Chapter 32 Galina
Galina
Iknow the exact second Laszlo gets back because the house changes.
Not loudly. But a shift in the air. Doors open and close with more purpose.
I’m sitting on the end of our bed in one of Laszlo’s T-shirts, my knife on the bedside table beside the lamp, when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I stand before he opens the door.
He comes in, his face carved into something hard and unreadable, and my stomach tightens.
He shuts the door behind him and looks at me.
“What happened?”
He holds my gaze for a beat too long. “Nothing that changes tonight.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting first.” He crosses the room, unholsters his gun, and sets it on the bedside table beside my knife. “Are you okay?”
I stare at him. “You vanish into the night with your men, and you come back asking me if I’m okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
A flicker touches his mouth. Not humour. Something rougher. More tired. “I know.”
I move closer and catch his wrist before he can turn away. “Laszlo.”
His eyes drop to my hand on him, then rise to my face.
“Tell me,” I say quietly. “Properly.”
For a second, I think he’s going to do that infuriating thing where he decides what I can handle and parcels it out in pieces.
Then something in his face gives.
He exhales once and brings his free hand up to cover mine, where it grips his wrist. “We found a phone under the arch.”
My pulse jumps. “And?”
“And it rang.”
I blink. “What?”
“He called while I was holding it.” Laszlo’s mouth flattens. “The shooter.”
A cold feeling moves through me, fast and clean. “What did he say?”
“That he was the man who chose not to kill you.” His eyes stay on mine, watching for whatever this lands as. “That Petyr hired him for revenge. That Petyr is dead, so the job dies with him. That he knows killing a Voronov would bring the devil on his arse, and he is not coming back.”
I let that sit in my head for a moment.
“You believe him?”
“I believe he missed on purpose. I believed that before tonight.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His jaw tightens. “I believe he has no interest in dying for a dead man’s grudge.”
I study him. “That’s still not the same as trusting him.”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
The room goes quiet.
I still have hold of his wrist. His skin is warm, his pulse steady under my fingers, but the rest of him feels wound tight enough to cut.
“So what now?” I ask. “You can’t keep me locked in here forever.”
He searches my eyes for a long moment. I don’t interrupt his process. My freedom hinges on this.
“What do you want, Galina?”
I’m slightly taken aback by that. He has asked me before what I want, but that was more of a suggestion he’ll take under advisement. This is different. This, he means. I look at him and decide, very quickly, that if he is actually asking, I’m not wasting it.
“I want my life back,” I say. “Not complete freedom to roam the streets on my own. I know that’s not realistic.
But I want to stop being handled. I want to know what’s happening when it happens.
I do want to be able to leave this house without it becoming a military operation.
I want to breathe without feeling a man with a gun is counting how many times I do it. ”
His expression doesn’t change much, but his thumb moves once over my knuckles.
“And,” I add, because if I’m doing this, I’m doing it properly, “I want you to stop deciding what I can cope with before I’ve even been asked.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. Not angry. Taking it in.
“You done?” he asks.
“No. I want honesty, even when you think I won’t like it. Especially then.”
Laszlo is quiet for so long that I can hear the faint hum of the house through the walls.
Then he lifts my hand from his wrist and presses his mouth to my knuckles once.
“Honesty cuts both ways,” he says.
I hold his gaze. “Fine.”
“You tell me when you’re frightened. You tell me when it gets into your head. When you stop sleeping. When you start pretending you’re fine because you don’t want me to tighten security.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because he’s not wrong, and I hate that.
He sees it on my face. “Exactly.”
I fold my arms. “So what, this is a negotiation now?”
“This is marriage,” he says. “Which, apparently, is worse.”
“You want terms? Fine. You get honesty. You get information when I have it, not after I’ve decided you can stomach it. You leave the house when you want, with me or with security I trust. Not alone.”
“Not alone,” I repeat, because of course that part comes with steel wrapped around it.
“Not alone,” he says again. “And if I say no to something, it is for a reason, not because I enjoy pissing you off.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Debatable.”
“You want the last part?”
“There’s more?”
“There’s always more.” If something feels wrong, you don’t ignore it because you don’t want to seem difficult.
If one of my men unsettles you, you tell me.
If a place feels exposed, if a route feels off, if someone looks at you too long, you tell me.
Gut instincts are genuine; always follow through, even if it leads to nothing.
No worry is too small, and I will never mock you for being dramatic. ”
I stare at him for a second.
He means every word.
“All right,” I say slowly. “And what do I get?”
His eyes darken. “You get me listening the first time.”
His words land somewhere beneath my ribs, in that soft place I pretend doesn’t exist.
Silence settles between us, not awkward. Just full.
“One last thing,” I say.
“What?”
“Replace all the windows with bulletproof ones. Just in case.” I smile.
“Now that is something I can get on board with without thinking about it,” he sighs and sits on the bed.
I stand in front of him, and he places his hands on my hips, laying his forehead against my stomach. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I would fall in love with you.”
“Shut up,” I croak, sudden tears making my eyes hot.
He chuckles. “Nice response. I’ll remember that.”
I smile and tilt his head back, my hand under his chin. “Say it properly, and maybe I’ll respond better.”
His eyes fix on mine, blue and steady and completely unguarded in a way that does something dangerous to my heart.
“I love you,” he says, low and certain. “Not because we married. Not because it makes sense. Not because our families wanted something from it. I love you because you are fucking impossible, and brave, and smarter than half the men in this city, and every time you look at me like you see exactly what I am, I still want you closer.” His hands tighten on my hips.
“I love you because when I thought that bullet had hit you, I stopped being a man for a second and became something far uglier. I love you because I can’t picture a version of my life now that doesn’t have you in it, and I hate how much power that gives you over me, but it changes nothing. ”
My throat closes.
Laszlo watches my face like he is waiting for impact and prepared to take it.
“I love you too. It’s crazy, it’s fast, you infuriate me more than anyone I’ve ever met, but I think maybe that was always going to be part of it.
You walk into my life like a fucking threat, marry me in your sitting room, fuck me into a mattress, get shot at beside me, and somehow the most frightening part of all of that is how right this feels. ”
For one second, he just stares at me.
Then he stands so fast I barely have time to breathe before his hands are in my hair and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard, desperate, and nothing like his usual controlled possession.
This one has relief in it. Something close to reverence, buried under all that ruthlessness.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got, my fingers digging into his shirt, my chest aching with too much feeling and nowhere sensible to put it.
He breaks the kiss only far enough to press his forehead to mine.
“Say it again,” he says.
“I love you,” I whisper.
His eyes close for the briefest second. “Again.”
“I love you.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he kisses me again, slower this time, turning me to lower me to the bed.
The t-shirt rides up, exposing my body to him, but his hands push it back down.
He lifts off me briefly, his hand going around his back.
He draws a knife from its holster and presses the blade to the hem of the tee.
I gasp as he slices, slowly, drawing the sharp blade up the centre of it with maddening care.
The fabric parts under the blade.
“Laszlo,” I breathe, my whole body tightening.
He peels the fabric away and presses the cool steel in between my breasts. The sharp tip pricks my skin, and I moan as he draws it down lightly, creating a thin red welt that stings. “Mine,” he murmurs. “My wife.”
The sting goes straight through me.
My body trembles beneath his, a response not to danger but to the meticulous way he wields control—how his eyes claim every micro expression that crosses my face as if memorising what belongs to him.
His hand spreads over my stomach, holding me still without force because he doesn’t need force. I’m already still for him.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, voice low.
I drag in a breath. “I don’t.”
His eyes hold mine for one long second, checking. Then he nods once, and the knife traces lower, skating over the skin of my stomach with just enough pressure to make me ache with awareness. Not cutting. Promising. “Good,” he murmurs.
He looks down at me spread open on our bed, his expression dark and hungry and almost unbearably tender beneath it.
I don’t think I will ever get used to that combination in him.
Ruthlessness and care. Violence and restraint.
All of it turned on me like I am the only thing in this room worth seeing.
His fingertips brush the welt between my breasts. I hiss.
He bends and presses his mouth to it at once, soothing the sting with his tongue, and I let out a shaky breath. “I want to mark you,” he whispers. “I want my name on your skin so everyone will know you are mine.”
My breath catches.
The possessiveness in his voice should scare me. Instead, it settles somewhere deep and hungry. I lift my head enough to look at him properly. “Then do it.”
His jaw goes tight. “You don’t say yes to me that fast unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.” I slide my hand up his wrist to the one holding the knife. “And if I change my mind, I’ll tell you.”
Something dark and intent passes over his face. He sets the blade aside on the bedside table with a care that makes my pulse jump harder than the knife did, then drags his hand down my body, over my stomach, between my thighs. His fingers find how wet I am, and his mouth curves.
“Fuck,” he says softly. His fingers part me, slow and filthy. “You’re dripping for it.”
Heat burns through me. “Laszlo.”
He rubs my clit once, just enough to make my entire body convulse with pleasure.
“Give me your name,” I rasp. “I want to wear it and know I belong to you.”
“Fuck, Galina,” he says, slowly flipping me over to my stomach. He removes the split tee and drops it next to my head. “Bite down on this if you need to.”
“Just like that?” I ask as he picks up the knife again.
“Just like that.” He presses the tip to my lower back and drags it down and across.
Pain bites first. Sharp, hot, clean.
I suck in a breath and grip the sheet with one hand, the torn cotton of the tee with the other. Laszlo’s free hand spreads over my spine, holding me steady.
He draws another line, measured and precise, deep enough to burn. My body jerks anyway. Heat floods straight between my thighs.
“Too much?”
“No. Don’t stop.”
He makes a rough sound under his breath, pleased and half wrecked by it. The knife moves again. Deliberate strokes. I can’t see what he’s doing, only feel it. The sting. The care. The control in his hand.
I know when he finishes because he lifts the blade away, sets it down, and moves away.
I hear running water, but I don’t move. I can feel the hot blood dripping down my sides.
He returns and presses a warm cloth to the cuts, wiping away the excess blood before dabbing an antiseptic wipe over them, making me squeak harder than the cuts.
“Fucking hell. A bit of warning next time.”
He chuckles darkly. “She screams from the aftercare.”
“You’re an arse.”
“Hold still,” he murmurs and finishes cleaning me up. He rubs a bit of ointment into it, then throws the tube aside. “How does it feel?”
“Perfect,” I reply and then feel his fingers thrusting deep into my pussy. I manoeuvre my knees up under me, my face still pressed to the sheet. “Fuck me like you just carved your name into me.”
His savage growl is utter perfection. He grips my hips and drags me back onto his cock in one hard thrust that knocks a cry out of me. He must’ve stripped off in the bathroom, and I thank God, I didn’t have to wait.
“Yes,” I gasp into the sheet.
His hand spreads over the fresh cuts on my lower back, careful for one second, then possessive again.
He holds me down and starts fucking me in deep, brutal strokes that make the bed creak and my body shake.
Every thrust drags pleasure through the sting he just left on my skin until I can’t separate one from the other.
“Say it,” he grits out. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I choke out. “Fuck, Laszlo. You.”
His hand leaves my back and fists in my hair, hauling me backwards. My spine arches instantly, fresh heat flaring across the carved letters, and I moan harder as he drives into me from behind.
“My wife,” he says into my ear, voice low and ruined. “Marked with my name. Filled with my cock. Tell me again.”
“I belong to you.”
He gives a rough laugh that has no humour in it. Just satisfaction. Possession. “That’s right, moya zhena. Mine to fuck. Mine to protect. Mine to love.”
One hand stays in my hair. The other slides around my front, palm flattening over my stomach before dropping lower. His fingers find my clit, slick and swollen, and he rubs with hard, exact pressure that makes my thighs start to shake at once.
“Soak my cock, wife. I want to feel you marking your territory with your cunt.”
“Fuck,” I groan as his filthy words do something to me and I come apart around him with a broken cry, my pussy clenching as the orgasm tears through me. He feels it instantly. His hand tightens in my hair, his mouth at my ear, his body relentless as he drives me through every shaking second of it.
“That’s it,” he says, rough and dark. “Take it.”
I do. I take all of it. The sting at my back, the force of him, the possessive fury in every word. My knees slide against the sheets. My breath turns useless. I can’t think beyond the fact that he is everywhere, around me and inside me, and I have never felt so owned or so safe in the same breath.