Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Red
Blue's breathing changes, shifting from sharp and uneven to slow, steady, and warm against my chest. Her fingers relax in the fabric of my shirt, her grip loosening inch by inch until they rest there like they belong.
The weight of her settles deeper into me, not heavy, just certain, and my body stays locked in place so I don't wake her.
Amber glows from the lamp, throwing shadows along the wall. The lake outside laps against the shore in a rhythm that never changes. I count the seconds between each wave, running my thumb over the curve of her ass cheek.
She trusts me, and I'm failing her.
That truth lands hard. Trust has weight. It leaves marks and brings consequences that don't ask permission. I know this too well, and the repercussions of what I've allowed to happen between us weigh heavily on me.
I've gotten in bed with the mob.
How could I have been so careless and stupid?
A chill runs down my spine. Her father's face appears alongside Mikhail Volkov's voice, delivering a warning that rings loudly in my head. I know how men like them handle lines being crossed. They wait in the shadows, quiet when they want to be, and step out when it serves them.
Legal pressure is simple. It follows the rules of timelines, procedures, filings, questions, and rights. Blue's family follows their own laws, using violence when necessary to get what they want.
They'll use it against me.
My shoulders tense, keeping me awake while my Bluebird sleeps, curled into me like the world hasn't already started to tilt.
She slides her knee higher, brushing my thigh, and my breath stalls. It's natural, and my body easily remembers what she asked for, how she opened for me without hesitation, and how she didn't look away.
I'm fucked.
How does this work without her family killing me?
It doesn't.
Her lashes flutter. A quiet sound slips from her throat, half-formed, and gone before it becomes anything else.
I lower my chin, rest it lightly against the crown of her head, and breathe through it.
"Red," she murmurs, barely audible.
Heat flies to my chest. I don't answer. Answering would wake her, and that will lead to questions I don't have answers to which only hurt both her and me.
So I stay where I am until her breathing evens again.
My mind races, and I carefully slide my arm out from under her shoulders. She frowns, a small crease forming between her brows, and her hand tightens briefly in my shirt. I pause, waiting it out, until her grip loosens, and then I move again.
I ease her onto the pillow and adjust the sheet so it covers her legs. She turns onto her side, face angled toward where I was, lips parted like she expects me to still be there. The sight presses against my ribs until breathing takes effort.
Afraid she'll wake up, I sit back on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, listening to her breath and the soft tick of the clock.
I run through scenarios of her father or Mikhail finding out about us. Each one ends with a knock, a call, a shadow where it shouldn't be, resulting in my demise.
I don't want to lose her.
The thought is sharp and immediate. I don't soften it. I don't argue with it. Regret would be easier. It would let me distance myself from what's coming, but I don't get that luxury.
What I get is her, asleep in my bed, and the knowledge that touching her after we leave will put a target on my back that I can't avoid.
I swallow hard, slowly rise, and move to the window.
The lake reflects the moon in broken pieces. Trees line the far bank, dark and still. Anyone could be watching and already know I'm here, breaking the rules Mikhail set forth.
The idea digs in deep, setting my teeth on edge until my head aches.
I press my palm against the glass to ground myself. The cold seeps into my skin, and I close my eyes, trying to slow my heartbeat.
Behind me, the mattress creaks softly as she shifts again.
I turn.
She's pushed the sheet down and flung one arm across the empty space where I had been, leaving her skin exposed. The curve of her hip catches the light, serving as a reminder of what I have but can't keep.
I cross back to the bed and pull the sheet up, tucking it around her without touching her more than necessary. My fingers brush her wrist by accident, and her hand curls immediately, catching mine.
My pulse kicks in, and I hold my breath.
Her eyes stay closed, but her grip tightens, pulling my hand toward her chest. She exhales, a sound that's almost a sigh, and presses her cheek into the mattress like she's settling around me again.
"I'm here," I whisper, so quiet it barely exists. And the words aren't a promise. They're a fact, limited and fragile, true only in this moment.
Her fingers relax, and I sink into the chair, keeping my hand in hers.
Minutes bleed into the edges of morning. The light outside shifts from black to deep blue. My body stays alert, coiled, waiting for repercussions to storm into the bedroom while scenarios play out about how her father would choose to kill me.
Her thumb moves against my knuckle, in a small, unconscious stroke. The contact pulls my attention back to her and the steady rise and fall of her breath.
When the first line of sunlight slips through the window, I straighten. Dawn is here whether I'm ready or not. Questions will follow. Consequences will add up fast.
Morning light fully enters the room, stripping the night of its protection, spilling across the floor, and climbing the walls until there's nowhere left to hide what we did or what's coming.
She stirs when the light hits her face, her lashes fluttering once before her brow tightens.
Her hand drags across the mattress, slow and searching, until it meets nothing.
She pushes herself up on one elbow, hair tangled, the sheets twisted around her waist, eyes already scanning the room.
Her voice comes out rough with sleep, "Why are you over there? "
"I needed space," I reply.
She sits up fully, leaving the sheet around her waist, peering closer. Hurt fills her expression. "You needed to get away from me?"
"No. I needed to get away from our situation."
"What do you mean?"
I sigh, kiss the back of her hand, and state, "We both know if your father finds out about us, I'll end up dead."
She shakes her head. "I won't let that happen."
I grunt. "It's not something you can stop."
Defiance lights up her expression. She firmly asserts, "Watch me."
"Blue—"
"No. I'm sick of your excuses, Red. First, it was your job. Now, it's my father."
"They aren't excuses."
"Aren't they?"
"No. They're reality."
Her eyes turn to slits. "I'm not delusional."
I stay quiet.
Anger flares across her expression. She spouts, "So that's what you think is going on here? I'm delusional?"
"I didn't say that. I—"
"Don't lie to me, Red!"
Silence and tension build until her expression tightens. She swings her legs over the side of the mattress and plants her feet on the floor.
My body reacts before my mind shuts it down. I straighten, shoulders locking, hands curling at my sides.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asks.
The question lands low and dangerous.
"You didn't. You know this isn't about that."
She studies my face like she's trying to read a language I've stopped speaking. "Our situation is our situation. We'll figure it out."
I don't answer right away. I step away from her and move toward the dresser, putting something solid between us that isn't my body. The room looks different now. Too clean. Too honest.
She leaps off the bed naked and steps in front of me. "So you don't want me anymore?"
"You know that's not true," I answer.
"Then why are you acting differently from when I fell asleep?"
Before I can think about it, I declare, "It's morning. Things change when the sun comes up."
Her jaw tightens. "So you don't want me anymore."
"I didn't say that."
She takes a step closer. The space between us shrinks, charged and restless, and the memory of her pressed against me last night flickers through my head, making everything harder.
She says, "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk like you're already gone."
I meet her eyes. Anger, awareness, but also caution are there, which takes me by surprise.
"Don't go," she quietly states.
I put my hand on her cheek. "I'm not gone, Bluebird. I'm standing right here."
She closes her eyes, asserting, "That's not what I mean."
"I know."
She opens her eyes, crosses her arms, and declares, "You don't get to decide this alone."
"I'm not deciding anything for you."
Her laugh is short and sharp. "You already are."
I turn back to her. "I'm deciding what I won't lie about."
"Which is what?"
"That last night didn't erase what exists outside this room."
Her eyes flash. "So we're pretending it didn't matter?"
"Of course it mattered. That's the problem. It's always been our problem," I reiterate.
She presses her nipples against my chest. The heat between us spikes, sharp and immediate, and she claims, "You don't get to pull away. Not after everything we've been through."
"I'm not pulling away. I'm drawing a line."
Her voice shakes. "And what's the line?"
The air in my lungs turn stale. I force myself to say, "We can't be together anymore. Your father will tear me apart, and don't deny it."
Her eyes narrow. "I told you I'll take care of it."
"How?"
She lifts her chin. "I will."
"How, Blue? Tell me," I push.
The air shifts. She finally replies, "You're talking about my family."
"Yes. And I'm talking about my life and your safety."
"My family would never hurt me."
"I didn't say that. But you're forgetting that this still can't go public. If it does, you'll be dragged through the mud."
She shrugs. "Who cares? I don't care about what people think."
I put both hands on her cheeks. "Listen to me, Bluebird. It's more than gossip. Your entire therapy history will be public."
Her eyes widen, but then she catches herself, and determination appears again. "Then I'll deal with it."