Chapter 12 Dimitri
DIMITRI
The scream is raw and filled with terror. It cuts through the darkness like a knife.
Vera.
I take the stairs three at a time, my heart hammering in my throat. Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt her. Someone got past my security, past my guards, and they’re in her room right now—
I burst through her door without knocking, adrenaline flooding my system.
But the room is empty except for her.
She’s in bed, tangled in the sheets, and thrashing violently. Her head whips from side to side, her hands clawing at the blankets. Another anguished and broken sob tears from her throat.
“No, no, no—Alexei, please—”
A nightmare. She’s having a nightmare.
The relief is so intense I have to brace myself against the doorframe for a moment. She’s safe. No one’s hurting her. It’s just a dream.
But watching her thrash and sob and beg my dead brother not to leave—that hurts worse than if someone actually had broken in.
I move to the bed, unsure what to do. I’m not good at comfort and gentleness. These are soft things that require a tenderness I’ve never quite mastered, but I can't just stand here and watch her suffer.
“Vera.” I sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to shake her shoulder gently. “Wake up. You’re dreaming."
She doesn’t respond. She just keeps thrashing, her face twisted in anguish. The sheets are wrapped around her legs, trapping her, and she’s fighting against them like they’re enemies.
“Please don’t go—don’t leave me—there’s so much blood—”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and something in my chest cracks with it.
I reach for her more firmly this time, trying to still her movements. “Vera, wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”
My hands close around her shoulders, and she jerks violently, her eyes flying open. For a moment, she just stares at me—wild, disoriented, terror written across every feature. Then recognition dawns, and she gasps like she’s been drowning.
“Dimitri?” Her voice is hoarse from crying.
“You were having a nightmare,” I say roughly, hating how much she’s hurting.
She blinks, and I watch reality filter back in as she realizes where she is, that she’s safe, and whatever horror she was reliving isn’t real. Tears stream down her face, and she's shaking so hard I can feel it through my grip on her shoulders.
“I twisted his wrist in my sleep,” she whispers, and my brow furrows. Is she losing it? What she’s saying isn’t making sense. But then I see blood on the sheets. She’s scratched herself in her thrashing, opening up the delicate skin of her wrist. It’s not deep, but enough to bleed.
“Let me see.” I take her hand gently, examining the wound. It’s superficial and just needs cleaning and a bandage. But she’s shaking so hard she might hurt herself worse. “Stay still.”
I head to the bathroom, and grab the first aid kit I know is under the sink. I return to find her still sitting exactly where I left her, staring at nothing. Lost in whatever nightmare she just escaped.
I sit beside her again, carefully cleaning the wound. She doesn’t even flinch when the antiseptic stings. She sits there, shaking, and silently crying.
“It was about him,” she finally whispers. “About Alexei. Being at the warehouse. I keep seeing it—the blood, the way he looked at me, how he tried to tell me something but couldn’t because—” Her voice breaks completely.
Every instinct I have tells me to maintain distance, finish bandaging her wrist, tell her she’s fine, and leave. That’s what I should do.
But I can’t.
Maybe it’s the way she's shaking. Maybe it’s the lost look in her eyes. Maybe it’s because I have nightmares about that warehouse too—about finding Alexei’s body, about being too late, about failing to protect him.
Maybe it’s all of those things.
I pull her into my arms.
She stiffens immediately—afraid of me even now, even in this moment—and that stings more than it should. But then she’s sobbing into my chest, her whole body shaking with the force of it, and she’s clinging to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling.
“Shh,” I murmur, my hand coming up to stroke her hair which is so soft. The gesture feels foreign and awkward. I’m not good at this. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
“He was dying and I couldn’t—I couldn’t help him—there was so much blood—”
“I know.” And I do. God, I do. I’ve had the same nightmare a hundred times. “But it’s over now. He’s gone. You can’t save him.” I swallow heavily. “Neither of us can.”
The words should be harsh, but they come out gentle instead. It’s an acknowledgment of shared grief, guilt, and helplessness in the face of loss.
We stay like that—her sobbing into my chest, me holding her, both of us trying to breathe through the pain—until her tears finally start to subside and her breathing evens out and the shaking becomes less violent.
“Sorry,” she whispers against my shirt. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
“No.” My arms tighten around her, stroking the bare skin of her arms. “Don’t apologize for having nightmares about watching the man you loved die.”
She pulls back slightly, looking up at me.
Her face is flushed from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
Tear tracks streak down her cheeks, catching the moon light.
Her hair falls in messy waves around her shoulders and she’s wearing a simple cotton nightgown that’s twisted around her body from all the movement.
She looks destroyed. Like someone who’s been through hell and barely made it out alive.
And she’s beautiful.
There’s something unguarded and real in her that I’ve never seen before. The walls she usually keeps up—the careful politeness, the wariness, the fear—all of it’s stripped away, leaving just... her.
Her lips are slightly parted, swollen from crying. Her warm brown eyes that haunt my dreams are searching my face like she’s trying to understand what’s going on and why I’m here. Why am I still holding her instead of letting go and leaving?
I can’t answer that question as I don’t even know the answer.
I just know that her pressed against me makes something I’ve been trying very hard not to feel fight to come to the surface.
“I should go,” I hear myself say. But I don’t move and I don’t let go. “You need to rest.”
“No. Please don’t.” Her hand fists in my shirt, holding me there and warmth spreads through me at her touch. “Please don’t leave me alone. Not yet. I can’t—” Her voice breaks again. “I can’t be alone right now.”
I know what she’s really saying. I’m afraid to fall asleep again because I’m afraid the nightmare will come back.
I should leave anyway. I need to maintain boundaries. She’s carrying my brother’s child for fuck’s sake, This situation is complicated enough without adding... whatever this is.
But her hand is still fisted in my shirt and she’s still pressed against me and she’s looking at me with such desperate need that walking away feels impossible.
“Okay,” I whisper, my hand splaying against her back. I feel her lean further into my touch and my heart jumps. “I’ll stay.”
Relief floods her face and she relaxes slightly against me, her head coming to rest on my chest. I can feel her heartbeat against mine.
It’s fast at first, but gradually slowing.
The warmth of her body seeps through the thin nightgown and I can smell the soap or shampoo she uses. It’s fucking intoxicating.
I’m built like a furnace (always running hot) and she seems to sense it because she burrows closer, seeking that warmth, her body fitting against mine in a way that feels…right.
This is dangerous. I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t make myself move.
We sit like that for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. Her breathing gradually evens out and the tension leaves her body. She’s exhausted, I can feel it in the way she’s starting to go limp against me.
“Stay,” she whispers again, so quietly I almost miss it. “Please, Dimitri, don’t leave me alone.”
Fuck me. I can’t walk away.
What happens next isn’t planned.
It starts with me brushing a tear from her cheek. Just a simple gesture, meant to be comforting. But my thumb lingers on her skin, and her breath catches. She leans into the touch instead of away from it, and suddenly the air between us changes.
Charges.
My thumb traces along her cheekbone, down to her jaw, then—without me consciously deciding to do it—brushes across her bottom lip.
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine. They’re wide and uncertain but she’s not afraid and she’s certainly not pulling away.
We both freeze like that for a moment. My thumb on her lip. Her breath warm against my skin. Something building between us that I don’t understand but can’t seem to stop.
Then she’s leaning in, or maybe I am, or maybe we both are simultaneously. Our lips meet in the space between us, hesitant at first, questioning.
But the moment we touch, something ignites.
This isn’t like our wedding night which was about establishing ownership. This is different. It’s born from grief and loneliness and this desperate need to feel something other than pain.
I need this. I need her. And I can feel in the way she’s kissing me back—hungry and desperate and clinging—that she needs this too.
My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She makes a small sound against my mouth—not fear, but want—and it undoes me. All the control I’ve been maintaining, all the distance I’ve been trying to keep, it crumbles like dust.
“Dimitri,” she breathes against my lips, and the way she says my name, with so much need and want sends desire straight through me and into my dick.
This needs to stop. I need to pull back before we cross a line we can’t uncross. But when I try to lift my head or put space between us, she makes a small sound of protest and pulls me back.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please don’t stop. I need—” She can’t finish the sentence, but I understand anyway.