Chapter 23
DMITRI
The morning sun filters through the blinds, the weak winter light casting a pale gold across the bed.
I watch her sleep.
This is only the second time I’ve remained in bed with a woman since I lost Lauren.
The others I tossed aside, leaving as soon as we were finished, sweat still damp on my skin, breath still uneven.
It was never about caring or emotion, but about the pleasure, the release, the pure physicality of my need, and absolutely nothing more.
Certainly not time to realize the woman in bed with me was not Lauren.
Until now. Until Clara.
I prop myself on my elbow, my gaze fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. I am compelled to watch her, desperate to witness that next rise, hear the next soft breath, terrified it won’t arrive.
Terrified history will repeat itself, where I’m caught in some nightmare too late to save Clara.
Just like Lauren.
Clara is oblivious to all of this, submerged in the safety of sleep here in my bed, the moment sacred and stolen, where no one can touch her but me.
My brilliant young lawyer is a symphony of contradictions. Her long, thick hair pools across the pillows, a paradox to her light skin. The blunt-cut bangs frame her heart-shaped face, soft in the peace of sleep.
I trace her features with my eyes, afraid any touch will wake her.
I follow the curve of her cheeks and the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, trying to memorize every inch.
I long to wake her up, to see those eyes hidden beneath the dark sweep of her long lashes.
To see how the warm hazel catches the light, how they flicker with intelligence and humor, fire, and passion.
Last night, they flared with pure terror, and the memory stabs at my gut, like a dagger of ice. I know if I hadn’t reacted fast enough, if one of the bullets had found Clara, I would have lost myself entirely. And this time, I don’t know if I would have come back.
I’m in love.
The realization doesn’t arrive as a gentle whisper or even as a bright ray of light.
It is a violent, undeniable crush, a devastating certainty that the icy fortress I built out of control and steel, the one meant to guard the remnants of my life after I lost Lauren and the baby, has entirely broken open again.
Lauren.
I pull away from Clara with a jerk that I’m afraid might wake her. But she simply makes a soft sound and turns the other way, her breath calm and steady.
Unlike mine, which is coming in quick gasps now. Fearing my proximity might burn Clara, or that my touch might make her disappear, I back away until I can slip from under the quilt.
The danger Clara is in is entirely my doing. No one knew anything about her until she was seen with me, until she became not just an asset to my business, but someone I truly care for. Despite what Dean said, those bullets last night were meant for her, a warning that my shield is weakening.
It’s just like what happened with Lauren all over again.
I shrug into my robe and escape my room, seeking refuge from the fear that gnaws at me like nothing else ever has.
Falling for Clara feels like a cosmic joke, a betrayal of the vow I made that there would never be another woman put in harm’s way simply for being loved by me.
It feels reckless, inviting the universe to punish me for daring to smile, to find happiness.
I don’t think about where I’m going, my feet simply take me there. To a room on the other side of the penthouse, a room that is never opened, except for the staff to clean and nothing more.
The sun streams in, the light catching the dust motes, so the air seems to sparkle, like I’ve entered an enchanted realm frozen in time.
But it is not sorcery. Nor is it a fairy tale, where a kiss can return loved ones from the dead.
It is just the way Lauren left it. The computer, now out of date, sits on the desk, as though she’ll come in at any moment to turn it on.
The books on the shelves. The handful of knickknacks; the glass bauble she brought back from a trip to St. Petersburg with the Winter Palace frozen in glass for all time.
Lauren’s office.
I cross to the bookcase beside the desk, where she kept her favorite photo of the two of us.
I hate photographs, but she demanded one on a sunny summer day in Central Park.
She has on the sundress that drove me wild every time she wore it, her auburn hair shimmering in the bright light, her smile that captured my heart the moment I saw it.
I stare at the photo, at the younger version of myself, without the lines around my eyes and mouth, no silver at the temples.
At the woman who had my whole heart and took it with her when she died.
The woman whom I miss every moment of every day of every year that passes without her.
I never thought someone who had been raised in the frozen cold to lead a group of nightmare men doing nightmare things, a man raised not to feel, but to think and plan and kill, could love someone with such ferocity, much less love anyone at all.
And now there is someone else in my life who has become too much a part of it, in a way that makes me panic. A woman who has managed to take some of my pain away, to fill that dark, empty space with the hope of beginning something new.
“What do I do?” I ask into the empty air, but the woman in the picture doesn’t answer.
I lean my forehead against the bookshelf.
“I miss you, moya krasivaya. You were air to me. Water. Sun. Life. And now there is another who brings the light back into my life, and I am terrified of losing her like I lost you, my love.”
I have to protect Clara. I cannot let anything happen to her. I will not let anything happen to her. It’s a noble aspiration, but it’s that and only that in my brutal, dark existence.
I need Clara to live, for the light to remain in her eyes, because without that light, the shadow of my loss and my world will claim me entirely. If anything happens to Clara, I won’t just grieve, I will shatter, and New York will burn.
I should push her away. I should let her go, as she was trying to run last night. I should show the world she means nothing to me, less than nothing.
My hand closes, squeezing into a fist with a restless, desperate energy that has no recourse.
“I don’t deserve her, Lauren. I didn’t deserve you. I don’t deserve happiness or light. I’m not a good man; I’ve done too many terrible things. There is too much blood on my hands.”
The woman in the picture does not respond to this either. But I know what Lauren would say. How many times did we have that conversation?
You are just as deserving of love as anyone else.
“I’m not. My past is littered with bodies and broken lives. Lives I’ve destroyed with my own hands or on my orders.”
Everyone deserves love, my love—even you.
“You know what I am.”
I do, and I still love you for everything else you are, too. I chose you, Dmitri. You and no one else.
The conversation would always end with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as she reminded me just how many others she could have had, which would inevitably devolve into wrestling and laughter.
I know what she would tell me now: You deserve love and light, my love. Don’t run from it. Don’t turn away from it. Take the blessing that is given to you. Find someone else; I don’t want you to be alone. I never wanted you to be alone.
“But I am alone. I’ve always been alone, except when you were with me.”
“Dmitri?”
I turn to find Clara in the doorway. Her hair is mussed, her cheeks still slightly flushed from the warmth under the quilt, her eyes catching the light as she gazes around the room with uncertainty.
Her fingers play with the hem of the shirt she has on—my shirt—discarded on the floor the night before.
The emotions, the feelings, the attraction I’ve tried so hard to push away break through the last of my barriers in Clara’s presence. It’s impossible not to feel, to want, to desire, to crave her when she is near. More than that, I simply wish to have her in my life.
“Is everything okay?” Uncertainty dances around her question.
“Yes. I woke early and didn’t want to disturb you.”
Her eyes sweep around the room, taking it all in. She doesn’t press for details, though I imagine she is curious. Her gaze settles on the picture behind my shoulder.
“Is that—” she starts but quickly stops, pressing her lips together, as she watches my face for my reaction.
It takes a moment to answer. “It is.”
I’ve kept Lauren from everyone, refusing to talk about her, keeping her entirely private and to myself. But to my surprise, I want to share her with Clara.
She takes slow steps into the room and stops next to me, her gaze exploring the picture in the frame for a few long, quiet minutes before she turns to me.
She doesn’t press me for details, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t interrogate me.
She simply lifts her hand and presses it to the rough stubble along my jawline.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her hazel eyes clear and bright as she peers up at me.
I pull her against me, burying my face in her hair and holding her close, simply grateful for her warmth, her presence, and her quiet understanding. I know what I should do, but I also know I want this woman with all that I am, that she, too, is a light in my darkness.
If she chooses to go, I won’t stop her. But if she chooses to stay, I won’t ever let her go.
As if she understands, Clara takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom. But not before looking over her shoulder one last time and smiling warmly at Lauren’s image, as though they share a secret.
When we return to the bedroom, I pull Clara back to me and lean in, capturing her mouth in a kiss that is tender, possessive, and grateful—a silent message of hunger and profound relief.
“I promise you,” I press my forehead against Clara’s, “you are safe with me. I promise you that.”
And then I press her back into the warm confines of the bed, my body a solid, protective presence, so she feels the weight of my promise, that it isn’t just meaningless words, but a vow.
The morning fades into a blur of passionate heat, soft sighs, and whispered words. A confirmation of what is growing between us, a reckless, beautiful act of defiance against the shadows of the past.