Chapter 68I’ll Be Still, If You Stay #2
I drop the phone beside me on the bed, let it land with a soft thud against the blankets.
My fingers are cold, but my skin’s still warm beneath the sheets.
There’s something strange about waking up in this house now, this place that once felt like a gilded prison and now feels like…
I don’t know. A battlefield waiting for blood? A sanctuary built on ashes?
I pull on the robe draped at the end of the bed, tying the sash tight as I pad barefoot through the quiet hall.
I move softer than I used to. Not because I’m scared, but because I’m still adjusting. To the silence. To the space. To the fact that I can walk these halls now without fear . Without being watched or herded. This place used to echo with threat. Now it just echoes with memory.
It’s still strange.
Stranger still to feel safe inside it.
I follow the low thump of bass-like movement down the stairs. It leads me past the table, past the dining room, into the training room.
The door’s cracked open.
And he’s there.
Back to me. Shirtless. Muscles tense as he curls a heavy weight in one hand, the metal glinting under the overhead light.
The scars on his back are no longer covered.
The bandages are gone. What’s left behind is raw history, cuts that never fully healed, burns that tell stories I’ll never be able to read in full, and one jagged lash across his lower back that makes my chest tighten.
It’s all still there.
The aftermath.
The brutality.
What they did to him when they thought he wouldn’t survive.
But he did.
And he’s still beautiful.
Even more so now.
Because I know the cost of those scars.
I watch him for a moment, unseen. Let myself take him in. The muscles work beneath his skin. The sweat clings to his neck. The quiet breath through his nose, calm and sharp as always. A weapon in control of itself.
Then my eyes drop.
His chest rises, muscles flexing with another repetition, and that’s when I see it again.
My initials.
Etched into his chest, just below his collarbone and above the crossed star. Inked black and stark against all that bruised, burnished skin.
He didn’t tell me when he did it. Never mentioned it once, but I know he knows I saw it.
He doesn’t know I’m watching.
Or maybe he does, and he lets me.
I lean lightly against the doorframe, hidden in the soft spill of hallway light, as he moves to the pull-up bar bolted into the reinforced frame above the weight bench.
A thick belt hangs from his hips, iron plates chained to it like extra burdens he chooses to carry. As if his body alone isn’t already enough of a weapon.
He grips the bar and pulls.
One.
Two.
Three.
There’s no wasted motion, no grunt or performance. His movements are smooth, brutal, efficient. He’s not lifting himself—he’s conquering gravity. His back tightens with each rise, muscles contracting beneath the scars like they’re reforging themselves with every repetition.
I count them.
Silently. Just for myself.
Fourteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty-seven.
Thirty-five.
Forty-two.
By forty-five, sweat is rolling down his spine, catching in the hollow between his shoulder blades. The tattoos on his back shift like shadows—Russian script, a dagger, the crowned skull over his ribs. Symbols of a past soaked in blood and silence.
But he doesn’t slow.
And when he hits fifty, he holds the last one. Hangs there, arms trembling slightly, jaw clenched. He’s proving something, to himself. That his body is still his own. That they didn’t win. That he’s stronger than what tried to break him.
He drops down with a heavy exhale, unhooks the belt, and stretches his shoulders out with a slow roll.
I still don’t move.
Because I’m watching something sacred.
The way he’s come back, how fast, how fierce, should be impossible. Just weeks ago, he was half-alive. A ghost with bones that screamed every time he stood. And now, here he is, burning through training like he’s chasing the man he was before the war found him again. But I can still see him suffer.
He’s been sleeping more than ever lately, actually resting, letting his body do what it needs, which for him is a miracle in itself. The medication is helping.
And food. Actual food. Nutritious, boring things like grilled salmon and spinach and whole grains.
He reaches for a towel, swipes it across his face and chest, and that’s when he pauses, stilling, sensing something.
His eyes shift.
And then he speaks, without turning.
“You’ve been standing there for a while, solnyshko. You going to come in, or are you planning to watch me sweat all morning?”
His voice is low. Rough from exertion. But laced with something else.
Warmth.
I push off the doorframe, heart doing something strange and soft in my chest as I step inside.
“I was counting,” I say, crossing my arms.
He finally turns to face me fully.
And that’s when I see it.
The sheen of sweat on his skin isn’t just from the workout. There’s a faint pallor beneath his usual gold-iron tone. A hollowness just under his eyes. Subtle, but there.
Too subtle for anyone else.
But I know him now. I know what he looks like at his best, and what he looks like when his body is holding itself together with nothing but adrenaline and the force of his will.
After all I’m still a nurse.
“You’re pale,” I say sharply, eyes narrowing.
“I’m always pale,” he mutters, wiping the towel across his chest.
“Not like this.”
I walk right up to him and press a hand against his shoulder, guiding him back toward the bench.
“Sit,” I command, more forcefully than I intend.
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, letting himself drop down onto the bench with that rare, amused look that only appears when I’m raising my voice. “Anything else you’d like while I’m at your mercy?”
“Plenty,” I reply, kneeling slightly to look at his face more closely. “But let’s start with the basics. Did you even sleep last night?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
And that’s enough of an answer.
I tilt my head. “Aslanov.”
“I tried,” he says finally, quieter now. “Didn’t last long. My head was... loud.”
My chest tightens, that ache from last night still not fully gone. I reach up and brush damp strands of hair from his forehead.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He watches me, waiting.
“We’re going to take a bath,” I say, brushing my thumb across his cheekbone, “then crawl back into bed. Just you and me. All day. Do you have anywhere to be?”
His mouth curves, but not into a smirk this time. It’s soft. Honest.
“I arranged most things already this morning,” he admits. “Dominik’s in motion, Sawyer has Brighton locked down, Ada’s updating surveillance routes. Everything that matters is in place.”
“Then you’re all mine.”
“Yes,” he says, voice a little rougher. “All yours.”
I smile faintly and press my forehead to his for a second, letting our breaths mix.
“You don’t have to keep pushing like this,” I whisper. “You’ve already proven everything. You survived. You came back. The rest can wait.”
His hands slide up to my waist, resting there gently, and he exhales against my skin.
“You’re right,” he says after a pause. “My body is aching. I should slow down, rest.”
“Just long enough,” I reply, pulling back to meet his eyes, “for me to love you in peace.”