38. BRAXTON
Chapter thirty-eight
“ I don’t hate you,” Daria whispered, tears shimmering in her big blue eyes.
“That’s good to know,” I said quietly. She had no idea how much that meant to me. I wasn’t about to let her walk away.
Her pained expression held me captivated as I gazed into the windows of her scarred soul. I wanted her to know that I saw her— really saw her. Here she was, standing in front of me with deeply carved, unseen wounds, and she was still somehow defiant, determined to keep her identity and return to Ukraine. She wasn’t the enemy I’d once misjudged, nor a broken survivor who needed saving, but a woman who carried more strength in her bones than anyone I’d ever met.
Despite everything she’d been through, she stood tall. And yet, there was something vulnerable underneath it all, something that made every part of me want to protect her—not because she was fragile but because she’d never had anyone who gave a damn before now.
She’d convinced herself that she had a debt she needed to repay, that dying wasn’t a sacrifice. It was justice in her eyes. She was willing to throw herself back into the fire for the people of Ukraine, for the innocents who suffered. For her, death wasn’t something to be feared. It was a way to make amends.
I had to find a way to help her see she didn’t have to die to make this right.
She could do more alive than any martyr ever could. But more importantly, I wanted her to know how good she was. Her deep-seated need to save those in harm’s way and protect the most vulnerable was her superpower. She was the most fiercely determined woman I’d ever come across. Not only did she have the desire to help those in need, she also had the capacity to make it happen. I saw it in her—the fight, the brilliance, the fire.
If only she could see herself through my eyes.
But that was going to take time. Years of trauma had taught her that men only offered affection when it served them, that relationships came with a price tag. The very people meant to protect her had shattered her trust.
Daria wasn’t used to being shown kindness without a catch.
The idea of someone wanting to care for her—with no strings attached—was a foreign concept for her. She needed to be shown love that didn’t demand anything in return, needed to be nurtured in a way she’d never experienced. She needed to feel safe enough to choose her future, not just survive it.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
One way or another, I’d help her heal. Yeah, I was drawn to her. And yeah, I wanted her. But that wasn’t relevant right now. If she needed to hate me for a while, if she needed to push me away or unload her pain on me—I’d take it. I could be that person. I didn’t care if she ever loved me back.
Bottom line—she deserved to be loved, and I was here to do that.
“How about we go for a walk?” I suggested. “Figure out what works for you. No pressure. Just fresh air and some space to think.”
I reached for her hand and wrapped my fingers around hers, pulling her closer.
She stared down at our joined hands, and a strange expression flashed across her face, like what I was doing didn’t quite compute. It was the same look she’d given me when I’d grabbed her hand the first time.
I grinned. “I’m just holding your hand, Daria. You’re not obligating yourself to me for the rest of your life. Relax. It’s okay to enjoy the simple things in life.”
Her lips twitched into what was almost a smile.
We moved through the corridor, climbing the spiraling stairwell and stepping onto the wheelhouse deck. The change in the air hit us right away—here it was cool and biting. Sea wind swept across the teak flooring, strong enough to sting the skin but not enough to send us back inside. Overhead, the skies had become moody; low gray clouds stretched out to the horizon. A storm brewed ahead.
I let my eyes sweep the deck. The polished stainless steel railings and gunmetal gray paint gleamed even under the overcast skies. It made the whole thing look like a floating fortress and five-star resort mashed into one—beautiful, expensive, and over the top.
One of the stewards standing behind the outdoor bar asked, “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’ll have a Sancerre,” Daria said without pausing to consider it.
“Of course.” He gave her a polite nod, then turned to me.
“Beer. Whatever’s cold.”
He disappeared, and I turned to watch the sea churn beneath us, whitecaps curling and breaking in every direction.
“You’re used to boats like this, huh?” I asked.
Daria tilted her head and shrugged. “I’ve traveled by these sorts of yachts a few times. But I usually had a reason. Surveillance. Meetings. Kremlin business. This—this is just running and hoping we don’t get caught.”
I let out a breath. “Hell of a nice way to run.”
The steward returned with Daria’s glass of wine and a bottle of Heineken. He handed us our drinks and quickly gave us space. The small crew on board was quiet, professional, and always in the background—the kind of crew you didn’t see unless something was going wrong.
We walked toward the back of the boat, past sleek built-in seating areas and sun loungers no one was using. I took a sip of the beer, then glanced sideways.
“Just so it’s clear,” I said, “I had no clue Nik was making you my wife. I found out the same time you did.”
She raised the wine to her lips and held my stare over the rim of the glass. “I get it. He changed our lives and didn’t tell either of us. That tracks.”
I nodded once. “Honestly? I was pissed. Still am. That wasn’t his call. And it sure as hell wasn’t mine. If I had known about it, I would’ve shut it down in a second.”
We stopped at the stern, and I turned to her, gently squeezing her fingers. “You deserve to choose every part of your life, Daria—not have it assigned to you like some character in a script. I get that we should have gotten your input when we made those decisions. But we needed to get things done before we grabbed you from Malinov’s. Nik and I only had good intentions—getting you out and providing a set of papers to get you somewhere safe.”
With a thoughtful expression on her face, she turned away, letting go of my hand and resting her arms on the railing. She stared out over the water. The wind caught the ends of her hair, sending the short strands skimming across her cheekbones.
I stepped closer. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be erased, to wake up and be told you don’t exist anymore, that the life you bled for is gone.”
Her grip tightened around the wineglass.
“And I know it’s not just about moving to a new country,” I added. “Any country would be a big change. But this? Getting dropped into the US, where everything moves fast, strangers talk like they’ve known you forever, and people smile at you for no reason…that’s a lot.”
She didn’t speak, but her shoulder dropped slightly.
“You want to go back,” I said.
She gave the slightest nod.
“Because you think they still need you there, that helping from a distance means you’re giving up.”
Another nod.
Daria balanced her wineglass between two fingers at the stem, rocking it back and forth as she continued to stare out at the gray water.
“I’m not mad at you,” she said, throwing me a sidelong glance and a half-laugh. “Not really. Nikolai blindsided me. And I took it out on you.”
“You had every right,” I said.
“No, I didn’t.” She finally turned her head toward me. “You were trying to help. Both of you were. I see that. I just…I wasn’t ready for it. No one ever helps me.”
I took a long, slow pull from my bottle, nearly finishing it, and turned to face her more directly. “Then let’s figure out a way for you to keep helping with the war while you stay in the States, at least temporarily. I’m not saying you need to vanish into American suburbia and take up scrapbooking. I just want you to survive long enough that you can keep making a difference.”
Her expression softened just enough for me to see she might be open to the idea.
“You know, now that I’ve had a few minutes to think about it, I can see that you’re right,” she continued after taking a sip of wine. “It’s temporary. A placeholder until I figure out what comes next.”
“Exactly,” I said, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Nobody’s asking you to wave a flag and pledge allegiance. It’s just…for now.”
A gust of wind cut across the deck, tossing her hair across her eyes. She brushed it away and shook her head.
I gestured toward the sundeck. “Come on. I saw a place up there that looks way less windy.”
We crossed to the stairs, climbed up one level, and stepped onto the upper deck. The layout was spacious and protected by a windbreak of angled glass. A large, curved sectional wrapped around a sunken hot tub. Even with the looming storm clouds overhead, the pale wood and high-end upholstery made it feel like a beach resort in the sky.
We settled onto the cushions, close enough to feel the heat from the nearby jacuzzi. The steward reappeared with fresh drinks—another Sancerre for Daria, a darker beer for me this time—and then disappeared without a word.
I took a long sip, watching the storm edge closer.
“I still can’t wrap my head around all this,” I said after a few minutes had passed. “Not just the yacht or the mafia shit or the whole married-on-paper twist…but this world. Yours. Nik’s. I never imagined any of this was real. And now I’m in it.”
Daria’s fingers tapped her wineglass. “It’s not a world. It’s a war zone dressed up in Versace and blood diamonds. And we’re all either assets or liabilities.”
“Before Samantha got tangled up with Viktor Volkov because of her father, the only time I ever got close to this kind of danger was a tailgate brawl outside a Seahawks game,” I said, grinning. “And even then, it was some drunk dude in a tank top yelling about how the last play blew up his parlay.”
That made her smile—and it was an actual smile this time.
“I grew up working-class,” I went on. “Tacoma’s not some glamorous city, but it’s solid. Real people, real problems. I’ve been a paramedic for twelve years. We clock in, save who we can, and then go home, hoping we leave the ghosts back in the rig. And I thought that was intense…until this.”
She tilted her head. “Do you like being a paramedic?”
“Yeah, I still do. Every call’s different. Every person matters. You see people at their worst—and sometimes, you give them a chance to live another day. I get to make a real difference in people’s lives.”
Her eyes lingered on me. “That tracks with the man I’m getting to know. You keep making it harder not to like you.”
I shrugged. “There’s not a lot of glamor in it. Some days, it’s sprained ankles and car wrecks with nothing but bruises. Other days, it’s holding pressure on a bullet hole and praying they make it to the hospital alive.”
“And on your days off?”
I leaned back against the cushions as a gust of wind raked through my hair. “Mount Rainier’s about an hour from my place. My brothers and I have a little cabin on a lake near there. Conan rebuilt the dock last summer. We fish, paddleboard, and grill whatever we catch. At night we sit around a fire, talk shit, and pass around beers. That’s always a good time.”
She rested her elbow on a cushion, chin in hand, watching me with something close to amusement.
“There’s a hot tub too,” I added. “It’s one of the best parts of the place. I sit in the bubbles, crack open something cold, turn on the radio, and watch the stars blow up the sky.”
She laughed. “You still listen to the radio?”
“What can I say? I’m a traditionalist. Not all of us have some state-approved playlist from the Kremlin.”
“I don’t listen to those,” she said with a smirk. “I’ve found ways around the censors.”
“Bet your playlist’s full of sad Russian violin ballads and protest rap.”
“Don’t forget the angry female punk bands,” she added.
I chuckled and raised my bottle to her. “To angry women with knives.”
She clinked her glass against my beer.
We sat like that for a while, with the storm rolling in the distance and the deck gently rocking beneath us. Daria closed her eyes, and her chest rose and fell slowly. She looked relaxed.
But the second I’d cracked that joke about her Kremlin-approved playlist, it had forced my mind back to the situation at hand.
That was all it took to yank my brain straight back to reality. I hadn’t meant to bring it up, but there it was—Russia, her father, the hit list with her name on it. This wasn’t some vacation. We weren’t out here just soaking up the view. She was being hunted.
I shifted on the cushion, set my bottle on the low table beside us, and turned toward her fully.
“Daria—you’ve got a target on your back the size of Moscow. The Kremlin’s hunting you, and your father wants you dead. Nik bought you a little time. That’s all it is, a breathing space. And I’ll support whatever you decide—to fight, flee, or vanish entirely. Even if that means me staying the hell away from you.”
She studied me for a moment. “It’s not you I want to stay away from.”
I swallowed hard. “No?”
She shook her head, then glanced down. “I don’t trust easily. And I don’t like being lied to. But I understand why you didn’t tell me about Nikolai. And I appreciate you trying to protect me…even when it made me want to kill you.”
“High praise.”
She gave me a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. “You are a good man, Braxton. That’s not something I’ve known before. The men in my life have not been…like you.”
Her gaze drifted, and her brow tightened.
“And Nikolai?” she added. “He may have surprised me by helping me and acting differently from the way I’d expected. But I don’t trust him. He’s too smooth. Too polished. Men like that are always up to something.”
I nodded. “He’s not what I expected either. But he took a bullet in Manhattan for my family. And he didn’t have to. So yeah, I don’t fully know him—but I owe him.”
We grew quiet again. The sky darkened a few more shades. The horizon blurred into the mist.
“I think you’d like it in Tacoma,” I said, breaking the silence.
Her eyes lifted.
“The food alone is worth the trip,” I added. “No more fish aspic, just real food—barbecue, tacos, sourdough bagels, burgers the size of a melon.”
She groaned. “Don’t even mention the aspic. If I think about that gelatin monstrosity again, I might throw myself overboard.”
I laughed. “Fair enough.”
Then her smile faded.
“I watched him kill her,” she said quietly.
My chest tightened, recalling Nik’s play-by-play.
“Svetlana. She was only trying to help me get out. Malinov made sure I understood his level of cruelty. That was his mistake—thinking anything other than death might keep me under his thumb.”
She took a long drink, draining her glass.
“She didn’t deserve that. It was my fault. I should have immediately refused her help.”
“You didn’t cause her death.”
“Yes, I did.” Her jaw tensed. “I swear, anyone who gets close to me ends up dead. You’d better watch yourself,” she huffed.
“No,” I said gently, placing my hand on her arm. “Svetlana’s blood is not on you. That’s on him. And someday, maybe you’ll be the one to take that bastard down.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. “If I ever get the chance, I’ll make it slow.”
I nodded. “I believe you.”
She stared out at the sea again, the edge of her sadness tucked just beneath her calm.
I leaned closer and slipped my fingers around her hand.
She didn’t pull away.
Almost like magic, the steward came up with fresh drinks. It made me wonder if there were cameras watching us or if the crew just had a good sense of timing. The attentiveness didn’t seem to faze Daria. She smiled at him, accepted the new glass, and took a sip.
I smiled at the guy, and then he was gone.
It was time to shift the conversation back to something lighter and pull us out of Malinov’s shadow.
“So, if you choose to come to Tacoma,” I said, “I’ll owe you a backyard cookout and a soak in the hot tub. And that dock on the lake? It’s got your name on it.”
She smiled into her wineglass. “You keep describing all this like I’d be crazy not to come.”
I arched a brow. “Wouldn’t you?”
She gave me a furtive look. “Maybe. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Or maybe it’s the wine. But I think you might be right. Learning more about the US firsthand wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
I didn’t say it out loud, but damn—that hit home. This wasn’t just her letting her guard down; this was progress.
She tapped the edge of her glass. “So, what do you eat in this magical land of lakes and hot tubs? Hamburgers and fries?”
I gave her a mock gasp. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I just assumed American cuisine was built entirely around bread, cheese, and ground meat.”
I lifted my beer. “Hamburgers are an institution. You can get one for three bucks in a greasy paper bag at a drive-through or pay a hundred dollars for one stacked with Wagyu beef and truffle aioli on a brioche bun at a steakhouse. We grill them in backyards, serve them at ballparks, and eat them with pickles, bacon, onions—you name it. Hell, one place tried using donuts for buns. That didn’t end well. But the point is that they cover the entire spectrum of American life. Every class. Every taste. United by a sandwich.”
That got her to laugh. It was a genuine laugh, too, loud and surprising. “A unifying national identity built around beef. Very patriotic.”
I shrugged. “We take our food seriously.”
“So what else do Americans eat?” she asked.
“Everything,” I said. “We’ve got Thai, Indian, Cuban, Ethiopian, Japanese, Peruvian, Polish—you name it. Every culture has a home in our kitchens. And food isn’t just about eating. It’s about community. We use it to connect. Americans live for attending backyard barbeques, dinners with family. They’re always eager to drop off a casserole when someone is sick. It’s how we show up for each other.”
She looked at me like I was a nut, but I didn’t care. It was the truth.
“Back home, childhood wouldn’t be the same without the iconic PB I wanted to give, to show her what it was like to be touched by someone who saw her not as a weapon or a body to fuck but as a woman worth worshiping.
I pulled back and rested my forehead against hers. Our breaths were coming hard and fast now. My fingers tightened in her hair just enough to tell her I wasn’t going anywhere.
Not unless she asked me to.
And when her hand wrapped around my throat and forced my lips back to hers so she could kiss me with a raw intensity—it was clear there was no fear in her, only need. She wouldn’t stop me.
Not this time.