33. Sinking, Drowning, Rising Mila
I wake up to the world finally making sense. For the first time in what feels like forever, my thoughts are clear. The fog that clung to me for days has finally lifted. My body is still heavy, sluggish, but it’s mine again. I’m here.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the silence. Heavy, suffocating. The kind that sinks into your skin and makes you question if you’re really alive. The room smells like flowers. Pink, purple, and white petals everywhere. I can tell the Bratva women sent them. How sweet.
I feel the ache in my shoulder, the dull throb in my temples, and the heaviness in my chest. I feel everything.
And then I feel him.
My arm is trapped beneath the weight of Rafael’s head, his dark hair a chaotic mess that tells me he’s been clawing at it, over and over, like he’s been trying to keep himself from falling apart.
Guilt twists in my stomach.
I lift my free hand to touch him, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder. My fingers weave into his hair and I rake them through the tangled strands. His head jerks up immediately, his bloodshot eyes locking on mine.
There’s nothing soft about the way he looks at me. His gaze is feral, ravenous, like he’s been starving for something only I can give him.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me, unblinking, his hand reaching up to trace my face. His fingers are rough, but his touch is so delicate it almost breaks me.
“You’re back,” he murmurs, his voice thick with disbelief.
I frown. “Back?”
“To me,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t remember much beyond the crushing weight of wanting it all to stop. To end. He looks like he’s been to hell and back—and barely survived the trip.
He reaches for a glass of water on the nightstand and brings it to my lips. I try to take it from him, but he tuts. “Don’t.”
So I let him. I let him hold the glass as I drink, the cool water soothing my parched throat. When I’m done, he sets the glass down and leans in, his forehead pressing against mine.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he growls.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening. “I—”
“No.” His hand moves to my jaw, gripping it just firmly enough to keep me still. “You don’t get to explain. Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Mila?” He says. “Watching them pump life back into you. Wondering if you’d even make it through the night. Thinking—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t care what was in your head. I don’t care what you thought you needed. If you ever try to leave me like that again, I will lose what’s left of my fucking soul.”
My heart pounds painfully in my chest.
“I’d burn the world to the ground,” he continues with desperation. “I’d hunt down every goddamn person who failed you—myself included—and I’d make them pay. You don’t get to leave me. Not ever.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Sorry won’t fix this,” he snaps, his forehead pressing harder against mine. “Sorry won’t erase the image of you lying there, hurt, like some goddamn angel who thought she could escape this hell without me. You think you can run from me, Kroshka ? Even in death, I’d follow you. I’d drag you back screaming if I had to.”
His words are dark, terrifying, and yet there’s something unshakably honest in them.
“I won’t,” I manage to promise. “I won’t ever do that again.”
His eyes bore into mine, searching for something, and after a long, agonizing moment, he nods. “You swear it,” he demands. “Say it.”
“I swear.”
He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for days. His hand falls from my jaw and he leans back just enough to look at me fully.
“You have no idea what it was like,” he says. “To think I’d lost you. It would’ve destroyed me, Mila. There wouldn’t have been anything left of me. You don’t get to do that to me. Do you hear me? You. Don’t. Get. To.”
His lips crash against mine in a kiss that’s more punishment than affection, a reminder of everything I almost took away.
And yet, as overwhelming as it all is, I feel grounded for the first time in what feels like forever.
I shouldn’t have hurt myself. I have more power than I know. And that’s why I’ll leave. I’ll leave him, the mafia, and the past, all of it. But not today. Not when he’s this close to breaking, and not when I’m still too tired to stand.
For now, I let him hold me. Let him keep me.
The ache in my shoulder is nothing compared to the pressure building in my bladder. I shift slightly in bed, wincing as the movement pulls at sore muscles. “I need to pee,” I mumble.
Rafael’s arm tightens around my waist like a vice. He lifts me up with a terrifying ease, his other hand expertly maneuvering the IV pole like it’s an extension of his body.
“Rafael, I can walk,” I protest weakly, but my words dissolve as I bury my nose in the crook of his neck. He smells like dark wood, smoke, and something that’s distinctly him.
He carries me into the bathroom, setting me down like I’m made of glass. I wait for him to leave, but he leans casually against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on me.
“Rafael,” I say through gritted teeth. “Leave.”
“Hell no.”
“You can pass out,” he justifies. “You can fall and hit your head. You can—” He cuts himself off, his fists clenching like he’s holding something back.
I know exactly what he’s implying.
“I already told you,” I snap, anger bubbling under my skin. “It was a lapse in judgment. I swore I wouldn’t ever do it again.”
I regretted it as soon as the gun went off. It’s not like me, not at all. I can’t even explain why I did it. I just… snapped, I guess. Felt like everything was crashing down and I didn’t know how to handle it. It was a moment of pure desperation, nothing more. I’d never do that again. It’s not who I am. But at that moment? I was just drowning. I’m done sinking—whatever it takes, I’m getting myself to the shore.
He nods, but he doesn’t move.
“I’m not peeing in front of you, Rafael.”
He raises an eyebrow, a shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Who do you think’s been helping you these past few days?”
My heart stops, my pride splintering into jagged pieces. “What?”
“Who do you think’s been helping you to the bathroom?” he repeats, his voice calm, as if he’s stating the weather.
The realization crashes over me like ice water. “Why didn’t you get one of the nurses to help?” I screech.
“No one sees my woman like that,” he says simply.
I roll my eyes. “It could’ve been a female nurse, Rafael.”
“Female, male—it doesn’t matter.” His gaze darkens. “No one touches you like that. No one takes care of you like that. Only me.”
I glare at him, but it’s pointless. Knowing I’m not winning this, I sit down, avoiding his gaze as I do what I need to do.
When I’m finished, he’s there, handing me toilet paper like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The humiliation burns through me as I flush the toilet and move to the sink.
As I wash my hands, something catches my attention. My skin isn’t grimy, my hair isn’t matted, and I don’t feel the way I expected after days in bed. My brows furrow.
“Did you… bathe me?” I ask.
He steps closer, his reflection towering over mine in the mirror. “I take care of what’s mine, Kroshka.”
“You’re mine,” he continues. “I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone else touch you. So, yes, I bathed you. I cleaned every part of you with my hands, and I’ll do it again if I have to. Because that’s what I do, Mila. I take care of you. Even when you don’t want me to.”
I sigh, grabbing the toothbrush Rafael had clearly set out for me. The minty toothpaste foams in my mouth as I brush, trying to keep the silence from stretching too far. Around the brush, I manage a muffled, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You don’t need to thank me. It’s my duty as your husband.”
Duty. He says it like it’s a law etched into his bones, like it’s as natural as breathing.
I rinse my mouth, washing my face to avoid his gaze. The mirror feels too small for the both of us. The air between us feels too charged, too heavy. I need to shift the focus, lighten the mood. “Hopefully, I didn’t say anything embarrassing.”
“Nothing too bad,” he drawls. “Just that your first crush was some guy named Sasuke from Naruto.”
I freeze, staring at him in horror.
He smirks, but it’s laced with irritation. “And that, and I quote, ‘he still could get it.’”
Oh. My. God.
He doesn’t stop. “You also mentioned you’d like to set your English literature degree on fire most days, and that you’ve always been terrible at aiming, which is why the bullet ended up in your shoulder instead of somewhere fatal.” His tone hardens at that last part. “All things I do not fucking like, Mila.”
I groan, pressing my hands to my face. The aiming part I can understand; it’s fair. But Sasuke? Seriously? Of all the things to irritate him, it’s that?
“You’re jealous of an anime character, Rafael?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
His eyes narrow, the smirk gone. “I’m jealous of everything that takes your attention away from me.”
It’s ridiculous—absolutely absurd. He’s not joking. Not even a little.
“I’m being serious, Rafael,”
“So am I,” he bites out. “You think it’s funny? You think it’s cute to talk about how some imaginary man can ‘still get it’ when I’m the only one who can?” His voice lowers. “I don’t care if it’s some cartoon ninja or the fucking Pope—no one gets to live rent- free in your head except me. Not a memory, not a fantasy, not a dream. Just. Me.”
“The Pope?”
“Don’t test me, Mila,” he growls, and I see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like even he knows how ridiculous he’s being. But he’s dead serious too, and the combination makes my pulse race.
“You know he’s not real, right?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rafael mutters. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a gesture that feels achingly intimate despite the storm in his eyes. “You’re mine, Mila. Mine in every way. And if I have to fight your childhood crushes, imaginary or not, I will. I’ll win.”
It’s unhinged. Completely insane. But it’s Rafael, and somehow, that makes it… swoon-worthy. My cheeks flush, and I look away, focusing on the sink as I finish washing my hands.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, but my voice is softer now.
“And you’re mine,” he says, like that’s the only argument that matters.