Chapter 10 - Tikhon
The door clicks shut behind us, and before I even think twice, I’m on her. Katya’s back bumps the desk, her gasp swallowed by my mouth. I kiss her like I’ve been starved for weeks—honestly, I have.
She grabs my shirt and drags me closer, and I groan into her, tasting that hint of sweet latte she always orders.
Her body presses against me, soft and hot wherever we touch.
My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head so I can kiss her deeper, while my other hand grips her waist—probably hard enough to leave marks, but she’s not pulling away.
If anything, she’s right there with me, meeting me kiss for kiss, her nails raking my neck.
God, she’s fire. Pure, addictive fire. I can’t get enough. My fingers dig in, slipping under her sweater and finding warm skin. She shivers, lets out this tiny sound that goes straight through me. I want her right here—on the desk, legs around me, nothing between us.
The idea slams into me: lock the door, sweep the desk, lose myself in her until we can’t even remember why we argued last night.
She’s my wife. Mine. And after all that tension, this feels like a dam finally giving out.
I break the kiss just enough to nip at her jaw, her neck, breathing her in—vanilla, flour, and something that’s just her. “Katya,” I mutter against her skin, voice rough. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t. Her hands are on my chest, popping buttons, fingers shaking just a bit. “Don’t you dare.”
That’s it. I lift her onto the desk, papers scattering, her legs parting as I step between them. My mouth finds hers again—hungry, desperate. She’s after my belt now, and I’m half gone, grinding against her, feeling the heat through our clothes.
This tension’s been building for days—those looks across the kitchen, brushes in the hallway, all those nights lying awake, listening to her breathe through the wall. Now it’s all breaking loose, and I don’t want it to stop.
Then a knock shatters it.
We freeze. Her eyes go wide, lips red and swollen. I curse, fixing her sweater.
“What?” I snap, louder than I mean.
“Boss. They need you. Urgent.”
It’s Viktor—my Bratva lieutenant.
Not one of the office guys, but someone from the old life.
I nod. “Two minutes.”
Katya slides off the desk, cheeks flushed, smoothing her hair. “Go.”
“We’ll finish this later,” I promise, voice low. I steal a last kiss—hard, quick. She nods, breathless, slips out first, saying something about heading back to the shop.
Viktor comes back in the second she is gone. His face is grim. This isn’t minor trouble.
“Sighting,” he says. “Fadir Klem. He and two of his boys. Spotted near the old docks last night. One of ours tailed them to a warehouse on the east side, but they slipped the net before dawn.”
My stomach knots.
Fadir Klem.
The name tastes like acid. He’s not family—not to me. My cousin Viktor—the old boss, the one we buried three years ago—was a monster. He ruled by fear, left bodies everywhere, beat his own men for nothing, squeezed families until they broke, and turned the whole operation into a bloodbath.
When he died—heart attack, supposedly—my brothers and I took over. We cleaned up. Made allies, not enemies. Built something that could last.
But Fadir?
He’s Viktor’s cousin from some distant, rotten branch. Never really part of us, always lurking around, doing the dirty jobs Viktor didn’t want to touch. The stories I heard—women trafficked, kids running drugs, rivals skinned alive.
He hurt people for fun, not for business. And he thinks he’s owed the top spot, that we stole it when Viktor died. He’s been gathering the old loyalists, waiting for his turn.
Now he’s here. In my city.
“Any chatter?” I ask, already rifling through security feeds, calling in every favor, every set of eyes I have on the street.
“Nothing solid,” Viktor says. “But he’s asking questions. About the alliance. About her.”
Katya.
My blood goes cold. If Fadir’s got that look in his eye—and I’ve heard the rumors, the way he talks about taking ‘prizes’ to break his rivals—then she’s a target. The Letvin princess who married into the Sokolov family.
Taking her would destroy both families and rip apart the peace we’ve fought for.
I know what he’ll do next—it’s obvious. He’ll start small.
Maybe he plants someone to follow her car, maybe I catch a stranger’s stare at the shop.
Then things will get ugly—a broken window, a threat left behind like a calling card.
He isn’t bold enough to come at us head-on. He never was. He’s the type who waits, who goes for the softest spot when you’re not looking. And when he does hit, it’ll hurt in ways you don’t always see. The kind of pain that lingers.
“We double security at the house,” I say, not even bothering to hide the edge in my voice. “And on her. She doesn’t go anywhere alone. We hunt him down. Tonight.”
Viktor nods. “Already working on it. But he’s a slippery bastard. Always has been.”
“Slippery stops when we catch him.” I grab my coat and stand up. “Get the team. I want eyes everywhere he could run.”
The rest of the day drags. Calls to old contacts—most of them offer nothing useful. I drive through alleys that reek of old trash and stale fear, getting nowhere. Frustration builds in me, slow and tight, like a storm that just won’t break.
By the time the sun dips, all I’ve got is a handful of shadows. A safehouse burned out, cigarette butts still warm on the floor. Some kid swears he saw one of Fadir’s guys buying burner phones, but that trail’s already cold.
They keep slipping away, melting into the city’s filth like they belong there. I slam my fist into the steering wheel, knuckles stinging from the impact. I curse. This isn’t just about turf or power.
If Fadir gets his way, we’re back in the dark days. And I’m not losing what I’ve built—Viktor, the guys who trust me, the uneasy calm that lets me actually have a life with Katya.
Losing that? No. I won’t let it happen.
By the time I get home, I’m running on fumes—eyes gritty, shoulders burning. The house is dead quiet. No lights on. I check the garage: her car isn’t there.
My heart jumps. For a second, I can’t breathe. Fadir’s face flashes in my mind—the way he loves to ruin things just to see them break. If he’s already made a move—
I call her. It goes straight to voicemail. I text: Where are you? Nothing.
She must be at the shop. Has to be.
I’m back in the car before I even realize it, tires screaming as I tear down the street. Every red light feels like a joke. My thoughts spin: Fadir could act tonight. He could take her while she’s locking up. I grip the wheel until my hands hurt, promising myself I won’t let this touch her.
I ditch the car a block away and walk. The lights are still on in the shop, faint through the glass. Relief hits, but I stay tense. What if she’s not alone?
I try the door. Locked. I tap softly.
She comes out from the back, apron on, hair a mess. She sees me, and her expression shifts—startled, then soft. She unlocks the door.
“Tikhon? What are you—”
I step inside and pull her close, kissing her like I need to make sure she’s real. She’s here. Safe. Mine.
She melts into it for a moment, then pulls back, searching my face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
I lock the door behind me. “Just needed to see you,” I say, but she’s not buying it.
She narrows her eyes. “Liar. Tell me.”
I hesitate. She’s my wife. She deserves the truth. “Trouble. Old enemies. I’ll handle it.”
Her jaw tightens. “Fadir Klem?”
I freeze. “How do you—”
“Tatiana mentioned him. Said he’s… interested in me.”
Rage snaps through me—hot, sharp. “He’ll never get close. I promise.”
She touches my face, brushing her thumb along my jaw. “I know.”
The space between us thickens, that leftover heat from earlier, the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. The way she looks at me—like she trusts me, even now—makes me want to forget everything else.
But not here. Not with the city watching.
“Let’s go home,” I say, my voice rough.
She nods. “Yeah.”
I watch her lock up, eyes flicking to the street. Fadir’s out there, somewhere, testing us. Waiting for a crack. But I’m not backing down. For her, I’ll burn the whole world to the ground.
***
I watch her lock up the bakery for the night, the deadbolt snapping shut—a sound that always tells me, that’s it, the day’s done. She throws her tote over her shoulder, pulls her coat tight against the wind, and glances back at me.
She knows I’m here. She always does now.
Her hair whips across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with that quick, impatient flick I know almost as well as my own habits. Then she heads for her car—the little white hatchback she’s been driving since before I even knew her name—and waits there.
I step out of the black SUV I parked in the loading zone, lock it, and cross the alley to her. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me this tired little smile. Not a happy one, but not unhappy either—it says I’m glad you’re here and I wish you didn’t have to be all at once.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods. “Let’s go home.”
I open the driver’s door for her, same as always, then get in on the other side. She starts the car. I don’t even offer to drive anymore—she needs to control something, even if it’s just this short ride home. I get it.
I buckle up, check the mirrors, and look up and down the alley. No one out of place. No cars lurking. No faces I know from the mugshots at the office.
She pulls out slowly, brake lights painting the wet street red. I keep scanning—side mirror, rearview, windshield—watching every car that slides in behind us, every stranger who hangs around the sidewalk a little too long.
She doesn’t tease me about it anymore. She used to. Now, every so often, she just puts her hand on my leg for a second, like she’s reminding both of us: I’m still here, I’m still okay, nothing’s happened.
That tiny touch is the only thing that keeps me from crushing the door handle in my grip.
I never tell her how many times a day I run through worst-case scenarios—Fadir stepping out from behind a dumpster just as she unlocks her car.
A hand clamped over her mouth. Chloroform.
Her eyes wide and terrified. Her body going limp.
A van. Some godforsaken warehouse. Chains. A single swinging lightbulb.
He’s not the type to finish things quick. He talks. He likes to watch people bleed. He laughs while he does it.
I snap out of it. Blink. Focus on her—her nose pink from the cold, lips pressed tight, fingers tapping the steering wheel to some song I can barely hear.
She’s here. She’s driving. She’s safe.
I’d tear this city apart before I let that change.
We hit the main road. There’s a car behind us, keeping pace a little too long. My hand drifts to my holster. But the car turns off, and I finally let out a breath.
Katya glances at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Not really. “Just thinking.”
She doesn’t ask what about. Just reaches over, squeezes my hand—warm, steady, alive.
I turn my hand over, lace my fingers through hers.
She keeps driving. I keep watch.
Holding on to the promise I made the night her shop burned down.
He will never get near her.
Not ever.
Even if I have to give up sleep for the rest of my life.