23. Sasha
23
SASHA
The ceiling above the bed is ridiculously ornate. Like it belongs in a painting or a royal courtroom where people wear powdered wigs and say henceforth.
I lie flat on my back, tangled in the sheets, still sore in all the best places, and definitely not ready to face reality.
Damien’s beside me, one arm under his head, the other resting across his chest. He hasn’t moved much since we collapsed into each other, and I can’t tell if he’s asleep, deep in thought, or silently regretting all his life decisions.
Naturally, I poke him.
His gray eyes flick toward me without turning his head. “Yes?”
I rest my chin on his shoulder, staring up at him. “Are you going to tell me who the hell you really are now?”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. His jaw tenses like he’s grinding down the words before they escape.
“You already know,” he says finally.
“I don’t.” I raise my eyebrows. “I know you’re rich. I know you’re the CEO. I know you have a broody stare and an unhealthy relationship with black clothing. But that’s all surface-level stuff. I want to know you .”
He sighs, like I’ve asked him to relive a past life.
I don’t push, just wait. He always cracks faster when I don’t nag him.
“I wasn’t born Damien Zaitsev,” he says eventually, voice low. “My name was changed when I was a teenager. After my father died.”
I blink. “Okay. That’s…mysterious. What were you before?”
He gives me a wry look. “Irrelevant.”
I sit up slightly, the sheet slipping down to my waist. His eyes drop before dragging back up to meet mine. Still distracted. Good. I’m throwing him off.
“So, you’re basically the mafia,” I say.
“Close,” he says.
“I always thought they were made up, you know? Like unicorns.”
“You’re too innocent for your own good, printsessa.”
“Stop saying it like a bad thing,” I say. “And stop dodging my questions. I want to know everything.”
He exhales through his nose, like he knows he’s lost this round.
“My father worked for the Bratva. Eventually, he ran one of their largest operations in the States. Drugs, guns, fake shipping manifests, all of it.”
My throat tightens. “Jesus.”
“I was brought back to Russia. Spent a year with my uncle. They trained me. Groomed me. Taught me how to lead.”
“Like…Bratva training?”
“Like how to survive in a world that doesn’t have rules.”
My fingers toy with the sheet, heart pounding. “And the man who tried to—who sent people after me…?”
“Lev.” His voice is clipped. “He used to be my father’s second. He wanted the power for himself. When I came back and inherited the name, the fortune, and the influence…it didn’t sit well with him.”
I shift, propping myself on an elbow. “What…I mean, what actually happened? And why drag me into it?”
A flicker of pain clouds his eyes. “I didn’t mean to drag you in. You got under my skin before I realized how dangerous that was. By the time I saw the threat, it was too late.”
He pauses, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Lev’s father crossed mine, back in Russia. A betrayal. My father demanded I step up, prove loyalty. I hesitated. Lev ran. Everyone said he died…but he didn’t. Now he’s here, planning to make me pay. And anyone close to me.”
“Damien…” I say softly, leaning in closer.
“The Bratva is bigger than either of us,” he finishes grimly. “I didn’t choose it, but I was born to it. And if Lev sees you as leverage…I can’t let that happen.”
My heart twists. Because in spite of it all, there’s a raw sincerity in his voice that makes me believe he does want to protect me, not just control me.
I rest my palm on his bare chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my touch. “So now what?” I whisper.
He turns his head to look at me, eyes softening. “Now I keep you alive,” he says. “And I find Lev before he finds us.”
I run my fingers absentmindedly across his chest, tracing the faint scar that cuts through the muscle near his shoulder. It’s old. Faded. But real. Just like everything I’ve learned about him in the last twenty minutes.
And suddenly, a memory pushes to the front of my mind—the night at his apartment, when I woke up thirsty and saw someone in the hallway.
I shift, leaning into his side. “Damien…that night. At your apartment. When I thought I saw someone—” I pause. “Was that him?”
His jaw tenses beneath my fingers. His throat works before he nods. “We believe it was.”
My mouth dries. “And when I was walking home and ambushed…”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“He knows too much,” I say slowly, thinking aloud. “About your movements. Mine. My schedule at work. My apartment. That’s not the kind of thing you find by digging around online. That’s someone with access .”
Damien’s gaze hardens. “I know.”
“Then…” I hesitate, because I don’t want to be the one to say it. But someone has to. “What if someone close to you is feeding him information?”
His expression darkens, jaw locked. “I’m going to find out,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Soon.”
I swallow, unsure if I feel reassured or terrified.
My mind flashes to the woman in the garden—the smug little smiles, the way she touched him like she still had claim to him.
“Nina,” I say, testing the waters. “Do you trust her?”
His eyes flick to mine, brows drawing together. “She would never betray me.”
And just like that, my skin prickles with annoyance.
“Oh. Well that’s comforting,” I say flatly, pulling the sheet up to my chest. “Glad someone gets a free pass.”
He exhales hard. “Sasha?—”
“No, it’s fine,” I cut in, shifting away just a little. “She shows up here, uninvited, just days after someone tries to kidnap me and an intruder breaks into your apartment, but sure, Nina’s totally above suspicion.”
“I’ve known her a long time,” he says, his tone tight.
“And you’ve known me for…what? A couple months?”
He sits up too, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t about comparing you to her?—”
“Good,” I say, sliding off the bed and grabbing for the robe hanging on the chair. “Because you’d lose.”
That gets a reaction. His eyes flash, and for a second, I wonder if we’re about to dive into another one of our arguments where yelling somehow leads to sex.
But instead, he just watches me. Quiet. Brooding. Like he knows he said the wrong thing, but he doesn’t know how to take it back.
I tie the robe tighter than necessary and glance at him. “I’m not asking you to stop trusting people. I’m asking you not to be blind.”
Then I walk toward the bathroom door.
Because whether he follows me or not…
I need air.
And maybe, just maybe, I need him to choose who he trusts before it’s too late.
The suite is quiet when I step out of the bathroom, towel pressed to my face. I had hoped a splash of cold water would take the edge off the irritation bubbling inside me. Spoiler: it didn’t.
I walk back to the bedroom, heart still hammering a little from our fight—though I’m not sure what’s fueling it more—Damien’s refusal to consider Nina as a suspect, or the fact that I hate how much I care.
The bed is empty.
The space where Damien had been—warm, rumpled, filled with his scent—is now smooth and cold.
Seriously? He left?
Not a word? Not even a dramatic door slam to let me know he was pissed too?
“Great,” I mutter, tossing the towel onto the armchair and grabbing my phone from the nightstand. “That’s just perfect.”
I check the time. 8:20 PM.
My stomach drops.
I was supposed to meet Ryan over an hour ago.
Crap.
And to make it worse, there’s a text from him sitting politely unread.
Ryan: Hey, everything okay? I’m still here for a few more minutes if you’re coming.
Of course he is. Because Ryan is actually nice and normal and doesn’t live in a mansion with armed guards and ex-girlfriends that slink around like Bond villains.
I flop down on the edge of the bed, typing out a response.
Me: Hey, I’m really sorry. Something came up and I completely lost track of time. Hope you didn’t wait too long. Rain check?
I hit send and drop the phone on the comforter, then stare at the floor like it personally offended me.
Damien got what he wanted. That thought won’t stop circling.
I let him in—completely, stupidly, with my body, my thoughts, all of it. And now he’s just gone. No explanation, no goodbye, no “hey, sorry for storming off after I implied my ex could do no wrong.”
Maybe he did just want the chase. The challenge. The texting. The sex.
And now that he’s had all of it…
I roll over and bury my face into the pillow with a loud groan.
God, I’m such an idiot.