18. Erik
ERIK
I lie beside Katarina in the dim light of early morning, watching her breathe.
The rise and fall of her chest mesmerizes me in ways I can't explain.
Two days without her felt like an eternity—a weakness I never anticipated.
During my Spetsnaz training, I once spent fourteen days alone in the forest during winter. This separation felt worse.
“You're staring,” she murmurs, eyes still closed.
“Yes.” I don't deny it. Can't deny much around her anymore.
She rolls toward me, hair spilling across the pillow. “What happened during those two days?”
My jaw tightens. “My brothers thought I needed... perspective.”
“And did you get it?”
“I got clarity.” Too much clarity. Every hour away from her only confirmed what I feared—I'm compromised. Completely.
Her fingers trace the scar along my collarbone. “Are you close with them? Your brothers?”
The question catches me off guard. Not what I expected after everything.
“Yes.” I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my chest. “Very.”
She studies my face. “That doesn't match the cold enforcer image.”
“We weren't always this.” I find myself speaking without calculating my words first—another sign of how far I've fallen. “As children, we were inseparable. Four boys against the world.”
“Tell me.”
I shouldn't. Personal history is vulnerability. But the words come anyway.
“Nikolai taught us to fight. Dmitri handled strategy. Alexi was on the lookout. I patched everyone up after.” My thumb traces circles on her wrist. “We slept in the same room until I was twelve. Couldn't sleep otherwise.”
“And now?”
“Still the same, in ways that matter. Different rooms. Same purpose.”
She shifts closer. “What would they think about... this?”
This. Us. Whatever dangerous thing grows between the captor and the captive.
“They already know I'm compromised.” I meet her eyes directly. “That's why Alexi took me away. They saw it before I admitted it to myself.”
Her expression softens. “And what exactly did they see, Erik?”
That I'm in too deep. That I'm drowning in you. Those two days nearly broke me.
I look away, unwilling to voice what's becoming increasingly clear to me. Instead of answering, I redirect.
“Tell me about your family.” My voice is rougher than intended. “Your father—he's the reason you're here.”
Something flashes in her eyes—anger, pain, or both. She pulls her hand from mine, creating distance between us.
“Igor Lebedev is many things. A loving father isn't one of them.”
I wait, giving her space to continue or retreat. My training taught me that silence extracts more information than questions.
“He had plans for me.” Katarina's laugh is bitter. “Not education or career goals—marriage plans. Strategic alliances with another crime family.” She sits up, pulling the sheet around her. “When I turned twenty-one, he informed me I'd be marrying Anton Petrov's son.”
My jaw tightens. The Petrovs are known for their brutality, even within our world.
“I refused.” Pride straightens her spine. “He locked me in my room for three days. No food, just water. Said I'd stay there until I agreed.”
“How did you get out?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“I climbed down from the third floor using bedsheets.” A smile touches her lips. “Nearly broke my ankle, but I made it to my friend's apartment.”
She looks directly at me now. “I left with nothing but the clothes I was wearing. No money, no connections—nothing from him.”
“And built a tech company from scratch.” I can't hide the admiration in my voice.
“I worked three jobs while getting my degree. Lived on ramen and determination.” Her chin lifts. “Everything I have, I built myself. My father's money has never touched my life since that night.”
I understand her better now—her fierce independence, her refusal to bend even in captivity. She's been fighting longer than I realized.
“And now?” I ask. “What does Igor think of your success?”
Her expression hardens at my question, a cloud passing over her face.
“He constantly tries to make amends.” She snorts, pulling the sheet tighter around her body. “Calls me. Sends expensive gifts that I return. Asks me to dinner at least once a month.”
I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers clench the fabric. “And you go?”
“On occasion.” Her voice drops. “When guilt or loneliness override my better judgment.”
I remain silent, giving her space to continue. This is tactical information about Igor Lebedev, but more importantly, it's a window into her pain.
“And every single time, I regret it.” Katarina's eyes meet mine, wounded. “He starts with compliments and asks about my business like he's interested. Then the comments begin.”
She shifts beside me, her body radiating tension.
“'Your company could be ten times larger with my backing.
' 'That security contract would have been yours if you'd used the Lebedev name.
' 'You dress like you're ashamed of your body.
'” Her voice turns hollow, mimicking her father's tone.
“By dessert, he's usually telling me how I've wasted my potential becoming a 'glorified tech support' instead of embracing my birthright.”
My jaw tightens. I know men like Igor. Men who see their children as extensions of themselves rather than individuals.
“The last dinner was three months ago,” she continues. “He spent twenty minutes explaining how my refusal to marry into the Petrov family cost him a lucrative shipping route. Then dared to suggest I reconsider now that I'm 'getting older.'”
“What did you do?” I ask, already admiring her fortitude.
“Dumped my wine in his lap and walked out.” A small, bitter smile crosses her lips. “Told him I'd rather die alone than be some gangster's trophy wife.”
I stare at her, something shifting inside me. Admiration—genuine admiration—swells in my chest. In our world, few dare to defy men like Igor Lebedev. Even fewer walk away from the protection and privilege that comes with our family names.
“That took courage,” I say, my voice low. “Most people never stand up to men like your father.”
She shrugs, but I can see pride beneath her casual dismissal. “It wasn't courage. It was survival.”
“No.” I shake my head, needing her to understand. “I've seen people survive, Katarina. They bend, compromise, and lose pieces of themselves. You didn't just survive—you rebuilt.”
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger against her cheek.
“You walked away from everything—money, connections, protection—to build something that's truly yours.” The respect in my voice surprises even me. “Do you have any idea how rare that is in our world?”
Her eyes meet mine, unguarded for once.
“People born into families like ours follow the path laid out for them. We become what our fathers need—soldiers, businessmen, monsters.” I look down at my scarred knuckles. “We rarely become what we choose.”
The morning light catches her profile, illuminating the strength in her jawline and the determination that has become part of her very being.
“You chose yourself, Katarina. Choose your own path. Built something legitimate with nothing but your mind and will.” I feel a smile forming—rare for me. “That's more impressive than anything your father ever built with blood, money, and threats.”
She watches me carefully, perhaps searching for mockery or manipulation in my words. She'll find none. My admiration is genuine—perhaps the most honest thing between us.
“In our world,” I continue, “wealth comes easily through violence and fear. What's difficult is creating something real. Something that's yours.” I touch her chin gently. “You did the difficult thing and came out on top.”
I reach for her without thinking, cupping her face in my hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones, feeling the softness beneath my calloused skin. The contrast between us has never been more apparent—she creates, I destroy. She builds, I break. Yet here we are.
When my lips touch hers, something shifts inside me. Not lust. Something deeper, more dangerous.
I've kissed her before—claimed her mouth with violence and need. My lips move slowly against hers, tasting rather than taking.
“Katarina,” I whisper against her mouth, her name a confession I can't hold back.
She responds, arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer. The sheet falls, and I feel her skin against mine—heartbeat to heartbeat.
My training screams warnings in my head. Emotional attachment compromises the mission. Vulnerability creates weakness. The enemy exploits connection.
But she's not the enemy anymore. Not to me.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, cradling her head like something precious. The thought stuns me. Nothing in my life has ever been precious. Everything—everyone—has been tactical. Assets. Liabilities. Objectives.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, and I'm lost. Completely lost.
This isn't supposed to happen. I'm an Ivanov. The enforcer. The weapon. I don't fall for captives—especially not Lebedev's daughter.
My brothers would see this as a betrayal. My loyalty has never wavered until now. Twenty years of unwavering service to family and one woman has cracked foundations I thought impenetrable.
I pull back slightly, looking into her eyes. What I see there terrifies me more than any battlefield—recognition. She sees me. Not the soldier. Not the monster. Me.
“This is madness,” I murmur, even as I lean in to kiss her again.
Madness. And I'm falling headlong into it.