29. Zoya
ZOYA
T he safehouse loft sits above the city streets, its windows offering a view of Moscow's sprawling lights. I guide Maksim to the small couch near the window, his arm draped across my shoulders for support. Each step he takes is slow, and I can see the pain etched in the lines around his eyes.
"Sit," I tell him, pushing him gently onto the worn cushions.
He doesn't argue, which tells me how much he's hurting. Blood has soaked through his shirt, and dark bruises bloom across his knuckles and cheekbones.
I find a first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and return with supplies. My hands shake as I set everything out on the coffee table—gauze, antiseptic, medical tape. The tremor in my fingers won't stop.
Then I turn to him and carefully help him peel off his jacket.
"Let me see your ribs," I say, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
He lifts his arms slowly, allowing me to pull the fabric over his head. Purple bruises spread across his chest in sharp lines from the stairs, and there's a deep gash along his left side that's still bleeding. The line mars his beautiful tattoos so that they'll never be the same again.
"This needs stitches," I murmur, pressing gauze to the wound.
"It'll hold." His voice is rough, tired. "Just clean it and wrap it tight."
I pour antiseptic onto a clean cloth and start working. He doesn't flinch when I clean the cut, but his jaw tightens. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can smell the metallic scent of blood mixed with his familiar cologne.
"You could 've died tonight," I say quietly, not looking up from my work.
"But I didn't."
"You fell down those stairs. I heard every impact." My voice cracks on the words. "I thought?—"
"I'm still here, Zoya."
I finish cleaning the wound and start wrapping his ribs with elastic bandages. My hands are steadier now, focused on the task. When I'm done, I sit back and look at him properly.
"Do you believe me now?" he asks.
I think about the file, about Damir's confession, about the way my brother looked at me when he realized I wasn't going to leave with him.
"Yes," I say. "I believe you."
He nods slowly, as if he's been waiting for this moment. "Good."
"I'm sorry I doubted you. After everything you've done to protect me, I still?—"
"You don't need to apologize." He reaches out and takes my hand, his thumb tracing over my knuckles. "He was your brother. Of course you wanted to believe him."
I look down at our joined hands. Mine are still stained with soot and blood from the tunnels, fingernails dirty with debris. His are bruised and split, marked by the violence of tonight's fight.
"I love you," I tell him. The words come out simple, honest. "I should have said it before, but I was scared. Scared that if I admitted it, you'd find a way to use it against me."
"I've known for a while," he says quietly.
"How long?"
"Since the night you woke up from the fire. You looked at me when you opened your eyes, and I saw it. The way you trusted me to keep you safe."
I remember that night. The taste of smoke in my mouth, the bandages on my arms, the way he sat beside the bed watching over me. Even then, burned and broken, I felt safe with him there.
"I was terrified I was going to lose you tonight," I admit. "When Damir had that knife, when you were fighting those men—I realized that my whole world has become centered around you. Around us."
"You didn't lose me."
"But I could have. And then what? I'd be alone again, with a baby, and nowhere to go."
He lets go of my hand and cups my face instead. His palm is warm against my cheek, callused from years of violence but gentle in the way he touches me.
"You're not alone," he says. "You'll never be alone again."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He leans forward and kisses me, soft and slow. I can taste the metallic tang on his lips, can feel the tremor in his hands as he pulls me closer. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.
"I need you," I whisper. "Tonight. Right now."
"Zoya—"
"I know you're hurt. I know you're exhausted. But I need to feel you alive. I need to know that we're both still here."
He searches my face, and whatever he sees there makes him nod. "Come here."
I stand and move to straddle his lap, careful of his injured ribs. He winces slightly as I settle against him, but his hands come up to rest on my hips.
His hands grip my hips tighter, thumbs pressing into the curve of my waist. Even injured, he’s strong beneath me, solid in a way that grounds everything inside me.
I reach for the hem of my tank top and pull it over my head, then slip my bra off and drop it too.
His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin.
There's no hesitation in the way he looks at me—no hesitation in the way he palms my breasts, rough fingers sliding across my nipples until they pebble under his touch.
“I need your mouth,” I say.
He doesn’t make me ask twice. He leans forward, lips closing over one nipple while his hand works the other.
Heat coils low in my belly. I grind against him, my leggings rubbing against the hard line of his cock beneath his slacks.
He groans against my skin, breath hot, and his hand slides down to cup me through the thin fabric. The contact makes me jolt.
“So wet already,” he murmurs.
“You’re the reason,” I tell him, and I mean it.
I push up, standing just long enough to strip out of my leggings and underwear.
I don’t bother with anything slow or seductive.
I want him too much. I want him inside me, filling me, making me forget the blood and the fire and the fear.
When I climb back onto his lap, he unzips his slacks just enough to free his cock.
My fingers close around him, stroking a few times. He’s thick and hard, flushed dark at the tip. His head falls back against the couch, jaw clenched, and I feel the tension vibrating through him.
“Zoya.”
I guide him to my entrance and sink down in one slow, unbroken motion.
My breath catches as he fills me completely.
Too much and exactly enough at the same time.
My hands brace against his chest, careful near his wrapped ribs, but I can feel the tautness of his pecs under my palms. He groans, hands back on my hips, fingers digging in as I start to move.
The rhythm is unhurried at first, a deep grind that forces us both to feel everything. The stretch, the heat, the way our bodies lock together. He thrusts up into me once, hard enough to punch a gasp from my lungs, then bites back a curse.
“You’re going to make that cut bust open,” I pant.
“Then ride me slower,” he growls, but it’s not angry.
He’s desperate for this connection too because that’s what this is.
It’s not pointless sex for sex’s sake. We need each other, like fire and oxygen, like water in a desert.
Maksim is my other half, my other side, and I’m not whole unless he’s in me, filling me.
I smile and rotate my hips. His eyes roll back for a second. I keep the pace steady, deliberate, the angle just right to make pleasure spark every time I roll forward. His thumb drags up between my legs and circles my clit with ruthless precision. My thighs start to tremble.
“Harder,” I whisper, begging him to really fuck me.
He shifts under me, finding a better position, and his hips rise again.
I brace against his shoulders and meet every thrust with my own.
His cock hits deeper now. Every movement wrings sound from me, breathy moans and broken cries I can’t hold back.
His hand moves to the back of my neck, pulling me down to kiss him, though he grunts when I lean on his chest too hard, but he fucks me through it.
Our mouths stay fused as we move—tongue, teeth, breath—while I ride him harder, faster. The couch creaks beneath us. His other hand slides down to my ass, gripping me, guiding me down onto every thrust. My whole body tightens around him, and when he pinches my clit between two fingers, I shatter.
Sharp and blinding pleasure rips through me, and I cry out against his mouth.
My walls clench around him, and he groans loud and rough as he follows me over.
His hips jerk up one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside me.
His arms wrap around my waist, holding me there, keeping me close.
We don’t move for a long moment. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, wild and erratic. His breath fans against my neck, still uneven. I press a kiss to his temple, then his jaw and feel his day-old stubble under my sensitive lips, still kiss-swollen and tender.
“You’re okay?” I ask, not because I doubt it—but because we’ve both just survived too much to take anything for granted.
His hand slides up my spine. “I am now.”
I shift slightly, still seated on him, and he winces. I lean back and glance down. Blood has soaked through the edge of the bandages. He follows my gaze and exhales hard.
“Worth it,” he says.
“Idiot," I murmur.
“You love me.”
I don’t argue. I reach for a blanket draped over the back of the couch and pull it around us. I stay on his lap, our bodies still joined. For now, neither of us is ready to let go.
We lie together on the narrow couch, my head on his shoulder. I can feel his breathing gradually slow, can hear the way his heartbeat starts to even out. The adrenaline is finally leaving his system, and exhaustion is taking its place.
"Sleep," I tell him, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "I'll keep watch."
He tries to protest, but his eyes are already closing. Within minutes, he's unconscious, his body finally giving in to the blood loss and exhaustion. I pull the blanket tighter over both of us and settle in to wait.
I don't sleep. I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see Damir's face in the tunnel. The way he looked at me when he realized I wasn't going to leave with him. The desperation in his voice when he begged me to run.
My brother. The man who raised me, who taught me to count money and keep my head down. The man who sold me out to save his own skin.
I think about the file Maksim showed me. The payment trails, the recorded conversations, the proof that Damir had been working for the Karpin family all along. How long had he been lying to me? How long had I been nothing more than a useful tool in his operation?
The worst part is the voice recording. Damir's voice, clear and unmistakable, giving them my address. My schedule. Everything they needed to take me.
"Just make sure she doesn't suffer," he had said. "She's still my sister."
Still his sister. As if that meant anything when he was handing me over to be murdered.
I press my face against Maksim's shoulder and breathe in his scent. He smells solid, real, safe. Everything Damir stopped being the moment he chose the Karpin family over me.
What tears me up inside is that I still love him. Despite everything, despite the betrayal and the lies, part of me still loves the brother who used to bring me hot tea on cold nights. The brother who promised to keep me safe from the world.
But promises mean nothing when they're built on lies.
Maksim shifts in his sleep, and I feel his arm tighten around me. Even unconscious, he's protecting me. Even exhausted and injured, he's making sure I'm safe.
This is what loyalty looks like. Not pretty words and empty promises, but action. Protection. The willingness to bleed for someone you love.
I have a family now. Maksim and the baby, and by extension, the Vetrov Bratva. They're my family now, and I know they'll never sell me out, never use me as a pawn in someone else's game.
The city lights twinkle outside the window, and I watch them blur through my tears. I mourn the brother I lost, the family I thought I had. But I also feel grateful for what I've found.
Dawn is still hours away, but I can feel it coming. A new day, a new beginning. The old Zoya died in those tunnels tonight, the one who believed in her brother's lies and kept her head down.
The woman who remains is stronger—harder. And as long as Maksim is beside me, I can face anything.