Chapter 26 Bella
BELLA
By the time we reach the dock, I’ve stopped shivering, and I’m not sure if this is an improvement. For all I know, it might just mean my body has given up on thermoregulation as a concept.
I’m so cold that it feels like someone has replaced my bones with frozen pipes that will never thaw.
A black car idles at the end of the pier, and Alik is waiting for us. Slava had called ahead while we sped away from Don Leo’s yacht. When we get in, I notice that the leather seats have been preheated already.
Slava drapes a blanket over me as he buckles me in. “I’ll have Alik take you home first.”
“No.”
The answer surprises both of us. Slava turns to look at me, and his gray eyes shimmer in the dying light of day, flashing silver then shadow then silver again. There’s a smear of coral pink lipstick on his mouth, and I realize that it came from me when he was saving my life.
Once is an accident. Twice is a habit. And by the third time, it’s an addiction you’ll never quit.
“Bella, are you sure?”
“I am.” My voice cracks. “I don’t want to go home.”
I hate that I sound so pathetic right now. I hate that I’m sitting here in a soaking-wet one-piece with Slava’s towel around my shoulders, hair plastered to my skull and neck like seaweed, mascara running down my cheeks.
I hate that I’m asking the man I want to destroy for comfort.
But I can’t go home.
Tonight, I can’t walk into my apartment and pretend that everything’s fine.
I can’t pick up Anthony from Lydia’s and look him in the eye.
I can’t crawl into my bed alone and lie there in the dark, replaying every second of Don Leo’s hands on me, his cigar forced between my lips, and the way he said I think she likes it, boys while his men laughed on cue.
I can’t be alone right now. I’m afraid to be alone.
“Take me with you.” The words feel like broken glass in my throat. “Please. I just…” I shiver. “I can’t.”
I let my voice trail away into nothing.
Slava looks at me. Not with pity but with something that neither of us is prepared to give a name to. He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I wait for him to say no.
He should say no. I’ve certainly said no to this offer before, and in circumstances that—truthfully speaking—is no less terrifying than this.
But he doesn’t say no. He just nods once, takes my hand in his, and leans over until I’m enveloped in his warmth.
The car continues on its course, and I feel something in my chest unknot.
Just slightly.
But it’ll have to be enough for now.
The ride takes an hour, and I spend most of it curled against Slava’s side like a mouse seeking warmth from a radiator.
I’m aware of how pathetic it is. The stubborn, avenging sister currently clinging to the man she’s supposed to destroy like he’s a very expensive emotional support animal.
If there were a Nobel Prize for self-sabotage, I would be crossing the stage to accept my award right about now.
But his body is warm, and mine hurts.
Not just the obvious places—the back of my skull where Don Leo’s hand connected, but my lungs that still feel scraped raw from the seawater, and my ribs that might be bruised or cracked from the CPR.
But deeper than that is the pain in my bones and soul. In the hollow space behind my mask of defiance and bravery, where something important used to live before I started this whole godforsaken revenge plan.
Slava’s arm is around my shoulders and across my chest. His hand cradles my cheek while his thumb traces the line of my jaw.
I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. The gesture is automatic and thoughtless, like someone soothing a frightened animal.
I take a deep pull of his comforting scent, curl my legs under me, and move just a little bit closer.
Outside the window, the millions of small lives of New York continue to happen behind closed doors. There, no one is drowning, no one is being groped by fat old Mafia bosses, and no one is coming face to face with the reality of playing a dangerous game with stakes almost too high to imagine.
Because that’s what happened tonight.
And it took looking death in the eyes to finally realize that.
They didn’t die so you can follow them to the grave, Bella. Lydia warned me the first night I came face to face with death and walked away because of Slava.
Hell, even Slava warned me when he told me to stop digging.
But did I listen to either of them?
No.
No, I kept digging. I kept following the ghosts of an unchangeable past. And I almost paid the price for it.
Whatever happens next, it’s my fault.
Just like how this all started.
Guilt twists in my belly, and I close my eyes, choosing to dwell on both Slava’s scent overlaid with salt and sweat and the metallic tang of adrenaline, and the comforting warmth from his body that’s now pouring into mine like a drug.
Together, they slowly bring me back to life, and pull me—inch by agonizing inch—from the abyss that I had been so happily staring at and so willingly about to jump into.
Don Leo’s casual assumption that my body was his to use has brought a memory swimming to the surface. One that I’ve fought for too long to suppress for eight long years.
One that set all of us on this path from the very get go. His laugh echoes so loudly that I can barely hear anything else.
Because it’s something I’ve heard before.
Not exactly like this. Not in the same way. But close enough that my nervous system can’t tell the difference. Close enough that I’m right back there eight years ago in that hotel room, waiting for someone to save me—
No.
I slam the door to that memory closed, bolt it shut, and drag a metaphorical dresser in front of it to keep the monstrous memory at bay.
Just in time for the car to pull up to Slava’s building, and everything seems to happen in fragments.
The elevator hurtles its way up, shifting gravity in that familiar way I’ve come to expect. The cold metal walls part, and warm hands guide me inside. Ludmilla’s face flashes a quick surprise when we walk in before Slava says something in Russian.
Then, she nods, bows, and leaves us alone as Slava guides me to his bedroom. He presses his thumb against the lock pad, and a moment later, the door unlatches.
Guilt twists my heart again. But there’s no time for me to dwell on it as he leads me inside.
Like everything else in Slava Romanov’s life—his penthouse, his ego, and the crater his existence has blown through my carefully constructed revenge—his bedroom is enormous.
But I’m not really processing any of it. I’m still somewhere underwater.
“Bella.”
His voice brings me back to reality.
I blink and realize that I’m standing in Slava’s bathroom. He’s in front of me, one hand on my shoulder, and I realize I’ve been staring at nothing for God knows how long. His eyes scan my face with unmistakable concern.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re in shock.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, a little louder than before.
Why? Why am I still so stubborn? Why can’t I accept this tiny sliver of kindness he’s willing to show me, this tiny bit of humanity and truce that we’ve silently agreed upon?
I rub the pad of my thumb, and a list of names silently crosses my mind. You know why.
“You’re not fine,” he says it without judgment or pity. “You nearly drowned. You’re hypothermic. And you’re doing that thing where you pretend nothing’s wrong because you think admitting weakness will kill you.”
I can’t argue with the truth.
He reaches into the shower with multiple showerheads and a built-in bench, and turns the water on.
Steam begins to fill the room.
“Get in,” he says. “And warm up.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait.”
I don’t know why I say it.
He stops.
I’m shaking again. My teeth are chattering. My swimsuit is cold against my skin, salt-stiffened and clinging, and I should let him leave so I can break down in private like a normal person with a healthy sense of self-preservation.
But I don’t want him to leave me by myself with my thoughts.
“Stay,” I hear myself say. “Please. Just stay with me.”
He looks at me.
The steam is thickening between us, blurring his edges. It makes him look less like a monster and more like a man. A man with tired eyes and salt in his hair and my lipstick still smeared on his mouth.
And he stays.
We step into the shower together. Hot water hits my frozen skin, and I shiver at how good it feels.
I stand there under the spray and let it wash away the salt, the fear, and the memory of Don Leo. Slava is beside me, water streaming down his brow. For a long moment that’s all we can do: just stand and let the water pour over us without a word.
Finally, I find my voice. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is.” In ways you can’t even imagine. “I shouldn’t have—I was reckless. I was stupid.”
“Bella.” His hands frame my face, tilting it up toward his. Water streams down between us. “This isn’t on you. I brought you there. I put you in danger.”
“I lied.” The words come out before I can stop them.
He goes still.
“Nico didn’t invite me,” I continue, because apparently my survival instincts have taken the night off. “I made it up when you asked me if I was fucking him. I was mad at you, and I wanted to piss you off.”
Something flickers in his gray eyes. I wait for his rage and his coldness—for the monster I know and hate to re-emerge.
But he just exhales slowly. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“How can it not matter?”
“Because that’s all in the past, and because you’re alive.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, achingly gentle. “Nothing else matters except that. Not even your lies.”
I stare at him. But he’s wrong. The past has this terrifying ability to reach back and touch you in the present in the worst possible way. He has no idea what I’ve done. And I have no idea what the consequences of my actions will be.
The guilt is choking me. It’s wrapping around my throat and squeezing until I can no longer breathe.
Unable to meet his eyes, I look down at his scarred and inked body.
“What would you do if I betrayed you?”
The question falls out of my mouth like a stone.
Slava’s hands take my chin gently and tilt me up until I’m looking at him now. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Aren’t enemies supposed to betray each other?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Water pitter-patters against the marble. Steam curls between us like secrets. And every breath he exhales, I inhale greedily into my lungs.
“Are we still enemies?” he asks.
“If we aren’t enemies, what are we?”
His eyes search my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for—truth? Lies? The crack in my armor that will let him see everything I’m hiding? Slowly, his eyes harden, but the monster still refuses to return.
I wonder if this afternoon has killed that monster off for good.
“If you ever betray me, malyshka,” he says softly. “Then you’ll wish you were still my enemy.”
The words terrify me, but not in the way that they would have a few weeks ago. They also do something else—something darker, hungrier, and more shameful than anything I’ve felt before. They move through my blood like smoke and settle in places that no other words and no other man has ever reached.
I hold his gaze, and he holds mine.
Then, he leaps the gap and kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s not a kiss you give someone you’re trying to comfort.
It’s a kiss you give someone you want to claim, all teeth and tongue and coiled tension that have finally snapped.
I kiss him back.
My hands flatten against his chest. His hands tangle in my hair. The water pours over us. I taste salt—from the sea, from my tears, and from whatever disaster we’re careening toward at full speed—and I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything except the way his mouth moves against mine, demanding and desperate and everything that I can possibly want in this moment.
And all around us, hatred and attraction swirl.
All the circling, sparring, and endless push and pull have led us to this moment right here. Here, in the water, and in each other’s arms, the distance shrinks into nothing until I can’t tell where I end and where he begins.
And the only thing I know for certain is that I’m kissing my enemy.
I’m kissing my brother’s killer.
I’m kissing the man I swore I’d destroy.
And God help me—
I never want to stop.