Chapter 31 Mara
MARA
The drive back to the penthouse is quieter than I would have thought it would be.
The shock isn’t as bad as it was when he brought me back from the gallery that awful night when I killed Sergei’s man, but it’s still sinking in. My wrists hurt terribly, and I’m cold, aware that I’m covered in sweat and blood, Ilya’s cum sticky on my thighs.
I sit pressed against Ilya's side in the back of the SUV, his arm wrapped around me, his hand resting on my hip like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
My head is on his shoulder, and I can feel his heartbeat, still racing from the adrenaline and violence and everything that happened in that warehouse.
I can still feel my hands tingling with the warmth of Sergei's blood, the resistance of flesh and cartilage as the knife went in, the terrible intimacy of taking a life with Ilya's hands covering mine.
I killed a man tonight.
The thought should make me sick, should make me want to run as far from Ilya and his world as I can get.
But instead, all I feel is a strange sense of calm.
As if this was always where I was going, and now I’ve found where I’m meant to be.
I don’t want to be a killer when I don’t have to be, but I’m willing to do it, if I need to.
I’m willing to do what I have to in order to keep what I’ve found, just as Ilya is.
"Are you okay?" Ilya murmurs against my hair, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I don't know how to answer that. I'm alive. I'm safe. I'm here with him. But I'm also covered in another man's blood, exhausted down to my bones, and so much has changed that my mind feels foggy with it.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "Ask me tomorrow. But I will be."
His arm tightens around me, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. It's such a tender gesture, so at odds with the violence we just committed together, that it makes my throat tight.
"Tomorrow," he agrees. "And the day after that. And every day after, for as long as you'll let me."
The words sound like a promise. Like a vow.
The penthouse is dark when we arrive, but I can tell someone's been here.
The air smells faintly of cleaning products, and when Ilya flips on the lights, everything looks pristine.
No blood, no bodies, no evidence of the attack that happened here just hours ago.
Even the bullet holes have been plastered and painted over.
But I remember. I remember Dmitri's voice cutting off mid-warning, the sound of gunfire, the terror of knowing they were coming for me and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Ilya must sense my tension, because he pulls me closer, his hand cupping the back of my head. "You're safe now," he says. "I promise. You're safe."
I want to believe him. But I also know that safety is an illusion in his world.
There will always be another Sergei, another threat, another moment when everything could fall apart.
But maybe that's true in any world. I could die from anything. I could be mugged, run over, die in a plane crash. There’s always a chance that tomorrow is the end.
This one is just more up-front about the possibility.
"Come on," he says, guiding me toward the bedroom. Not the guest room where I've been sleeping, but his bedroom. He sweeps me into his arms, and I don’t resist, so exhausted that the feeling of being held against his chest is incredibly relieving.
He carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the counter, just as he did that first night.
I watch as he starts running a bath, testing the water temperature.
He’s taking care of me—this man who's killed more people than I can probably imagine, who just helped me commit murder, is drawing me a bath like it's the most important thing in the world.
"Can you undress?" he asks, turning to me. "Or do you need help?"
My clothes are ruined—blood-stained and torn, evidence that needs to be destroyed. I start to pull off my shirt, but my hands are shaking so badly I can't manage it.
Ilya steps closer, his hands covering mine. "Let me."
He undresses me carefully, dropping the clothing to the floor as he looks at me with an expression that’s the gentlest one I’ve ever seen. He looks at my wrists, and then his gaze hardens in an instant.
“You’re hurt.” His jaw clenches, his fingers pressing below the wounds. There are other marks too—bruises on my arms from being grabbed, a scrape on my knee from when I was dragged, my whole body aching from the ordeal.
"I'm okay," I say, but my voice wavers.
"You're not." He lifts my wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the damaged skin. "But you will be. I'll make sure of it."
He gets a first aid kit out from beneath the sink, cleaning the wounds as carefully as he can, looking at me apologetically when I hiss in pain. The cuts aren’t deep enough to need stitches, but he uses butterfly bandages to close them, then wraps both of my wrists.
He helps me into the bath, and the hot water stings at first, making me hiss. But it’s soothing too, the heat seeping into my muscles, easing some of the tension I've been carrying.
Ilya kneels beside the tub, and I watch as he picks up a washcloth and soap. He starts washing me, his touch gentle but thorough, cleaning away the blood and dirt and evidence of everything that happened tonight.
It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
His hands move over my skin with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, and I realize he's not just washing me—he's reassuring himself that I'm real, that I'm here, that I'm safe.
He can't stop touching me. His fingers trace the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone, the bruises on my wrists.
Like he's memorizing me, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he stops.
"Ilya," I say softly, and he looks up at me. His eyes look haunted, and I see the fear in them that he's trying so hard to hide.
"I thought I lost you," he says, his voice rough. "When I got to the penthouse and you were gone, when I saw my men dead and knew Sergei had you—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I thought I was going to lose you the way I lost Katya."
Tears spring to my eyes, my chest tightening. "I'm here," I whisper. "I'm safe. You got to me in time. And I fought to keep myself alive, too. She was a child, Ilya. It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t hers, but she couldn’t save herself. I can.”
His hand tightens on the washcloth. "If Sergei had decided to kill you instead of using you as leverage, if he'd hurt you before I got there—"
"But he didn't. I'm okay."
"This time." He sets down the washcloth and grips the edge of the tub, his knuckles white. "But what about next time? What about when I can't get to you? What if something happens and I don’t know…”
This is it, I realize. This is the moment where I find out if he meant what he said in the warehouse, if he can really give me the freedom I need.
"Can you do it?" I ask quietly. "Can you really share control? Really let me have my freedom?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "I don't know," he finally admits. "The thought of you out there, in danger, without me watching over you—it terrifies me, Mara. It makes me want to lock you away somewhere safe and never let you leave."
My heart sinks. "Ilya—"
"But I'll try." He looks up at me, and the rawness in his eyes takes my breath away.
"I'll try, because losing you would destroy me more completely than losing control ever could.
I'll try because you deserve better than what I’ve put you through.
I'll try because—" He stops, drawing in a slow breath.
"Because I forgot what it was like to love someone.
After Katya died, I shut that part of myself away.
I told myself I'd never care about anyone that much again, never give anyone that kind of power over me. "
Love. The word hangs between us, and I look at him, reaching to touch his arm where it’s flexed hard against the edge of the tub.
"But if I'm capable of loving anyone," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, "I love you. And that means giving you what you need, even when it terrifies me. Even when every instinct I have screams at me to hold tighter, I’ll do my best to let you go, so you can come back to me."
Tears blur my vision. This man, this dangerous, obsessive, broken man, is offering me everything. His love, his trust, and most importantly, his willingness to change.
"I love you too," I whisper. “I do, Ilya. I really, really do.”
He leans in and kisses me, his forehead pressed to mine for a moment before he pulls back. Then he stands, a little unsteadily, reaching for a towel.
"Come on. Let's get you dry." He helps me out of the bath and wraps me in a towel that's soft and warm. Then he dries me off as carefully as he cleaned me up, his hands gentle on my skin.
When I'm dry, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me to the bedroom. To his bed.
He lays me on the bed, and I watch as he strips off his own clothes. His body is marked with scars—evidence of a violent life, of battles fought and survived. There are fresh bruises too, from tonight's fight, and I reach out to touch them.
"Do they hurt?" I ask.
“Yeah.” He laughs shortly as he climbs onto the bed beside me, pulling me close. "But not when I'm with you."
We lie there for a moment, just holding each other, and I feel some of the tension start to drain away. But there's still so much we need to talk about, so many details we need to work out.
"We should talk," I say softly, after a while. "About what this looks like—boundaries and expectations and how we make this work."
Ilya pauses for a moment before he nods, finally, his hand stroking my hair. "You're right. We need rules. Agreements."