Chapter Twenty-Three - Janice
The pattern reveals itself slowly.
Dimitri always positions himself between me and exits. Always.
Restaurant booths, elevators, even in our own penthouse—his body becomes a barrier, deliberate and automatic.
I notice it first at dinner with Felix, the way Dimitri shifts his chair fractionally left when the waiter passes behind me.
Small enough that no one else sees. It’s obvious once I know to look.
He doesn’t do it consciously. The positioning is instinct, muscle memory from years of calculating threat angles and escape routes.
Someone taught him that. Or something did.
I start cataloging other patterns. The way he watches crowds, gaze constantly moving, assessing faces and hands and distances.
How silence makes his jaw tighten more than shouting ever does—silence means things unsaid, variables he can’t control.
The careful way he checks locks, tests security systems, ensures barriers hold before he allows himself to relax.
Nothing is random. Every rule, every restriction, every moment of control traces back to something that went wrong before I existed in his world.
“You’re staring again,” he says without looking up from the contract he’s reviewing.
We’re in his study, me curled in the window seat with a book I’m not reading, him at the desk with work that never seems to end. Misha sleeps on the couch between us, her presence making the space feel softer than it should.
“I’m thinking,” I correct.
“About?”
“You. How you move. The things you do without realizing.”
Now he looks up, gray eyes sharp. “Such as?”
“You always know where the exits are. You position yourself between me and anyone who could be a threat. You touch door handles like you’re checking for something.” I set my book aside. “Something happened. Something that taught you to be this way.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the tension enter his shoulders. “Everyone in my world learns to be careful.”
“This isn’t careful. This is… ” I search for the right word. “Haunted.”
“Dramatic.”
“Well, it’s accurate.”
He returns his attention to the contract, but the focus is gone. I watch him read the same paragraph three times before he gives up and sets it aside.
“My mother was killed in our home when I was twelve,” he says abruptly. “The men who did it walked through the front door. We’d left it unlocked because it was our house, our territory. We thought we were safe.”
The words land heavy in the quiet room. I don’t move, don’t speak, afraid any sound will make him stop.
“They shot her in the kitchen while she was making tea. Damien and I were upstairs. We heard the gunshot, came running.” His voice stays level, emotionless. “She was already dead. They were already gone. The door was still open.”
“My God.”
“I check locks now. I position myself between you and exits. I don’t trust silence because silence meant someone was already inside, already moving, already too close.” He meets my eyes. “You wanted to understand the pattern. That’s the pattern. Loss and the failure to prevent it.”
The vulnerability in the admission steals my breath. This is more than he’s given anyone, stripped of the careful control he maintains everywhere else.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For telling me.”
“Don’t thank me. You asked a question. I answered it.” He stands, rolling his shoulders like he can shake off the weight of memory. “I’m going to the gym.”
He leaves before I can respond.
I stay in the window seat, processing. Twelve years old, finding his mother’s body, learning that safety is an illusion and control is the only defense against chaos. No wonder he cages everything—including me. It’s the only way he knows to protect what matters.
The realization should make me angrier. Should reinforce every reason I have to resent his restrictions.
Instead, I feel something closer to understanding.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself outside the gym. The private one in the penthouse, all mirrors and equipment and space for violence that can’t be expressed elsewhere. Through the partially open door, I hear impact—flesh against leather, rhythmic and brutal.
I should leave him alone. Should respect whatever processing he’s doing in there.
I push the door open instead.
Dimitri is shirtless, wearing only loose pants, hands wrapped for sparring. He’s attacking the heavy bag with controlled fury, each strike precise enough to be lethal if the target were flesh instead of leather. Sweat gleams on his shoulders, across the scars I traced with my eyes at the warehouse.
He doesn’t stop when I enter. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. He just keeps hitting, working through something that can’t be resolved with words.
I lean against the wall and watch.
The violence is beautiful in its precision—no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourish. This is what he is underneath the suits and control. Raw power channeled through discipline, fury contained but never eliminated.
After several minutes, he finally stops. Catches the bag, breathing hard, and looks at me.
“You should go.”
“Why?”
“I’m not good company right now.”
“I don’t need good company.” I push off the wall, crossing the space between us. “I just need you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “Janice, don’t.”
“You showed me your mother’s ghost. I’m not running from it.” I stop just out of reach. “You’re allowed to be human. To grieve, to be angry about what was taken from you.”
“I’m not grieving. It was twenty-eight years ago.”
“Grief doesn’t expire.”
He unwraps his hands with sharp, controlled movements. The skin underneath is reddened, knuckles swollen. He’s been hitting harder than the wraps can fully protect.
“You want to understand me,” he says. “Fine. I’ll give you the truth. I’m not grieving my mother. I’m angry at myself for not being smarter, faster, more aware. I was twelve and useless, and she died because I couldn’t protect her.”
“You were a child.”
“I was old enough to know better. Old enough to have checked that lock, noticed the threat, done something other than hide upstairs while she was murdered.” His voice stays level, but I hear the rage underneath.
“So yes, I control everything now. I check every lock, watch every exit, keep you close enough to shield. Because the alternative is standing over another body while my brother tells me it’s too late. ”
The rawness of it breaks something in my chest. “Dimitri—”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand. “Don’t offer comfort or understanding or anything that makes this softer than it is. I’m a monster because monsters survive. Anything else gets people killed.”
I should back away. Should give him space to rebuild whatever walls just cracked.
Instead, I close the distance. Place my hand over his heart, feeling it hammer against my palm.
“You’re not a monster,” I say quietly. “You’re someone who learned the worst lesson possible at the worst time. You survived anyway.”
He stares at me like I’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. Then his hands are in my hair, tilting my face up, and his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, nothing like his usual control. I taste sweat and fury and something deeper, more primal. My back hits the wall, his body pinning me there, and I’m drowning in the heat of him.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes against my mouth.
“No.”
His hands find the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one motion. Cool air hits my skin, then his hands, warm and rough. He maps my body like he’s memorizing terrain, fingers tracing curves with something close to reverence.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he says, mouth moving to my throat. “Not after what I just told you.”
“I shouldn’t want you for a hundred reasons.” My hands find his shoulders, nails digging in. “I want you anyway.”
He makes a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and surrender. His hands slide lower, finding the waistband of my leggings, and I lift my hips to help him remove them.
Then I’m bare against the wall, his body pressed against mine, and nothing exists except this moment and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the only thing that matters, the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“Not here,” he says roughly. “You deserve better than a wall.”
He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me through the penthouse to our bedroom. Misha lifts her head when we enter, takes one look, and promptly leaves, limping toward the guest room with offended dignity.
Dimitri lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness. Strips off the rest of his clothes while I watch, taking in the full landscape of scars and muscle and controlled power.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell him. Mean it.
“I’m damaged.”
“So am I. We match.”
Something shifts in his expression. He climbs onto the bed, settling between my thighs, and this time when he touches me, it’s different. Slower. Like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second.
His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I’m arching into him. His hand slides between my legs, fingers finding me wet and ready. He strokes slowly, deliberately, watching my face as pleasure builds.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against my skin.
“You. Just you.”
He slides two fingers inside me, and I moan at the intrusion. He works me with practiced skill, thumb circling my clit while his fingers curl to find the spot that makes my vision blur.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Let me see you.”
I’m climbing fast, his touch relentless and perfect. When I come, it crashes through me in waves, stealing breath and thought and everything except the feeling of his hands on my body.
Before I can recover, he’s positioned between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against me. He slides in slowly, letting me adjust to the stretch, watching my face the entire time.
“Okay?” he asks when he’s fully seated.
“God yes.”