Chapter 13 – Noelle
The sight of it is like being struck in the ribs—sharp, breath-stealing.
My own face stares up at me from the glossy paper, lips curved in a smile I don’t remember meaning. Anton’s arm is around me, heavy, possessive. The weight of it comes rushing back—how it always felt like a cage, tightening the longer I stayed.
I remember that touch. The way his hand clamped down on my shoulder, not in affection, but in control. In the picture, it looks like intimacy. I know the truth—it was prison.
My throat burns. I had smiled then because smiling was easier. Smiling kept the questions away, kept the fights away. Most of the time with Anton wasn’t living at all—it was surviving, moment to moment, breath to breath.
I can still feel the flash of the camera, the way I leaned into him automatically, trained like an animal. My chest tightens with the memory. He’s trying to remind me, I realize. Trying to drag me back into the shadow of who I was with him.
But I’m not there anymore.
I drag my gaze from the picture to Niko, to the ink still burning on my thigh where his mark sits. My mark of choice. My decision.
Anton may have claimed me once. But I’m not his anymore.
Niko stares at the picture too long, his jaw tight enough to crack bone. The vein in his temple throbs, and the silence between us grows heavy, suffocating.
I’ve never been afraid of silence before. But this one—his silence—terrifies me.
Something has shifted inside me, something I can’t quite put into words. Suddenly, it matters—what he thinks, what he feels. Whether he sees me in that photo as something tainted, as someone who once belonged to another man.
My hand trembles as I reach for him, fingertips brushing his arm. The contact is tentative, a plea more than a touch.
“Niko,” I whisper.
His head turns sharply toward me. For a heartbeat, his eyes are unreadable—stormy, dangerous, like the ocean before it swallows a ship whole.
I’ve never seen him like this, stripped bare of his usual control.
“You belonged to him,” he says, the words rough, like they cost him.
I shake my head quickly, almost violently, because no. No, that’s not the truth. My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “I never belonged to him, Niko. Not the way you think. I didn’t feel anything for him. It was survival. That’s all it ever was. I was just…trying to get out.”
His jaw works, his gaze locked on mine, as if he’s weighing every word, searching for cracks. My chest aches with the need for him to believe me. For the first time in a long time, I need someone to see me clearly.
I wait with bated breath, my pulse hammering, bracing for the explosion I’m sure is coming. For his anger. For punishment. That’s what men like Anton taught me to expect.
But instead, Niko pulls me into his arms so suddenly my breath catches. His embrace is fierce, crushing, like he’s trying to fuse me into himself. His voice rumbles low against my hair, raw with something I can’t name.
“If I had known what you were going through,” he says, every word a vow, “I would have burnt the whole damn city down for you.”
The words pierce me deeper than any threat ever could. My throat burns, and my eyes sting. I don’t know what shocks me more—the violence in his promise, or the tenderness threaded through it. For the first time, I believe it. He would have.
I laugh softly, even though nothing about this is funny. “You can’t burn the city down every time something happens to me, Niko. I’ve been through worse.”
His head snaps toward me, his eyes narrowing. “Worse? What the hell do you mean by that?”
For a second, I want to retreat. To shove it all back into the box I’ve kept sealed for years. But he’s looking at me like he wants the truth, like he won’t settle for silence.
So I give it to him.
“My parents,” I begin, and my voice almost cracks—but I force it steady.
“They were drunk most of the time. High the rest. When they weren’t passed out, they were…
hitting me. Yelling. Taking everything out on me.
I was twelve when I ran away. Thought it would be better on the streets.
” I let out a bitter laugh. “It wasn’t.”
I glance at him, but he’s stone-still, listening.
“Eventually, national security picked me up. From there, it was foster home to foster home. Some decent, some just as bad as my parents. I learned to survive, to keep moving, to never depend on anyone. I scraped through undergrad, even got into medical school. But after a year, I couldn’t afford it anymore. That was the end of that.”
The words taste like ash. I don’t usually talk about this. I don’t talk about it at all.
“I’ve already lived through hell, Niko. Anton was just…another version of it. Another cage. So believe me when I say you don’t need to burn down a city for me. I’ll always find a way out.”
When I finish, there’s this awful quiet between us. I almost regret saying anything at all. I expect him to talk—tell me he understands, tell me I’m strong, maybe even promise me some kind of revenge on ghosts that no longer exist.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say a single word.
Instead, his arms come around me again—firm, steady, unshakable. He holds me like I might break, but also like I never will, like nothing in the world could touch me as long as I’m pressed against him.
And that’s what undoes me.
The tears come, hot and unstoppable, spilling faster than I can catch them. I don’t sob often—I don’t let myself—but with my face buried in his chest, the fight drains out of me. The walls I’ve carried for years crumble like they were never there.
I cry for the child who ran at twelve, for the girl who learned survival was the only language anyone would listen to. I cry for the woman who’s still terrified that one wrong step will put her back in chains.
Niko doesn’t hush me. He doesn’t tell me to stop. He just holds me tighter, his hand sliding slowly up my back, his heart beating a solid rhythm against my cheek.
By the time my tears finally quiet, I’m completely melted against him—bone-deep exhausted, but weightless in a way I’ve never felt before.
For the first time in a very long time, I let myself believe I’m not carrying it all alone.
Niko doesn’t say a word when he moves. He just gathers me into his arms like I weigh nothing, like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world. My cheek presses against his chest, and I can hear his heartbeat—steady, unshaken—while mine feels like it’s clawing out of my ribcage.
He carries me into the bathroom. The light is soft, golden against the tiles, and the sound of the shower fills the silence between us. He doesn’t put me down right away. He just stands there, holding me, like maybe he knows I’m not ready to let go.
When he finally lowers me to the floor, he doesn’t step back.
He kneels, his body still enclosing mine, his hands moving slowly as if every gesture is deliberate.
He reaches for the hem of my shirt. I don’t stop him.
I can’t. My arms are too heavy, my heart too full.
Piece by piece, he strips me down, peeling away the clothes like they’re layers of something I’ve been dragging with me for years.
When he’s done, he pulls his own shirt over his head, then unbuttons his pants. He doesn’t rush. There’s nothing urgent about it. Just quiet resolve, like this isn’t about desire or lust but about being bare with me. Entirely.
The water is already running, steam curling through the air. He draws me under the spray, and the first rush makes me gasp—it’s hot, almost too hot—but he doesn’t move. He just pulls me closer, letting the water drench us both until it soaks through to my bones.
He tips my chin up. The water washes over my face, over the salt of my tears.
His thumb brushes them away even though they’re already gone.
Then his hands move, slow and careful, bathing me.
Not like a man bathing a woman, but like someone tending to something fragile, something he refuses to break.
I didn’t know I needed this. To be touched without demand. To be cared for without strings. My chest feels too tight, my heart heavy yet full, like it can’t decide whether to shatter or overflow.
The water scalds his skin—I can feel it—but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t complain. He just stays there, holding me against him, as though my pain outweighs his.
I bury my face into him, the heat, the water, his arms. And for the first time in years, I let myself melt. I let myself believe I don’t have to carry everything alone.
When his fingers tilt my chin up, I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen before—raw, open emotion—and it shatters me.
He kisses me, slow and possessive, his mouth moving over mine with a gentleness that undoes me more than any roughness ever could. His lips coax, his tongue teases, and I melt. My hands fist in his wet hair, desperate to keep him close, to never lose this anchor he’s suddenly become.
When he presses me back against the tiled wall, his body slick against mine, I can feel every ridge of muscle, every hard line. He cups my face like I’m breakable, though we both know I’m anything but. His other hand slides down my side, lingering at my hip before pulling my leg around his waist.
The moment he enters me, I gasp, clinging to him. The water makes everything hot, slippery, overwhelming. He moves slowly, carefully, as if every thrust is a question, and my body answers him with soft, trembling moans.
He kisses me through it, swallowing my sounds, his forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve got you,” he breathes, again and again, and every time, the words sink deeper, undoing knots I thought would never loosen.
I wrap both legs around him, drawing him in deeper, needing all of him. My nails scrape down his back, and instead of pulling away, he groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth. His rhythm stays unhurried, tender, every movement filled with something I can’t name but feel everywhere.
The pressure builds low in my belly, winding tighter with every roll of his hips, every brush of his thumb along my skin.
When it finally breaks, I cry out his name, trembling apart in his arms. He holds me through it, thrusting deep once, twice, before shuddering against me with a groan that sounds like surrender.
The water keeps pouring, steam clouding the room, but all I can feel is him—his heartbeat against mine, his breath hot at my ear, his arms locked around me like he’ll never let go.
And that’s when it hits me, sharp and terrifying.
I’m falling in love with him.
Not because he’s saved me. Not because he’s strong enough to break the world in half if I asked. But because, for the first time in my life, someone has touched me like I’m not a weapon, not a cage, not a survivor—but a woman who can be loved.
When it’s over, he doesn’t let me go. Not even for a second.
The water keeps pouring down, washing away the tremors from my body, but he’s still holding me like I might vanish if he loosens his grip. My cheek is pressed against his chest, and all I can hear is the thundering rhythm of his heart.
Finally, he turns off the water. The silence that follows is thick, only broken by the sound of our ragged breathing.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head before reaching for a towel.
I expect him to hand it to me, to step away and give me space—but instead, he wraps it around me himself, gently blotting the water from my skin as though I can’t do it on my own.
My throat tightens. No one has ever taken care of me like this. Not once.
When he’s finished with me, he dries himself quickly, then scoops me into his arms again. I’m too drained to protest, too undone to even pretend I want to. I just rest my head against his shoulder, watching the soft sway of light across the floor as he carries me out of the bathroom.
He lays me down on the bed with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. The sheets are cool against my heated skin, and he tucks the blanket around me before sliding in beside me.
I expect him to reach for me, to pull me into another kiss, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lies on his side, one hand finding mine beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles. It’s so simple, so quiet, but it makes my eyes sting with tears I thought I’d already shed.
“Niko.”
His eyes are half closed, his body warm and heavy beside mine, but he hums in response, a low vibration against my shoulder.
“What happens to my job at the clinic?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles, slow, deliberate. My stomach twists because I already know the answer before he speaks.
“I know I promised,” he murmurs. “But it’s really dangerous now, Noelle.”
I stiffen, trying to pull my hand back, but he holds on, pressing another kiss into my skin like that will soften the words.
“I’ll be grateful if you see my perspective,” he continues, his voice coaxing but firm. “Just persevere until we get Anton. When this is over, when he’s gone…I’ll let you work anywhere you want. I’ll make sure of it.”
I understand. I genuinely do. My chest rises with the weight of it, but the sigh still slips out, quiet, weary.
“I’m sorry, ogonek.”
The apology tugs at something deep inside me. I smother a smile, not wanting him to see how much that one word softens me.
“Can we go back tomorrow for my ID? I left it in a rush. I have to get it because I’ll need it for when I plan to resume.”
“We can get it tomorrow,” he says without hesitation. His arm tightens around me, pulling me against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. “Now sleep. You’ve had the most terrifying day.”
His voice is steady, but I feel the tension in him—the coil beneath his skin, the way his grip refuses to loosen. He’s tight, like the weight of everything he can’t control is pressing down on him, and holding me is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.