Chapter 12 - Tikhon
The bedroom’s still dark when I wake up—everything’s washed in that gray, pre-dawn light where time feels stuck. Katya’s pressed close, her head tucked under my chin, one leg thrown over mine like she’s not letting go, not even in her sleep.
Her breath is slow, warm against my collarbone. I don’t move. I just lie there, feeling her chest rise and fall, her arm heavy across my stomach, the leftover scent of vanilla and sex hanging in the sheets.
Last night keeps flickering through my mind—her mouth on mine, that sharp gasp when I moved inside her, the broken little sounds she made as she lost herself.
But what sticks with me isn’t just the sex.
It’s her face after, the way she looked at me—unguarded, soft, like every wall she’d ever built just fell.
When she whispered my name, not fighting, not testing, just saying it like it mattered, something cracked open in me. Something I didn’t realize I’d locked away.
I brush a bit of her hair off her forehead. She stirs, lashes fluttering. Then she opens her eyes—caramel, heavy with sleep—just looking at me for a second, nothing hidden. Then she smiles, small and real, and it lands right in my chest.
“Morning,” she says, her voice rough from sleep.
“Morning.” I lean in, kiss her slowly, tasting the last traces of last night on her lips. She sighs, her fingers finding my jaw, and for a minute, nothing else matters. Just her mouth, her body pressing closer, the quiet comfort of waking up together.
We don’t hurry. We kiss like we’ve got nowhere to be, hands moving slow—mine tracing her spine, hers sliding under the sheet to rest over my heart. When we break apart, she touches her forehead to mine.
“Thank you,” she says, soft.
I raise an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For last night. For… not rushing me. For letting me come to you.”
I have to swallow before I answer. “Katya, I’d wait forever if that’s what you needed.”
She searches my face. “I don’t want forever. I just want this.” She presses her palm to my chest. “Us. No more games.”
I cover her hand with mine. “Then that’s what we’ll have.”
She kisses me again, quick and sweet, then slips out of bed, stretching in the morning light. I watch her walk to the bathroom, completely at ease, her hips swaying, the red marks on her thighs still visible.
My blood heats up all over again. When she disappears behind the door, I let myself sink back, staring at the ceiling, feeling something settle inside me. Something I haven’t felt in years.
Peace, maybe. Or at least the start of it.
We drift through the morning—coffee in bed, her flipping through recipe notes on her phone while I check security updates. She’s wearing my shirt, sleeves rolled, hem just brushing her thighs.
Every time she shifts, I catch flashes of skin, and it takes everything not to drag her back under the covers.
Then, around noon, my phone buzzes. Viktor: Confirmed sighting. Fadir. Office garage. 2 p.m. Alone.
My stomach twists. I show her the text. She reads it, face going still.
“You’re going,” she says. Not asking.
“Yeah.”
She puts her phone aside. “Then I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Tikhon—”
“No.” I cup her face, thumb tracing her cheek. “He wants to get to me. Seeing you would be a gift. I’m not giving him that.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Promise you’ll come back in one piece.”
“I promise.”
She kisses me, hard and fierce. “You better.”
I leave her with two of my best guys outside the house and strict orders: no one in or out without clearance. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Progress.
When I get to the office building, it’s quiet—a weekend, barely anyone around, most of the lights off. I take the service stairs down to the garage, moving quietly, nerves buzzing. The air is cold, smelling like oil and concrete. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, throwing long shadows everywhere.
Fadir’s right where Viktor said he’d be—leaning on the driver’s door of a matte-black Escalade, arms crossed, that twisted half-smile already on his face.
He looks thinner than before, cheeks hollow, eyes burning with something feverish. The scar running from his temple to his jaw looks fresh, like someone took another shot at him and nearly finished the job.
“Tikhon,” he drawls, peeling himself off the car. “Right on time. I respect that.”
I stop about ten feet away, hands loose, gun at my back, knife tucked in my boot. “You’ve got five minutes before my guys drag you out of here in pieces.”
He laughs—a wet, broken sound, like it hurts. “Always the showman. Relax. I just want to talk, man to man.”
“Talk.”
“The alliance. That cute little ceasefire you cooked up. Marrying the Letvin girl to seal it? Ballsy. Not bright, but ballsy.”
“Spit it out.”
He steps in, voice slick. “You stole something that wasn’t yours. Viktor’s chair. The city. Now you’ve got yourself a trophy wife to parade around.” His grin turns nasty. “I’ve seen the photos. She’s gorgeous. Bet she’s sweet as sugar.”
Rage hits, sudden and hot. I keep my voice steady. “Leave Katya out of this.”
He laughs again, sharp and mean. “Can’t do that.
She’s the prize now. The sparkle on your crown.
Just imagine—how easy it’d be to grab her.
Wait until she’s closing up that little bakery, then press a rag over her mouth.
She’d wake up somewhere quiet, where nobody hears her scream.
I could take my time. Weeks, if I wanted.
Send you little souvenirs—fingers, maybe. Or something more personal.”
I don’t think. I move. My fist smashes into his jaw—a clean, satisfying crack. He stumbles, blood sliding down his lip, but he just grins wider.
“There he is,” he says, wiping his mouth. “The real Tikhon. Not the guy in the suit—the killer.”
I go in again. He’s ready this time. We crash together—fists and elbows, knees driving. He’s fast, dirty, and knows every cheap trick. He gets a solid shot to my ribs, and I see white.
I slam him against a parked car, metal crunching. Glass cracks. He jams his knee into my gut, knocking the air out of me. I grab his throat and slam him back, his skull bouncing off the window.
“You go near her,” I snarl, squeezing harder, “I’ll end you right here.”
He chokes out a laugh, blood bubbling at his mouth. “You think you can protect her? You’ve gone soft. Playing house. I’ll have her on her knees before you realize she’s gone.”
I drive my fist into his stomach—once, twice. He folds, gasping. I yank his head back by the hair. “Final warning. Leave the city. Leave her alone. Next time I see you, you’re done.”
He spits blood at my feet. “You can’t stop this. She’s already marked. Sweet dreams, Sokolov.”
I pull back, ready to hit him again, but Viktor’s voice cuts in from the stairwell. “Boss! We’ve got his crew pinned upstairs. Let’s go.”
My whole body wants to finish it, but I shove Fadir against the car instead. He slumps there, still grinning like a ghoul.
“Get him out of here,” I tell Viktor, my voice raw. “Dump him outside city limits. Make sure he knows we’re watching.”
Viktor nods, hauls him up by the collar. Two more guys show up, zip-tie his wrists. Fadir laughs the whole way to the elevator—broken, taunting.
I just stand there, breathing hard, knuckles slick with blood, ribs screaming. The garage feels colder, shadows stretched long. I wipe my face with my sleeve, smearing blood, then head for the car.
Driving home, everything blurs. My mind won’t stop circling Katya—alone in the house, trusting me to keep her safe. I can’t let him near her. Not ever.
Her car’s still in the garage when I pull in. Relief hits hard, almost dizzying. I kill the engine, sit with my head against the wheel for a second, then force myself out.
She’s in the kitchen, apron on, flour smudged on her cheek, stirring something that smells of cinnamon and comfort. She turns, sees my face—the split lip, the bruises—and her spoon clatters onto the counter.
“Tikhon—”
I cross the room in three strides and pull her in. She freezes for a beat, then wraps her arms around my neck, holding tight.
“You’re okay,” she whispers into my shoulder.
“Yeah.” I bury my face in her hair. “I’m okay.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, fingers gentle on the cut above my eye. “What happened?”
“Fadir. He showed up. I warned him off. He didn’t listen.”
Her eyes go dark. “Did you—”
“I didn’t kill him.” Not yet. “But he knows now. If he tries again…”
She nods, gets it. Then she kisses me—soft, careful around the split lip. “Come upstairs. Let me fix you up.”
I follow her. I’d follow her anywhere.
In the bathroom, she makes me sit on the edge of the tub while she dabs antiseptic on my cuts, her touch soft, almost reverent. When she’s done, she straddles my lap, arms around my neck.
“I was scared,” she whispers. “When you left. Not for me—for you.”
I pull her close. “I know.”
She kisses me again, slower this time. Deeper. The pain in my ribs fades under her mouth, the heat of her body pressing into mine. We don’t even make it to the bed at first.
We just stay there on the edge of the tub—her in my lap, hands everywhere, clothes coming off piece by piece. I finally pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. It’s not wild like last night. It’s careful. Almost reverent.
We take our time. We explore, taste, and learn from each other all over again. She rides me slow, hands on my chest, eyes locked with mine. Every movement feels like a promise she’s making just for me.
When she comes, it’s quiet—she shakes, gasps my name like it means everything. I follow right after, holding her tight, losing myself in her neck while the rest of the world just falls away.
Later, we’re tangled together in bed. Her head rests on my chest, and I run my fingers over her back, tracing lazy lines.
“I love you,” she whispers into the hush.
My heart trips over itself. I tilt her chin up so I can see her eyes. “Say it again.”
She smiles. “I love you, Tikhon.”