Chapter 13 - Gaby #2
"Yes." His eyes met mine. "He found you."
The words hit like a blow, even though I'd already suspected. "Because you were watching me. Because your men saw you driving past my apartment every night."
"My obsession made me careless. Made you visible." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I'd never seen from him before. "If I'd kept my distance, if I'd controlled myself—"
"I wouldn't be here."
"No. You'd still be in New York, living your life, safe and oblivious."
"And probably dead," I said the words before I could think better of them. "That's what you told me, isn't it? That Pankratov would have taken me anyway, used me to get to you."
"I believed that at the time. I still believe it." His voice hardened. "But I can't pretend my motives were pure. I took you because I wanted you, Gabrielle. The threat from Pankratov was real, but it was also an excuse."
"I know." I surprised both of us with the admission. "I've known that for a while."
"And yet you're still here. In my library. In my bed."
"I'm still here," I agreed. "I don't know what that makes me."
"It makes you brave." He reached across the space between us, his hand covering mine. "Or foolish. Possibly both."
"Definitely both."
We sat in silence for a moment, our hands intertwined on the arm of my chair. Through the windows, the Mediterranean glittered in the afternoon sun—beautiful, remote, impossibly far from the violence erupting in New York.
"What happens now?" I asked. "You go back and fight your war?"
"I find the leak. I deal with Pankratov. I protect what's mine." His grip tightened on my hand. "And I come back to you."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not. It's going to be bloody and complicated and dangerous." He met my eyes, and I saw the truth there—the fear he was trying to hide beneath the certainty. "But I will come back. I promise you that."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't." He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I've never lost a war, Gabrielle. I don't intend to start now."
***
That night, we had dinner on the terrace as the sun set.
He told me more about his world—the structure of the organization, the history with the Armenians, the delicate balance of power that his absence might disturb. I listened, asking questions, trying to understand the empire he'd built and the forces threatening to tear it apart.
It was strange, hearing him speak so openly. For weeks, he'd kept me at arm's length from the realities of his business. Now he was drawing me in, treating me like a partner rather than a possession.
I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Wasn't sure I wanted to be complicit in the violence that funded the luxury around me.
But I listened anyway. Because knowledge was power, and I'd been powerless for too long.
After dinner, we retired to his bedroom. Not for sex—I was still sore from last night, and he seemed to sense it without me having to say. Instead, we lay tangled together in the darkness, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"I'm afraid," I said into the silence.
"Of what?"
I couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't admit that the fear coiling in my chest wasn't about me anymore—it was about him. About the thought of him walking into danger while I stayed behind, safe and useless.
"Of being alone here," I said instead. Half-truth.
"You won't be alone. Yelena will be here, and the guards. And I'll call every day."
"It's not the same."
"No." His arms tightened around me. "It's not."
We lay in silence after that. His breathing eventually evened out into sleep, but I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
When had this happened? When had my fear shifted from him to for him?
I thought about the woman I'd been a month ago—the one who'd worked late at an office where no one appreciated her, who'd called her father every Sunday and spent the rest of the week recovering from his criticism. That woman had been miserable, but she'd been safe. Predictable. In control.
Now I was lying in the arms of a man who'd kidnapped me, mourning his departure before he'd even left. I'd slept with him. Worked for his organization. Started to build something that felt terrifyingly like a life within the walls of my prison.
Stockholm syndrome, the rational part of my brain whispered. That's all this is.
But the whisper felt hollow. What I felt for Vasily was too complicated for a clinical label. Too tangled up with anger and desire and grudging respect and something deeper that I refused to examine too closely.
He stirred in his sleep, murmuring something in Russian I couldn't understand. His arm pulled me closer, his face pressing into my hair.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in—expensive cologne and clean skin and something underneath that was purely him.
Tomorrow he would leave. Tomorrow I would be alone on this island, waiting for news, hoping he survived a war that existed partly because of me.
But tonight he was here. Warm and solid and alive.
I curled into him, matching my breathing to his, and tried not to think about how empty this bed would feel without him.