Chapter 31 Alina
ALINA
The door closes behind my mother with a soft click that sounds like finality. I stand in the foyer, staring at the polished wood, and feel something inside me crack. Not break, exactly. Just… fracture. Like ice on a frozen lake when the temperature shifts.
Dimitri's hand finds the small of my back, warm and solid. "Come," he says quietly. "Let's check on Katya."
I nod because I can't speak yet, can't trust my voice not to shatter along with everything else.
We climb the grand staircase together, his hand never leaving my back. The gesture is possessive but also protective, and I find myself leaning into it slightly, needing the anchor he provides.
The bedroom they've given Katya is two doors down from ours, decorated in soft blues and creams. A maid sits in a chair by the window, reading by lamplight. She stands when we enter, her expression respectful.
"How is she?" I whisper.
"Sleeping soundly, Mrs. Morozov," the maid responds. "She woke once, asking for you, but settled when I told her you'd be back soon."
Mrs. Morozov. The name still feels foreign, like a coat that doesn't quite fit. But I'm wearing it now, for better or worse.
I move to the bed where Katya lies curled on her side, her dark hair spread across the pillow. In sleep, she looks even younger than sixteen. Vulnerable. Innocent. Everything I no longer am.
I sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to smooth a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I feel my throat tighten. She's alive. Safe. Here.
The bruises on her face have darkened to purple and yellow, stark against her pale skin. Evidence of what she endured. What our father allowed to happen to her.
No. What our father orchestrated.
I trace the curve of her cheek with gentle fingers, careful not to wake her. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you sooner."
But I can protect her now. I will protect her now.
I make a silent promise as I watch her sleep.
Katya will have the life she deserves. She'll go to college, study art like she's always dreamed.
She'll travel to Paris and Rome and all the places she's sketched in her notebooks.
She'll fall in love with someone who treats her well, someone who sees her value beyond what she can offer a Bratva alliance.
She'll have choices. Freedom. A future that's hers to shape.
Even if I have to burn down anyone who tries to take that from her.
The thought should frighten me, the casual way I'm contemplating violence, the ease with which I've accepted this world's brutal logic. But I'm too tired to be frightened, too numb to feel much of anything except a fierce, protective love for the girl sleeping before me.
I lean down and press a kiss to Katya's forehead. "Sweet dreams, little sister," I murmur. "You're safe now. I promise."
When I finally stand and turn toward the door, I find Dimitri watching me. He's leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The dragon tattoo on his neck is visible above his collar, and in the soft lamplight, it almost seems to move.
His green eyes are intense, studying me with an expression I can't quite read. Not pity. Not concern, exactly. Something deeper. Something that makes my breath catch.
I cross to him, and he straightens, his hand finding mine. His fingers are warm, callused, strong. The hand of a man who's built an empire through violence and strategy. But also the hand that pulled me from a burning church. That held me while I cried. That slid a wedding ring onto my finger.
He leads me down the hallway to our bedroom without a word. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's heavy with everything we've been through, everything we've survived. Words feel inadequate for the weight of it all.
Inside our room, Dimitri closes the door and locks it. The click of the lock is loud in the quiet. He turns to face me, and I see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders.
"You should rest," he says, his voice rough.
I almost laugh. Rest. As if I could possibly sleep after everything that's happened. After killing my father. After learning my mother knew. After rescuing Katya from men who wanted to use her as leverage.
But I don't laugh. I just nod.
Dimitri moves past me toward the bathroom, and I hear water running. The sound is soothing, normal, a reminder that mundane things still exist even in the midst of chaos.
When he returns, he takes my hand again and leads me into the bathroom. The large tub is filling with steaming water, and the scent of lavender fills the air. He must have added essential oils.
"Let me," he says quietly, reaching for the hem of my sweater.
I raise my arms, letting him pull the fabric over my head. His movements are careful, almost reverent. Not sexual, despite the intimacy of the act. Just… tender.
He undresses me piece by piece. The jeans I borrowed from the closet. The simple bra and underwear. Each item is removed with the same gentle care, and I stand before him naked and vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with my lack of clothing.
His eyes travel over my body, but not with lust. He's cataloging injuries. The bruises on my wrists from the zip ties. The scrapes on my knees from when I fell on the tarmac. The exhaustion written in every line of my frame.
"In," he says, gesturing to the tub.
I step into the hot water and sink down with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul. The heat envelops me, and I feel my muscles begin to unknot. I hadn't realized how tense I was holding myself until this moment.
Dimitri kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. The eight-pointed star tattoo on his right pec is visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt. A mark of his rank. His power. Everything he is in this world.
He picks up a washcloth and soap, lathering it between his hands. Then, with surprising gentleness, he begins washing my arms. His touch is methodical, thorough. He washes away the grime and blood and gunpowder residue, revealing clean skin beneath.
I watch his face as he works. The concentration in his green eyes. The set of his jaw. The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples catches the bathroom light.
He's forty-two years old. Twenty years older than me. A lifetime of violence and survival is written in the scars on his body, the hardness in his eyes. But right now, kneeling beside this tub and washing me with such care, he looks almost… soft.
No. Not soft. Dimitri Morozov will never be soft. But human. Vulnerable in a way I haven't seen before.
He moves to my shoulders, my back, my legs. Each touch is gentle but firm. Cleansing. When he reaches my feet, he massages them briefly, and I feel tears prick my eyes at the unexpected kindness.
"Lean forward," he says.
I do, and he washes my back, his fingers working the tension from my spine. Then he moves to my hair, wetting it with a cup, adding shampoo, working it through my curls with patient fingers.
We don't speak. There's too much to say and no words adequate for it. How do I tell him that I'm grateful and terrified in equal measure? That I killed my father and feel both guilt and relief? That I'm falling in love with him even though I barely know him?
How do I tell him that this moment, this simple act of care means more to me than any grand gesture could?
So I say nothing. I just let him wash away the violence of the day, let the hot water and his gentle hands soothe the raw edges of my soul.
When he's finished, he helps me from the tub and wraps me in a thick towel. He dries me carefully, then leads me back to the bedroom. A nightgown is laid out on the bed, soft cotton in pale blue. He helps me into it, his fingers brushing against my skin.
Then he undresses himself, and I watch as he reveals the body I'm still learning. The tattoos that mark him as Bratva royalty. The scars that tell stories of survival. The strength in every line of him.
He pulls on sleep pants and slides into bed beside me, pulling me against his chest. I fit there perfectly, my head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around me.
"Sleep," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you."
And despite everything, despite the chaos and violence and impossible situation we're in, I feel safe. Protected. Cherished.
My eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally winning. I'm floating in that space between waking and sleeping when I hear it.
Shouting from downstairs. Urgent voices speaking rapid Russian. The sound of multiple vehicles arriving, engines cutting off, doors slamming.
Dimitri goes rigid against me, his arms tightening.
"Stay here," he says, already moving.
But I'm sitting up too, my heart pounding. "What's happening?"
He's pulling on a shirt, checking the weapon he keeps in the nightstand. His face has transformed from tender to cold in seconds. The Pakhan is back.
"Emergency meeting," he says tersely. "My inner circle. Something's happened."
The shouting grows louder. I hear Alexei's voice, sharp with urgency. Other voices I recognize from Dimitri's men.
Dimitri moves to the door, then pauses and looks back at me. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the sudden silence, listening to the chaos erupting below.