Chapter Five #2
When he’s gone, I draw a shaky breath and glance toward the door.
My legs feel unsteady as I stand, debating if I should stay put or go find a nurse.
But before I can take a step, Alexei, Anya, and Viktor return to the waiting room.
I see Viktor looks up first, concern softening his usually sharp expression.
Anya gives me a tired but gentle smile, and Alexei approaches me.
“Everything all right?” he asks quietly.
I nod. “As much as it can be.”
He studies my face for a moment, then gestures toward the row of chairs. “Sit.”
I do, sinking into the seat as though gravity’s doubled in the last hour. My body feels numb, but my chest aches with every thought of Dmitri. I can still hear the sound of the gunshot, feel the wetness of his blood on my hands, even though I washed it off an hour ago.
Viktor leans back in his chair. “I just got a message from one of my contacts at the precinct. The cops have wrapped things up at your parents’ house. They’re writing it off as self-defense,” he says. “Your father gave a full statement to explain everything.”
I blink, relief flooding my body. “Thank God.”
Alexei nods. “Your father’s statement holds weight, so we're in the clear.”
It takes me a moment to find words. “So…it’s over?”
“For now,” Alexei says. “At least the part that could reach the papers.”
For a long moment, none of us speaks. The waiting room clock ticks softly, and exhaustion starts to pull at me. I close my eyes and let my mind wander…to a memory of Dmitri, one that makes me smile despite everything.
Dmitri coming into my life is the best thing that has happened to me in years. He was…
He was?
I can’t speak of him like he's no more.
No!
The thought of losing Dmitri sends me into another wave of fear. My hands start to tremble, and my mouth goes dry. I clutch my hands together, trying to stop them from shaking.
I have to stay strong, not just for myself but for his family, who are all seated here.
I have to hold on to the tiny thread of hope and keep believing that he will make it.
I need Dmitri to make it. He has to pull through.
I don’t think there is any other way I’m going to live in this world without him in it.
Think happy thoughts, Mireille.
So, I let myself drift back into another sweet memory with Dmitri. It was earlier that day—the afternoon before we were supposed to go to Alexei’s mansion for drinks before Anya’s opera performance.
‘Where are we headed?’ I asked Dmitri as he took a different route, away from my dorm. We had just finished lunch at a little Italian place in the Village, and I’d assumed he was taking me home to get ready. Dmitri glanced at me, a smile playing on his lips. “You’ll see?”
“You’re always so mysterious,” I teased.
“You love it.”
I did. I really did.
When we pulled up in front of an elegant boutique in Midtown—the kind of place with a single dress in the window and no visible price tags—my breath caught.
“Dmitri... what are we doing here?”
“Getting you a dress,” he said simply. “For tonight.”
“I have dresses—”
“Not like the ones in here.” He came around to open my door, offering his hand. “Let me spoil you, kukolka.”
The way he said it, low and warm, made my stomach flutter. I took his hand and let him lead me inside.
The boutique was hushed and beautiful, all cream walls and soft lighting. A woman in a sleek black dress greeted us like we were expected—because of course Dmitri had called ahead. Within minutes, I was surrounded by silk and satin, gowns in every shade of blue and silver and midnight.
I tried on dress after dress, stepping out of the fitting room each time to find Dmitri watching from a velvet chair, a glass of champagne in his hand. His eyes tracked every movement, growing darker with each new gown.
“That one’s nice,” he said of a silver number.
“Just nice?”
“You’d look beautiful in anything. Or nothing.” His voice dropped on the last word, and heat flooded my cheeks.
Then I found it. The dress.
Midnight-blue satin that caught the light like liquid. Off-the-shoulder, with a neckline that left my collarbones exposed. The bodice fit perfectly, and when I turned, the skirt moved in a gentle wave, the hidden slit giving my stride a quiet confidence.
I stepped out of the fitting room slowly, suddenly shy.
Dmitri went completely still.
He stared at me—not the careless kind of staring, but really looking. His eyes traced the lines of the dress, the low dip at the back, the way the fabric shaped me without shouting for attention.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling more beautiful than I ever had. “So…what do you think?”
He didn’t answer. He just rose from the chair and walked toward me, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Dmitri?”
He reached me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“You’re stunning,” he said, his voice full of want. “So beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
My breath caught. “It’s just a dress—”
“It’s not the dress.” His other hand settled on my waist, drawing me closer. “It’s you. It’s always you.”
And then he kissed me—slow at first, savoring, but quickly growing hungrier. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as his tongue swept against mine.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“We should stop,” I whispered, not meaning it at all. “The saleswoman—”
“Went to get accessories. She’ll be gone for a while.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “And there’s a lock on that fitting room door.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Dmitri...”
“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His lips brushed my ear, his voice dropping to a growl. “But I’ve been watching you try on dresses for the last hour, imagining peeling every single one off you. I’m barely holding on, beautiful.”
I should have said no. We were in public. Anyone could’ve heard us.
But the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world—made me reckless.
“Don’t stop,” I breathed.
His eyes flared. In one smooth motion, he guided me back into the fitting room and clicked the lock behind us.
The space was small, all mirrors and soft lighting, which meant I could see us from every angle as he pressed me against the wall. His mouth found mine again, demanding now, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.
“This dress,” he muttered against my lips. “I’m going to dream about you in this dress.”
“Then maybe you should take it off me.”
He groaned, low and rough, and reached for the zipper at my back. The satin pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. He stepped back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving.
“God, Mireille.”
I reached for him, tugging his shirt free from his pants. “Your turn.”
He let me unbutton his shirt, watching my fingers with hooded eyes. When I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and pressed my palms to his bare chest, he shuddered.
“We have to be quiet,” he warned, even as his hands unclasped my bra. “Can you do that for me?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, gasping as his mouth found my neck. “You make it hard to think.”
“Then I’ll help you.” He covered my mouth with his, swallowing my moan as his hand slipped inside my panties.
The first stroke of his fingers made me buck against him. He held me steady with his other arm, working me with devastating precision. The mirrors reflected us—his dark head bent over me, my face flushed with pleasure, our bodies pressed together in the small space.
“That’s it,” he murmured against my throat. “Let go, kukolka. I’ve got you.”
He added a second finger, curling both just right, and I had to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The pressure built impossibly fast, my body wound so tight I thought I might shatter.
“Come for me,” he commanded softly. “Now.”
I broke apart with a muffled cry, my whole body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through me. He held me through it, stroking me gently until the last tremor faded.
When I could finally open my eyes, he was watching me with a mix of tenderness and barely restrained hunger.
“Your turn,” I whispered, reaching for his belt.
He caught my wrist. “Later. Tonight, after the opera, I’m going to take my time with you.” His voice was a promise, dark and rich. “But right now, I need to buy you this dress before the saleswoman comes back and finds us like this.”
I laughed, breathless and giddy. “What if she already knows?”
“Then I’ll buy out the entire store, and she can keep our secret.” He kissed me once more, soft and sweet, then handed me my bra. “Get dressed, kukolka. We have an opera to attend.”
I floated through the rest of that afternoon on a cloud of anticipation, knowing that whatever came after the opera would be worth the wait.
If only I’d known what was coming.
The memory fades, leaving an ache in its place. That was only hours ago, but it feels like another lifetime—when my biggest worry was whether I’d be able to stay quiet in a dressing room, not whether the man I love would survive the night.
Alexei comes to sit beside me, his presence dragging me out of my thoughts.
“Mireille,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I need to tell you something.”
I look up, startled.
He continues, “Before the dinner. Before any of this, he told us he wouldn’t use you. He said he refused to touch your father’s investigation. He said you meant too much that he intended to pursue a relationship with you regardless of the danger it posed to the family.”
My heart twists painfully in my chest. “Really?” I whisper.
Alexei gives a faint nod. “Yes. He was prepared to take the fall for the family if it came to it. But he wasn't going to use your family anymore.”
I press my hand to my mouth as emotion wells up again.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I thought he was lying. I thought…”
I trail off, remembering what I’d overheard in the hallway—Dmitri saying he was “close” to getting information, that I “wouldn’t be a problem.
” It sounded damning. But now, I realize I’d only heard part of the conversation.
The part where he was still pretending for his brothers, before he finally told them the truth.
Alexei shakes his head. “My brother lies when it suits him, but never about the things that matter.” His tone softens. “You matter.”
I swallow hard, fighting the tears that blur my vision. “I love him,” I say quietly. “I think I knew it before I even admitted it to myself. I just hope I get to tell him again.”
Anya leans forward, her hand warm on my knee. “You will.”
Viktor gives a small, knowing grin. “He’s too stubborn to die.”
That earns the smallest smile from me. “He’d better be.”
The room falls into silence again, but this time, it feels different. Not hopeless, merely…waiting.
Through the window, I can see the nurses moving back and forth. Somewhere behind those doors, Dmitri is fighting his way back. And I make myself a promise.
If he wakes up—not if, when—I’m going to be there. And I’m going to tell him again that I love him, no matter what it costs.