Chapter 19 - Katya #2
I kiss the bruise, gentle as I can. Then his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. He lets out a long sigh, sliding his hands under my shirt, just resting them on my skin. No rush, no heat, just closeness.
We shift, lying back on the bed. I curl against him, my head on his chest, listening to his heart slow down. His fingers slide through my hair, slow and steady, and I find myself matching my breath to his.
“You were brave today,” he murmurs. “Running out like that... stupid, but brave.”
“I couldn’t just wait.” I draw little circles on his chest, right over his heart. “I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you.”
“You won’t,” he says, tilting my chin up and kissing me again, slow and lingering. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
We talk for a while, voices low in the dark. About the shootout, the mess, how fast it all vanished. About how close it came. About how much I hate this life sometimes, but how much I need him in it.
“I don’t regret running out there,” I admit. “Even if it was reckless. I had to see you. Touch you. I had to know you were real.”
He squeezes me a little tighter. “I needed that too.”
We fall quiet. His breathing evens out, slow and deep.
He falls asleep. I lie awake a while, listening to his heart, feeling his chest rise and fall.
The fear’s still there—Fadir’s gone, but everything isn’t suddenly safe.
But here, in this bed, with him next to me, it feels far away, like something we can handle.
I press my lips to his collarbone, soft and careful.
Then I close my eyes.
Finally, for the first time in days, I sleep.
No nightmares.
***
I wake up slow, the way you do when your body knows there’s nothing to fear. Sheets heavy and cool—Egyptian cotton, a thousand threads dense and soft against my skin where the duvet’s slipped down.
Tikhon’s bed is massive—king-sized, maybe even bigger, a sea of white and charcoal that always leaves me feeling small and lucky. I stretch, all the way—lazy, toes pointed, arms overhead until my spine lifts from the mattress.
A sound escapes me, half-moan, half-sigh, every muscle in my body aching in the best way. I’m sore, but it’s the good kind—the kind that lingers, reminding me how he touched me last night.
Slow at first, careful, then deeper, urgent, until I shook and gasped his name and fell apart in his arms.
I bury my smile in the pillow. It still smells like him: cedar, clean sweat, and a trace of my rosewater perfume clinging to the sheets and his skin, always mixing when we’re tangled up together.
He’s gone already. I knew he’d be. He kissed my temple at 5:47 a.m.—I felt it even while half-asleep—whispered I love you, then slipped out before sunrise.
Work, always work.
But he left the curtains cracked for the morning light, a fresh towel warming on the rack, the coffee machine set for two cups even though he knows I’ll only drink one. Little things. Thoughtful things. The kind that make my chest ache in the best way.
I roll onto my back. Stretch again, arms wide, legs long, just soaking in the quiet and the comfort of a bed that actually feels safe—sanctuary, not battleground. The room is gorgeous.
High ceilings, dark wood beams, walls painted soft charcoal so the white linens almost glow. Floor-to-ceiling windows show off the city skyline, sunlight turning glass towers gold and fiery. The rug underfoot is thick and soft, cream-colored.
There’s a little sitting area by the windows—two low taupe velvet armchairs, a small table, yesterday’s half-finished novel, and a vase of peonies Tatiana brought by last week. The flowers still smell sweet, though the scent’s fading.
I love this room.
I love that it’s ours. Not just his, not just mine. Ours. Technically, we keep separate bedrooms—I’ve still got my suite in the east wing, all my clothes and books and things—but truth is, nobody’s slept there in weeks.
The “name only” rule we started with? It’s ancient history.
We outgrew it without even noticing.
One more stretch, then I slide out of bed.
The hardwood is cool and wakes me up a little. I wander into the bathroom—his-and-hers sinks, a double shower with rainfall heads, and heated floors that feel like a secret luxury.
I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, rake my fingers through my hair until it falls the way I like it. Then I’m back in the bedroom, opening the closet.
His closet. Our closet now. Half of it is still his—dark suits, crisp shirts, tactical gear tucked away in the back. The other half has slowly filled with my things, sneaking over from the east wing, one piece at a time.
I pick out a cream cashmere sweater—soft as a cloud, almost absurdly expensive, one of the first gifts he bought me after I moved in. Black tailored trousers that actually fit, with a flattering flare at the ankle.
Louboutin flats—nude patent, red soles flashing when I walk. Simple gold hoops. A delicate chain with a tiny diamond that he bought just because he saw it and thought of me.
I take my time getting dressed. The cashmere settles around me like a second hug. The pants fit like they were made for me, because they were. The shoes give me a little extra confidence. I catch my reflection in the mirror and, just for a moment, I let myself enjoy it.
I look…happy.
Not flawless, not all put together. Just honestly happy.
My cheeks are still pink from sleep and the night before, eyes awake and bright, lips a little swollen from kissing too much. I catch my reflection and smile—small, secret, and totally real.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and open up messages to Tatiana.
Breakfast? Or lunch? My treat. Noon?
Almost right away, those three dots start blinking.
Yes. And I’m bringing gossip. Prepare yourself.
I let out a quiet laugh, tuck the phone in my pocket, and walk over to the window. The city stretches out, dusted with snow, the river shining silver way off in the distance.
Somewhere out there, Tikhon’s probably buried in meetings, frowning at another spreadsheet, maybe thinking about me while I’m here thinking about him.
My palm presses against the windowpane. It’s freezing.
But inside? I feel so warm.
I love him.
I love this messy, risky, imperfect life we’re building together—because it’s ours. And for the first time in ages, I’m not scared of what comes next.
I’m actually ready.