Chapter 8 Love & Liabilities #2
"Sleep well, Solnishko," he whispers against my skin. "We'll talk later. I want to know more about you."
"Solnishko, what does that mean again?" I whisper against the warmth of his lips still lingering on my forehead.
"Little sun."
Anton's mouth curves into what appears to be a ghost of a smile, softening the hard lines around his eyes and revealing glimpses of what I imagined he used to be before grief carved away his lightness.
Then he's gone, closing the door with a quiet click that echoes in the sudden silence.
Little sun.
I stand frozen for a moment, fingertips pressed to my forehead where his lips had been. The gesture felt more intimate than our first passionate kiss. More personal. Like something he might have done with—
I shake the thought away, forcing myself to move toward the bed.
The room features subtle masculine touches: dark-wood furniture, steel accents, and artwork in subdued tones.
But underneath it all is that familiar scent.
Clean and warm, with hints of bergamot and cedar.
Anton's cologne, woven into the very air.
I lower myself onto the mattress, which gives perfectly under my weight. My phone finds its place on the nightstand as I sink back against pillows that smell faintly of him.
Just for a minute, I tell myself, closing my eyes.
My phone screen glows 12:47 PM when consciousness finally pulls me from the deepest sleep I've had in days. The room sits in perfect darkness, heavy curtains blocking every trace of afternoon sun. I don't remember closing those curtains.
Anton must have come in while I slept.
My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead, and I'd commit actual crimes for decent coffee right now. But first, nature calls with increasing urgency.
I fumble for the crutches and navigate toward the bathroom. The door opens to reveal gleaming marble.
I glimpse at a straight razor, cologne, and a watch that I realize belongs to Anton.
This isn't a guest suite. These are Anton's personal things. His bathroom. His bedroom.
After I'm done taking care of nature, curiosity drives me through another door.
It reveals a walk-in closet. Rows of neatly tailored suits hang in dark spectrum order: charcoal, black, midnight blue, along with crisp white shirts, ties arranged by subtle pattern variations, and athletic wear folded to perfection.
Every piece screams expensive, all chosen with care and maintained perfectly. Even his casual clothes—dark jeans, Henley shirts, tactical pants—carry that same quality, that same attention to detail that defines everything about Anton Baev.
He gave me his room. His space. His bed.
This man, who guards his privacy like state secrets, handed over his most personal sanctuary to me.
I decide to shower first despite my growling stomach. I apply an extra-large waterproof bandage over my stitches. My stitches, Anton's handiwork. Another skill to add to his mysterious resume.
The shower feels like heaven. Hot water runs down my body as I wash my hair, letting the familiar routine ground me in this unfamiliar place.
From my limited wardrobe, I choose a sage green sundress, soft cotton that flows to my knees, with delicate cap sleeves that are easy to manage with my injury and comfortable enough for a day of recovery. One flat sandal goes on my good foot, and a thick sock protects the other.
The apartment stretches quietly around me as I make my way toward the kitchen, but the rich aroma of coffee beckons like a siren song. My stomach responds with another demanding growl.
Then I see him.
The winter garden's glass walls offer an unobstructed view of a covered terrace where Anton moves through what appears to be tai chi forms. Slow, controlled movements that showcase every line of muscle across his shoulders and back.
Sunlight streams through where retractable panels disappeared into the walls. It's an outdoor sanctuary thirty floors above the city.
He finishes the sequence and drops into push-ups without pause. Sweet Mary, mother of God. No shirt. Just athletic shorts that cling to powerful thighs. I'm mesmerized by the muscles flexing and releasing across his back, by the intricate tattoo work covering his arms and back.
Anton Baev is devastating. Six-foot-four of pure muscle moving with the fluid precision of a predator.
A killer's body. A gentleman's touch. A brain annihilator.
My gaze drifts to the photograph on the side table, and reality crashes back.
Could I live in someone's shadow? Could anyone?
Most people carry ghosts of past relationships—the one who got away, the first heartbreak, the almost-perfect match. But this feels different. Heavier. Katya isn't a memory; she's a presence.
What would I know about competing with that kind of love? My romantic experience barely qualifies as experience at all. A few dates. One boyfriend, if that even counts.
We kissed, made out in his car, but I never felt that deep pull everyone talks about. He was plenty attractive, young, but hollow underneath. Nothing to discover. Nothing to unwrap.
Anton is the opposite of hollow. Every conversation reveals new layers, new contradictions to explore. Dangerous and gentle. Controlled and passionate. Professional and romantic.
And I so want him.
The thought ambushes me, sending heat rushing through my chest. Outside, Anton transitions into another set of push-ups, completely unaware of my internal crisis.
He knows so much about me. Meanwhile, I'm still collecting puzzle pieces, trying to understand the man behind the mystery.
The retractable panels slide shut behind Anton with barely a whisper. He moves toward me, towel draped over one shoulder, shirt bunched in his other hand. Sweat glistens across the planes of his chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every line of ink that maps stories across his skin.
"How did you sleep?" His voice carries that familiar, seductive gravel.
"Well," I manage, gripping my crutches tighter as he approaches. "Better than expected."
Anton pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and I'm treated to the devastating sight of his shoulders stretching the black fabric as it settles across his torso.
"I noticed the curtains were closed when I woke up," I say, needing something to focus on besides the way his shirt clings to still-damp skin. "Did you come in?"
"No." Anton's mouth curves slightly. "I closed them from the living room. Did that wake you?"
"No. Did you sleep okay?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the exhaustion still etched around his eyes.
"I took a nap. Short one."
I've grown up around men like this, men who operate on a different level. Whatever training shaped them, they can push past normal human limits and still be lethal. Anton's been protecting me for forty-eight hours straight, and he's still sharp as a blade.
"What would you like to eat? You must be hungry."
"I would love coffee first," I say gratefully. "What do you have?"
"I wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for," Anton admits, running the towel through his dark hair. "So I ordered a selection. Eggs Benedict from The Plaza, Belgian waffles with seasonal berries from Sarabeth's, lobster bisque from Le Bernardin, and truffle risotto from Eleven Madison Park."
"You ordered from four different restaurants?"
The foods he ordered aren't just breakfast or lunch; they're experiences.
"I didn't want to wake you," Anton explains, his voice carrying that careful consideration that makes my heart skip. "So I ordered a variety. Do you want something else?"
He anticipated my hunger, my preferences, my needs, all while I slept in his bed.
"No, this is so thoughtful of you. All of it sounds delicious."
"Great. I haven't eaten either. We can sit and eat together."
I've already claimed a spot at the kitchen's breakfast bar, pulling one of the leather stools closer to accommodate my crutches. The island stretches between us like an expensive bridge, its black stone surface reflecting the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Anton studies my position, his jaw tightening slightly. "I can set the table for us to eat."
"I don't mind eating here." I gesture toward the island's comfortable setup. "Plus, it would be easier for you, too."
Anton's disappointment is quickly masked by resignation.
"My courtship of you hasn't worked the way I intended.
" His words carry unexpected vulnerability, his gray eyes meeting mine with startling honesty.
"From wanting to apologize and take you to an elegant dinner, something you deserve, it came down to me stitching your foot and ordering takeout.
The least I can do is set up the table for us to eat. "
The confession stops my breath entirely.
Courtship! He called it courtship. Like something from another century, from a world where men pursued women with intention and ceremony instead of casual hookups and mixed signals.
"Please allow me." Now his voice drops to that gruffly tone that does dangerous things to my lady parts.
"I want to at least do right by you." A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, transforming his expression.
"Never mind that I just exercised. I expected to have more time, but I did shower before exercising. "
The last part, delivered with such carefully timed awkwardness, makes laughter bubble up from my chest despite everything.
Anton Baev wants to court me. With that, a million butterflies take flight in my stomach.
"Okay," I say softly, watching relief wash across his features. "Thank you."
Anton moves with purpose toward what I assume is his dining room, and I settle more comfortably on the leather stool. The kitchen island offers the perfect vantage point to watch him work while maintaining conversation distance.