrenaline finally crashing, her body remembering it's allowed to break now that the crisis is over.
I hold her through it. My hand moves in slow circles on her back, my other hand cradling the back of her head, and I press my lips to her temple. Her pulse hammers against my chest, gradually slowing as the shaking subsides.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are wet but clear. "Sorry. That was—"
"Human. You held it together for hours. You're allowed to fall apart now."
"I'm supposed to be strong. The composed Davenport heiress who doesn't crack under pressure."
"You were strong. You are strong." I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You got my daughter to the hospital. You stood up to Elena. You held Mila's hand while she was scared and made her feel safe. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen."
Her breath catches. "Sergei—"
"I mean it." My thumb traces her lower lip, watching her pupils dilate.
"When I walked into that hospital room and saw you standing there, protecting her from Elena, looking like you'd fight God himself to keep her safe—" I stop, the words catching in my throat.
"I've never wanted someone the way I want you. "
Heat flashes across her face. "We shouldn't. Mila's just down the hall—"
"Asleep." I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. "And you need this. Need to feel alive after spending hours thinking about death."
"How do you know what I need?" But her hands are already sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt.
"Because I need it, too." I capture her mouth in a kiss that's meant to be gentle, controlled, but the second her lips part under mine, control goes out the window.
She kisses me back with desperation, with leftover fear transforming into hunger. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt, and I groan, backing her against the counter. My hands find her waist, sliding under her shirt and the feel of her bare skin makes my brain short-circuit.
"Bedroom," she gasps against my mouth. "Not the kitchen. Not with Mila—"
"Agreed." I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically, and carry her toward the stairs. She's kissing my neck, my jaw, that spot behind my ear that makes me see stars, and I nearly trip on the bottom step.
"Graceful," she teases, breathless.
"Shut up." But I'm grinning as I kick open our bedroom door and lay her on the bed.
She looks up at me, black hair spread across my pillow, blue eyes dark with want, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her shirt has ridden up, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, and I can see the goosebumps rising on her skin.
I kiss her again, and she melts into it with a sound that goes straight to my cock.
Her bra is black lace, simple but elegant, and her nipples pebble under my thumbs. I lean down, taking one into my mouth through the fabric, and she arches off the bed with a gasp.
"Sergei—"
I move to the other side, giving it the same attention, until she's writhing beneath me, her hips rocking against mine, searching for friction. Only then do I slide down her body, kissing a trail down her stomach until I reach the waistband of her jeans.
"Off," I command, and she lifts her hips without hesitation.
I peel the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside. Her panties match the bra—more black lace that barely covers anything. I can already see how wet she is, the fabric dark and clinging to her folds.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and slowly pull them down, baring her to me completely. She's beautiful—already slick and swollen, glistening in the lamplight, and the sight makes my mouth water.
I settle between her thighs, kissing her inner knee, her thigh, making her wait. Making her squirm. Only when she's whimpering my name do I give her what she wants.
My tongue traces her folds, slow and deliberate. Her hips buck, her hands fisting in the sheets, and I do it again. And again. Learning her, memorizing her responses.
When I finally take her clit into my mouth, she comes undone. Her thighs clamp around my head, her body arching off the bed, and I taste her release—sweet and salty and uniquely Izzy.
I don't stop. I work her through the orgasm, building her back up again, until she's pleading with me, her nails digging into my scalp.
"Please, Sergei, I need—you—"
I rise up over her, shedding my clothes in record time. She watches through hooded eyes, her breathing still ragged, and reaches for me as I position myself at her entrance.
"Now," she whispers. "Don't make me wait."
I enter her in one slow, deep thrust, and we both groan. She's so tight, so wet, and the feeling of her surrounding me is better than I remembered. Better than anything.
I start to move, slow at first, then faster, harder. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, her hips rising to meet each thrust. Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my back, gripping my ass like she's trying to pull me impossibly closer.
"Look at me," I demand, and her eyes flutter open, blue and dark and dazed. "Stay with me."
"I'm here," she gasps. "I'm right here."
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing in small circles that make her clench around me.
"Come for me, Isabelle." I lean down, my lips brushing against hers. "I want to feel you."
That's all it takes. She shatters beneath me, her body convulsing, her inner muscles milking my cock as she cries out my name. I follow her over the edge with a growl, burying myself balls-deep as I pour into her.
We lie tangled together afterward. Our bodies are slick with sweat. We're breathing hard in the darkness. I roll onto my side, pulling her with me. I'm not ready to break the connection yet.
I trace patterns on her back, enjoying the smoothness of her skin, the delicate curve of her spine. She's quiet, her head resting on my chest, her heartbeat gradually slowing to match mine.
This is dangerous. So much more dangerous than the Bratva, than Matthew Ashford, than all the enemies I've ever faced. This thing between us is growing, getting enough power to destroy me. But I can't pull away. Don't want to.
"Hey," she whispers, her voice husky. "You still awake?"
"Unfortunately," I murmur into her hair. "Can't sleep with the Davenport heiress naked in my bed."
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. "The feeling's mutual."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the house settling and the distant hum of traffic. I run my fingers through her hair, enjoying the simple act of touching her.
At this very moment, all I need and want is her.
Her breathing slows. Deepens. I think she's finally drifting off when her phone buzzes on the nightstand.
She tenses against me, that brief relaxation evaporating like smoke. "It's late. Who would—"
"Check it."
She reaches over, squinting at the screen. Her face goes pale in the blue glow.
"Wesley."
Something cold spreads through my chest. Wesley doesn't call at midnight with good news. Wesley calls at midnight when the world's about to burn.
"Answer it."
She does, putting it on speaker. "Wesley. What's wrong?"
"Sorry for the late call." His voice is too careful. Too measured. "But I just got off the phone with a contact at the hospital. The lab flagged something in Mila's blood work. They're running additional tests."
Izzy's hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "Flagged what?"
"The markers don't match standard food contaminants. They're testing for specific toxins." A pause that stretches too long. "The kind that don't end up in school lunches by accident."
The room tilts.
I'm sitting up before I register moving, Izzy's hand still locked in mine. "You're saying someone poisoned my daughter."
"I'm saying the hospital's testing for it. Results should be back tomorrow, maybe the day after." Wesley exhales. "I don't want to jump to conclusions. Could be nothing. Could be some unusual reaction they haven't identified. But given everything—"
"Given that Matthew's been trying to kill my wife for weeks."
"Yeah. Given that."
Izzy's breathing too fast beside me. I can feel her pulse hammering where our hands connect, can see the terror in her eyes that she's trying to swallow down.
"Call me the second you know something," I tell Wesley. "And I need you to expedite those results. I know people. Use them. Money's not an object."
"Already working on it. I'll be in touch."
The line goes dead.
Silence fills the bedroom like a held breath. Outside, the city continues—traffic, sirens, life moving forward without knowing that my world just cracked down the middle.
"Sergei." Izzy's voice is small. Fractured. "If Matthew did this. If he touched her, hurt her—"
"Then he's dead." The words are rough. Cold. The Wolf waking up beneath my skin. "I don't care about evidence. Don't care about trials. Don't care if it takes the rest of my life. He's dead."
"We don't know for certain—"
"We know enough." I turn to face her, cupping her jaw in my palm. Her eyes are wet with tears she's refusing to let fall. "My daughter was in that hospital vomiting blood. Your uncle's been trying to kill you for weeks. If this is connected—if he used Mila to send a message—"
"Then we end him." Her voice hardens, the fear crystallizing into something sharper. Something I recognize because I see it in my own reflection. "Together. We end him."
"Together."
She reaches for the nightstand. For a second, I think she's going for her phone again, but her fingers close around something else.
The lighter.
Gold and scorched and the only piece of her father she has left.
She doesn't flip it open. Just holds it against her chest, metal warm from sitting near the lamp, and I watch something shift in her expression. Grief becoming resolve. Fear becoming fury.
"He poisoned my daughter." The words come out quiet. Lethal. Not his daughter. Not Sergei's daughter.
My daughter.
"We don't know—"
"I know." She meets my eyes, and the woman looking back isn't the polished heiress I fake-married.
Isn't the grieving daughter still learning to aim?
This is something else. Something dangerous.
"I know, and tomorrow we'll have proof, and then Matthew Ashford finds out what happens when you hurt what's mine. "
I pull her against me, her back to my chest, the lighter still clutched in her fist. My arms wrap around her like armor. Like a promise.
Outside, Brooklyn sleeps.
Inside, we lie awake, planning violence.
"Try to rest," I murmur against her hair. "Tomorrow, we find out for certain. Then we move."
"And if it's confirmed? If he really—"
"Then we burn him, kotyonok. Burn him until there's nothing left but ash and regret."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, so soft I almost miss it:
"Good."
The lighter gleams in the darkness.
And I hold my wife and think about all the ways I'm going to make Matthew Ashford die.