Chapter 4 – Lev
The city is barely stirring when my eyes open. The first pale wash of dawn cuts through the curtains, streaking across her skin like it was painted just for me.
Sasha is still asleep, curled against me, her breath soft and steady. There’s a smudge of hair across her cheek, and I have the insane urge to brush it back, to lean down and kiss her awake.
I don’t move. I just stare.
This isn’t me. I don’t linger. I don’t watch. Usually, the moment after is when the walls slam shut inside me again. I fuck, I detach, and by morning, I don’t remember the color of their eyes.
But her? She’s still here in my head. Crawling under my skin. The sound of her voice, the way she whispered my name last night—it’s all still echoing in me, and it makes no sense.
I should get up. I should walk away. But instead, I lie there like a goddamn fool, watching her chest rise and fall, wanting things I have no right to want.
I want her to open her eyes and look at me like I’m the only man alive. I want to bury my face in her neck and stay there until the world stops spinning. I want to keep her.
The realization hits me like a knife to the ribs.
Wanting is weakness. And weakness gets you killed.
So why the fuck can’t I stop?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
It’s Niko. My cousin. Head of the Chicago wing of the Rusnak Bratva.
I snatch the phone off the nightstand, careful not to wake her.
Warehouse. Eleven a.m. Don’t be late.
I drag a hand over my face, force myself to look away from Sasha. One second, she’s soft and warm, tangled in my sheets; the next—steel slams back into place inside me.
Bratva first. Always.
My jaw ticks. I lock the phone, drop it face down. The softness of the morning cracks, gone like it was never here.
I swing my legs off the bed, stand, and dress without thought—black shirt, slacks, watch, gun. Each piece slides on like a switch flipping inside me. The man who wanted to stay is dismantled piece by piece, until only what’s required remains.
In the kitchen, I make coffee. Two cups. My hand pauses over the second one, and for a breath, I almost laugh at myself. What the fuck am I doing? She has no business in my life. Just like I have no business in hers. My head clears, my chest hardens.
Okay, yes, she was a very good lay, but that’s it. Nothing else matters. Sex is sex, and I’ve had plenty.
Two cups of coffee in hand, I pad back through the silent apartment. The weight of the Bratva is already on my shoulders, pressing me into the man I need to be. Detached. Ruthless.
But when I reach the bedroom, I stop.
She’s still asleep, one arm curled against the pillow, hair spilling like silk across the sheets I ruined her in. The city light slipping through the glass brushes over her bare shoulder, painting her skin in silver.
I lean against the doorway, breath stalled in my chest.
Exquisite. That’s the word. Too exquisite for me. Too beautiful for this world.
For one dangerous second, I forget the text. Forget Niko, the blood waiting for me. All I see is Sasha, fragile and soft, like she was made to be kept and not touched by the filth I drag behind me.
I force my fingers tighter around the mugs until the heat bites.
She doesn’t belong in my world.
And I can’t stop looking at her anyway.
Suddenly, she stirs, lashes fluttering before her eyes blink open. The moment she sees me, her lips curve into a wide, unguarded smile that knocks the breath out of my chest.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice husky with sleep, too warm, too sweet. “God, I haven’t slept that good in ages,” she giggles.
I straighten from the doorframe, masking everything I feel behind calm efficiency. “Morning,” I answer, tone clipped.
Her smile falters, just slightly, but she doesn’t call me on it. She pushes herself up, pulling the sheet around her, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. The sight nearly undoes me again, but I remind myself of the text. Of what waits for me beyond this room.
I cross the space and hold out one of the mugs. “Coffee.”
“Thank you,” she says softly, fingers brushing mine as she takes it. She looks at me with something unspoken in her eyes, but I ignore it.
I sit down on the edge of the mattress, not close enough to touch, not even close enough for her warmth to reach me. A deliberate distance.
She notices. I can see it in the way her shoulders straighten, in how her smile tightens into something polite, uncertain. The happiness from seconds ago fades, replaced by confusion she tries to hide.
I sip my coffee, silent. Pretending not to see the shift. Pretending it doesn’t feel like I just shut a door between us. I take another slow sip of coffee, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “You feeling okay?”
She nods, a small smile tugging at her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes now. “Yes.”
“Good.” I set the mug down on the nightstand, my movements deliberate and controlled. “I have some urgent business I need to attend to.” The words are steady, but inside they taste like iron.
Her brows lift, just a fraction, but she stays quiet.
“I think it’s best if you head out as well.” My voice is calm and detached. The way it has to be. “My driver will take you anywhere you want to go.”
The silence stretches between us. I don’t look at her. If I do, I might lose the will to follow through. Her polite smile hardens, frosting over in an instant. I see it—the sting she’s trying to mask, the way she shields herself before I can pierce any deeper.
She doesn’t touch the coffee anymore. Instead, she simply nods and rises, dragging the sheet around her slender body like armor. She sets the mug down and turns to me.
“I didn’t really bring another dress,” she says, voice steady but clipped, “so I’ll have to wear the one you gave me.” Her chin lifts as she glances toward the jewelry on the dresser. “But the necklace…it seems very expensive. I wouldn’t feel right keeping it. So I’m leaving it here.”
The words land like a blade, sharp and final. She doesn’t flinch when she says them. She wants me to know she isn’t one of those women who clings, who takes, who stays.
And for some reason, it burns. Hot.
“I got it for you,” I say evenly, keeping my voice flat. “You can keep it.”
To my surprise, Sasha pauses. Her hand clutches the sheet tighter against her chest, her eyes locking onto mine with something cold and unflinching.
“Do you want me to keep it,” she asks quietly, “so you can rid yourself of the guilt of taking my virginity? Because if you paid for it with diamonds, it would feel cleaner?”
The words cut, sharper than any blade I’ve taken to the gut.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
She stands there in the morning light, bare and defiant, refusing to let me turn her into some transaction I can walk away from. It’s almost enough to make me forget myself. But I don’t.
“I never have to pay for sex,” I say finally, my voice low. “And if you’re on such a high moral ground, then leave it here.”
Her face crumples. The anger drains, leaving behind something brittle. She blinks fast, clutching the sheet tighter.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words tumbling out in a rush. “That wasn’t fair. I just—” She swallows, glancing away. “I didn’t expect you to act this way after…after everything. After spending so much energy on me.”
There’s a silence thick enough to choke on. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. She stares at me, waiting—hoping—for something I don’t have to give.
“This is for the best,” I say at last, my voice clipped, more for myself than for her. “You’re not part of my world, Sasha. And I have no space to bring a woman into it.”
The words taste like iron, and yet they’re the only truth I can cling to.
Her eyes flash, the hurt unmistakable even as she tries to mask it. That look—sharp, wounded—hits somewhere deep in me I didn’t know existed. I’ve walked away from women a thousand times without a thought. But this…this makes me feel awful.
And that, more than anything, terrifies me.
She doesn’t meet my eyes when she finally speaks.
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” she says quietly.
Her composure is worse than anger. At least anger I could fight with. This—this calm distance—feels like her cutting me off cleanly, stitching the wound before I can bleed out.
She slips into the bathroom, and I hear the faint rush of water, the muffled sounds of her pulling herself together. When she emerges, she’s dressed again in the red dress I chose for her, the one that clings to her curves like it was made for her. Except now, it looks like armor.
She gathers her things quickly, efficient as ever, and I can’t bring myself to say a damn word. Not when she’s keeping her chin high like I haven’t just reduced last night into something disposable.
I walk her to the elevator in silence. The polished doors reflect her back at me, proud and unyielding.
The bell dings. She steps inside, the distance between us widening with every inch of that sterile space.
For a heartbeat, my throat tightens with the urge to call her back. To take it all back.
But I force myself still. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I let the doors slide shut, swallowing her whole.