Chapter 12 - Keira
I was toweling my hair dry when Rodion knocked on my door.
"Come in."
He entered and closed the door behind him, and I knew immediately something was wrong. His face had that careful blankness I'd come to recognize from our sessions—the mask he wore when he was trying to control his emotions.
"What happened?"
"The Petrovics made a move."
I set down the towel. "What kind of move?"
"They burned one of my restaurants. Killed two of my men. Injured three more." He paused. "They left a message. 'Give us the girl.'"
The words landed like stones in my stomach. Two men dead. Because of me. Because I'd had the audacity to run from a marriage I didn't want, to try to build a life that didn't involve being traded like property.
"Who were they?" I asked. "The men who died."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. It matters."
He was quiet for a moment. "Alexei Voronov. Twenty-eight. He had a younger sister in Moscow he was sending money to. And Isidor Sobol. Thirty-four. Married, two kids."
Two kids. A wife who would never see her husband again. A sister who would stop receiving the money that kept her afloat. All because of me.
I moved to the window, staring out at the city without seeing it. Somewhere out there, a woman was learning that her husband was dead. Children were being told that their father wasn't coming home. And it was my fault.
"This has to stop," I said.
"It will. Once we neutralize the threat—"
"No. I mean, I have to stop it." I turned to face him. "If I turn myself over, they'll leave you alone. Your men will stop dying. Your restaurants will stop burning. Everything goes back to normal."
"Nothing goes back to normal. And you're not turning yourself over."
"It's my choice."
"It's not a choice. It's suicide." His voice hardened. "Do you know what Branko Petrovic does to women? Do you know what he's done to the ones he's already 'owned'?"
"I've treated some of them. I know exactly what he does."
The memories rose unbidden—women who'd sat in my office with hollow eyes and shaking hands, describing horrors that haunted my dreams for weeks afterward. The Petrovics hadn't just trafficked them. They'd broken them. Systematically, deliberately, with the patience of men who enjoyed their work.
"Then you know why I won't let you anywhere near him."
"Let me?" The word came out sharper than I intended. "You don't get to let me do anything. I'm not your property, Rodion. I'm not a thing to be protected and controlled and kept in a tower until you decide it's safe."
"That's not what I—"
"It's exactly what you're doing. You married me to keep me away from them, and now you're keeping me locked up to keep me away from them, and people are dying because you won't just let me end this."
"People are dying because the Petrovics are monsters.
" He stepped closer, and I saw the anger in his eyes—real anger, not the controlled frustration he usually showed.
"They were killing people long before you entered the picture.
They'll keep killing people long after. You think surrendering yourself will save lives?
It won't. It'll just add yours to the count. "
"You don't know that."
"I know exactly that. I've been living in this world my whole life. I've watched people try to appease men like Branko Petrovic. It never works. They take what you offer, and then they take more. There's no end to it."
"So what's the alternative? We just wait while they burn down everything you've built? While more men die?"
"We fight. We protect what we can. We make them pay for every inch they take."
"That's not a strategy. That's just stubbornness."
"Maybe." His jaw tightened. "But it's kept me alive this long."
"And what about me? What about the fact that I have to live with knowing people are dying because I exist?"
"That's not on you."
"It feels like it's on me."
"Feelings aren't facts. You taught me that."
The words hit harder than they should have. He was using my own techniques against me, and the worst part was that he wasn't wrong. I'd said exactly that to him in one of our sessions, when he was spiraling about things he couldn't control.
"That's different," I said.
"How?"
"Because in your case, you actually weren't responsible. In my case—"
"In your case, you're also not responsible.
Cormac is responsible. The Petrovics are responsible.
Your father was responsible for raising you in a world where women are currency.
" He stepped closer, and I found myself backing up until my shoulders hit the wall.
"You didn't choose any of this. You ran from it.
You built something new. And now it's caught up with you, and you want to punish yourself for something that was never your fault. "
"I'm not punishing myself. I'm being practical."
"You're being a martyr. There's a difference."
"Don't psychoanalyze me."
"Why not? You've been doing it to me for three weeks."
We were too close now. I could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the pulse jumping in his throat. The argument had shifted into something else, something charged and dangerous.
"Step back," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I can't think when you're this close."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Good."
"That's not—this isn't—" I pressed my palms against the wall behind me, trying to ground myself. "We're in the middle of an argument."
"I know."
"People are dying."
"I know."
"This is completely inappropriate."
"I know that too."
He didn't move. Neither did I. We stood there, inches apart, the air between us thick with anger and something else I didn't want to name.
"You're infuriating," I said.
"So I've been told."
"I don't understand you. I don't understand any of this."
"That makes two of us."
"You should want me gone. I'm nothing but trouble for you. I've brought chaos into your life, I've put your men in danger, I've—"
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because you're not going to talk me out of protecting you.
Whatever's happening here, whatever this situation is—I'm not walking away from it.
" He braced one hand against the wall beside my head, not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.
"I don't fully understand it either. But I know that much. "
"That's not rational."
"Nothing about this is rational."
I should have pushed him away. Should have insisted on space, on boundaries, on all the professional distance I'd been clinging to. But my hands weren't listening to my brain. They were pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms.
"This is a mistake," I whispered.
"Probably."
"We barely know each other."
"I know."
"I was your therapist."
"You're my wife."
The word shouldn't have affected me the way it did. Shouldn't have sent a shiver down my spine, shouldn't have made my breath catch. But it did. Because it was true. Whatever else we were, whatever confusion and chaos surrounded us, that one fact remained.
I was his wife. He was my husband. And we were standing so close I could feel his breath on my lips.
"Rodion—"
I don't know which of us moved first. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe we both broke at the same moment, pulled together by something stronger than sense.
His mouth found mine, and the world disappeared.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't careful. It was heat and desperation and three weeks of tension finally snapping.
His hands came up to cup my face, and I fisted mine in his shirt, pulling him closer even as part of my brain screamed that this was wrong, this was reckless, this was everything I'd sworn I wouldn't do.
He kissed like he argued—intense, relentless, refusing to back down.
I kissed him back with equal ferocity, all my fear and anger and confusion pouring into the contact.
His teeth grazed my lower lip, and I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.
His hands slid from my face to my waist, pulling me closer, and I arched into him without meaning to.
The wall was solid against my back, his body solid against my front, and for one dizzying moment, I forgot everything—the Petrovics, the dead men, the chaos of the past forty-eight hours.
There was only this. Only him. Only the heat building between us like a fire neither of us could control.
Then reality crashed back in.
I pushed against his chest, hard, and he released me immediately, stepping back with his hands raised. We stared at each other across the sudden distance, both of us breathing hard.
"That was—" I started.
"A mistake," he finished. "You said."
"I was going to say unexpected."
"Was it?"
I didn't have an answer. It shouldn't have been unexpected. The tension had been building since the first session, escalating with every secret shared, every wall breached. But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it physically were two different things.
"This complicates everything," I said.
"I know."
"We can't just—we're not in a position to—" I pressed my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth. "I don't know what this means."
"Neither do I."
We stood there, the silence stretching between us. My heart was still racing, my skin still tingling where he'd touched me. I wanted to close the distance again. I wanted to run. I wanted to rewind the last five minutes and make a different choice.
But I couldn't. What was done was done.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized from our sessions—something he did when he was trying to regain control. "I shouldn't have done that."
"We shouldn't have done that," I corrected. "It wasn't just you."
"You're right. But I pushed. I knew you were upset, I knew the timing was—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." The words came out sharper than I intended. "That makes it worse somehow."
"How?"
"Because I wanted it too. That's the problem.
" I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room.
"I've spent years building walls. Years of learning to keep people out.
And you just—" I gestured vaguely at the space between us.
"You walked right through them. I don't know how to handle that. "
"You don't have to handle it right now."
"Then when?"
"When we're not in the middle of a crisis. When there aren't people trying to kill us." He took another step back, putting more distance between us. "I'm not going to pressure you. Whatever this is—whatever it might become—it can wait."
"Can it?"
"It's going to have to."
He was right. I knew he was right. But some treacherous part of me didn't want to wait. Some part of me wanted to close the distance again, to lose myself in the heat of him, to forget about everything except the way his mouth had felt against mine.
I pushed that part down. Buried it deep.
"We should—" I started.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it reflexively, grateful for the interruption.
The gratitude died when I saw the message. Unknown number. Three words.
We know where you are. We're coming.
The blood drained from my face. Rodion saw my expression change and was at my side in an instant—close, but not touching. The careful distance of a man who'd just learned where the line was.
"What is it?"
I showed him the phone. His jaw tightened, all trace of the man who'd kissed me moments ago vanishing behind the mask of the Bratva boss.
"Yegor," he called, already moving toward the door. "We have a problem."
He paused at the threshold, looking back at me. For a moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes—concern, maybe, or the echo of what had just passed between us. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold focus of a man preparing for war.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't leave this room until I come for you."
"Rodion—"
"Please."
The word was quiet. Almost soft. It stopped my protest before it could form.
"Okay," I said. "I'll stay."
He nodded once, then disappeared into the hallway. I heard him barking orders, heard the sound of men moving, heard the penthouse transform from sanctuary into fortress.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my phone still clutched in my hand, and stared at the message on the screen.
We're coming.
The Petrovics were coming. And I was sitting here with kiss-swollen lips and a racing heart, trying to untangle a knot of emotions I didn't understand.
Whatever had just happened between us—whatever that kiss meant or didn't mean—it would have to wait.
But as I sat there in the silence, one hand pressed to my lips, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me before he left.
Like I was something worth fighting for.
Like I was something he was afraid to lose.
I didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to fit it into the careful framework I'd built my life around. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Nothing was ever going to be the same.