Chapter Twenty-Six #2
The image of Lorenzo dragging his burning body out of the office, the look of pure hatred in his eyes before he dropped into the river, is seared into my retinas.
I should have double-tapped him. I should have put a bullet in his brain while he was down. Arrogance made me hesitate. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to live with the scars.
I park the car in the private garage and kill the engine. The silence of the vehicle is heavy, pressing against my ears. I sit there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, trying to scrub the scent of smoke and burnt flesh from my mind. It’s clinging to me, coating the back of my throat.
I need a shower. I need a drink. I need her.
I take the private elevator up. The ascent is smooth, silent. When the doors slide open, the penthouse is dark, save for a single lamp in the living room. It’s warm, quiet, smelling of vanilla and home.
She’s there.
Freya is pacing the length of the rug. She’s wearing one of my shirts again, the black cotton swallowing her frame, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
Her movements are agitated, tight. She stops at the window, looks out, turns, and walks back.
She’s a caged bird, waiting for the predator to return.
I watch her from the doorway, unseen for a moment. The tension in her shoulders is palpable, a physical knot that I want to smooth away with my hands. She looks fragile in this light, exposed in a way she rarely allows herself to be during the day.
My heart aches. It’s a strange, unfamiliar sensation, sharp and immediate. I want to go to her, but I hesitate. I’m still covered in grime, in the residue of violence. I don’t want to taint her with it.
As if sensing my presence, she stops pacing. She turns slowly, her eyes finding mine in the gloom. She freezes, her hand flying to her chest.
“You’re back,” she breathes.
“I’m back.”
I walk toward her, leaving my shoes by the door. The floor is cool under my socks. I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
“I was worried,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
I reach out, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. My hand trembles, just a fraction. I’m exhausted, pushed to the brink, but touching her steadies me.
“I told you,” I say softly. “I always come back.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No it isn’t.”
She opens her eyes, searching my face. She sees the exhaustion, the soot smeared on my jaw, the darkness lingering in my gaze.
“Did you find him?”
I nod. “I found him.”
“Is he…?”
“Gone,” I say, evading the full truth. I don’t want to tell her about the fire, how gruesome a death it was “He won’t bother us again.”
She’s quiet for a moment, digesting this. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. Her touch is gentle, reverent.
“You need a shower,” she whispers.
“I need you.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I see the flush rise on her cheeks, the way her pupils dilate. The worry in her eyes shifts, replaced by a heat that matches my own.
“Let me clean you up,” she says.
She takes my hand, leading me toward the bedroom. I follow, a willing captive. The air between us is charged, electric with the unspoken emotions of the night—the fear, the relief, the desperate, clawing need.
The bathroom is dimly lit, the tiles cool. She turns on the shower, steam rising instantly. She turns to me, her hands going to the hem of my shirt. She lifts it over my head, tossing it aside.
I stand there, exposed. The bruises from the fight are mottled purple and green across my ribs. A graze on my arm is angry and red.
She doesn’t say a word. She just steps closer, her fingers tracing the lines of my scars, her touch light as a feather. She presses her lips to the worst of the bruises, a soft, silent benediction.
It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.
I pull her into me, capturing her mouth with mine. The kiss is slow, deep, tasting of mint and the lingering salt of her tears. She melts against me, her hands roaming over my back, pulling me closer.
We shed the rest of our clothes in a haze of need. I pull her into the shower with me.
The water is hot, cascading over us, washing away the grime and the blood. I soap my hands, running them over her body, reveling in the softness of her skin. She sighs, leaning her head back against the tiles, letting me wash her.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, my lips against her neck.
I turn her around, pressing her front against the slick tiles. I enter her in one smooth thrust, swallowing her gasp with a kiss. The water beats down on us, a primal rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.
I move inside her with a deliberate slowness, savoring the feel of her, the tight heat that grips me. This isn’t just sex. It’s a reclaiming. A reminder that we are alive, that we are together, that the world outside this glass box can’t touch us.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nikita,” she breathes, my name a prayer on her lips.
She shatters, her body convulsing around mine. I follow her over the edge, groaning her name as I pour myself into her.
We stay there for a long time, wrapped in each other under the spray of the water, until it runs cold.
I towel her off, treating her like something precious. Fragile. As I look at her, I realize she isn’t fragile. She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. She survived the night. She survived me.
We move to the bed. The sheets are cool, a contrast to our heated skin.
I pull her into my arms, settling her against my side. She rests her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine. It’s a position of trust. Total surrender.
“He’s coming back, isn’t he?” she asks softly, breaking the silence.
“Perhaps, if he’s in any fit state. He could very well be dead, sweetheart.”
“Are we safe?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But we’re alive.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I love you.”
The words are a whisper, but they hit me with the force of a bullet. I freeze, my hand tightening in her hair.
“You shouldn’t,” I say, my voice rough.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous,” she says, lifting her head to look at me. “This… this is real.”
She kisses me, a soft, lingering press of lips.
“I’m not going anywhere, Nikita. Not even if you burn the whole world down.”
I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair. She smells like jasmine and soap. She smells like safety.
“I’ll burn it all,” I whisper against her skin. “I’ll burn it all to keep you.”
We lie there in the darkness, listening to the rain start up again against the glass. The danger is real. Lorenzo is out there, plotting his revenge. The Bratva is watching, waiting for weakness.
In this bed, with her in my arms, I feel invincible.