30. Alina
ALINA
That night, Oisin falls asleep early because he’s worn out from spending the day glued to me like a shadow and interrogating every adult in the house about whether the bad man is “gone-gone”.
Sofia reads him stories again. Mikhail’s mother watches from the doorway like she’s guarding something larger than a child’s sleep. They both leave before I do. When Oisin finally drifts off, his hand still wrapped around the edge of my sleeve, I sit on the bed and stare at his face.
He’s safe.
I can’t remember the last time I let myself believe that word without immediately looking over my shoulder. A while later, I’m still with Oisin when Sofia peeks in, grinning. “He’s waiting.”
My stomach tightens.
Sofia raises a brow. “Not like that. He’s not pacing like a serial killer. He’s just… there.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Sofia’s grin turns knowing. “I’ll be watching Oisin.”
I stand slowly, careful not to wake Oisin, and leave the room.
Mikhail is in the hallway, leaning against the wall like he’s trying to look casual and failing.
He’s changed into a dark shirt, no jacket. His sleeves are down, but the collar is open. He looks tired— tired the way men look when the adrenaline wears off and the cost hits them.
He looks at me like I’m real.
“You should be in bed,” he says, almost reluctantly.
“I was,” I answer.
He holds his hand out, and I take it. He leads me down the hall, away from Oisin’s room, to the bedroom that used to feel like a cage and now feels like a space I’m choosing to enter.
The door closes behind us.
For a beat, we just stand there, hands linked, breathing in the same quiet.
No alarms. No phones. No voices.
Mikhail lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles once, slow, as if he’s reminding himself he can do something gentle without it being a weakness.
“You’re safe,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Say it,” he presses.
I look at him. “I’m safe.”
His eyes close briefly, like the words hit him in the chest.
He opens them again and steps closer.
His hands go to my waist, then my back, pulling me in until there’s no space left to pretend we’re separate. I tip my head up. “This isn’t about proving anything,” I say, because my brain still wants to build rules.
“I know,” he answers.
“And you’re not doing this because you think you earned me,” I add, because I need it said.
Mikhail’s mouth tightens. “I don’t want anything that isn’t yours to give.”
Relief hits me so hard, my eyes sting.
I press my palms to his chest, feel the steady beat under my hands.
“I’m giving it,” I whisper.
He kisses me, and it’s different from last night. Different from the fights. Different from the desperate, heated moments where we used each other like a shield.
This is slow. It’s hungry, yes, but it’s controlled in a way that feels like care.
My hands slip around his neck, pulling him closer, and I feel the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction as he melts into me. His tongue brushes mine, teasing, tasting, and I sigh into his mouth, letting the warmth spread through me.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers against my lips, pulling back just enough to look at me, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—like this, for so damn long. Not just to fuck, but to have you. To keep you.”
My heart clenches at his words, and I tug at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine. “Then have me,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my pulse races. “Take your time, Mikhail. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes darken with something that’s both hunger and reverence, and then he shifts, pulling me with him. “I want you to see how fuckin’ perfect you are when I take you. Come with me.”