Chapter 031 Isabella
The Langham concierge kept his professional smile fixed in place even though Viktor stood beside me in nothing but boxer shorts, the dried blood still flaking from his knuckles. A black card, it turned out, could silence any question.
“The presidential suite,” Viktor said, calm and clipped, as though he were dressed for a boardroom instead of half-naked in a five-star lobby. “Now.”
The man’s fingers danced over the keyboard without a flicker of judgment. Money didn’t just talk; it shouted down every other voice in the room.
“Of course, Mr. Sokolov. This way.”
The elevator climbed in silence. Viktor’s hand found mine, warm, steady, the only tether I had left. I caught our reflection in the polished gold walls: my hair a tangled wreck, the wrap dress creased and stained from the warehouse floor, bare feet filthy against the marble. I looked like someone who had crawled out of a grave. I hated being seen like this. But Viktor’s eyes in the mirror never left me, and my traitor body answered with a slow, liquid heat low in my belly.
The suite door clicked shut behind us like a verdict.
Late-afternoon light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding the marble, the silk, the ridiculous expanse of bed that looked soft enough to drown in. I stood in the center of all that luxury, useless, unsure where to put my hands or my weight or the sudden, crushing knowledge that I was free—and had no idea what to do with it.
Viktor leaned against the closed door, watching me with those pale, unreadable eyes. The trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers drew my gaze whether I wanted it to or not. My mouth went dry.
We didn’t speak. The air between us carried too much: the basement, the blood, Dimitri’s innocence, my father’s death that would have happened no matter what I’d said or kept silent. Eleven years of guilt, burned to ash by papers Viktor had found in his father’s study.
“You need clothes,” I said at last. It was easier than everything else waiting to be spoken.
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I need a lot of things. Clothes aren’t high on the list.”
“What is?”
He pushed off the door and crossed the room, stopping just short of touching me. Heat rolled off his bare chest; his scent—amber, smoke, skin—wrapped around me.
“You,” he said quietly. “Safe. Here. That’s the entire list.”
A cracked sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. My knees buckled. The adrenaline that had kept me upright for days finally ran out.
He caught me before I hit the floor, lifting me against his chest as though I weighed nothing. All that bare, warm skin against me made my body sing even as it shook.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into my hair, carrying me to the wide leather couch. “I’ve got you, kotyonok.”
He sat with me cradled in his lap, holding me while the tremors worked their way out. Not tears—just the last of the tension I’d carried for years finally breaking loose. His hands moved over my back, my hair, gentle in a way I never thought he could be. I felt him harden beneath me, the automatic response of his body to mine, and instead of pulling away I pressed closer.
When the shaking eased, his voice was rough. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know.” The words came out thin, foreign. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Then we’ll find out together.”
He shifted me slightly so he could see my face. “When I hunted you, I told myself it was for Dimitri. For justice. But the truth is I was running from my father—from becoming him. And I became him anyway.”
“You stopped,” I said.
“Only because of you.” The rawness in his eyes made my chest ache and my body flood with fresh heat. “Because you looked at me like I could be something else.”
“You are.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I kept you in a basement. Made you bleed.”
“You also held me when I broke. Taught me I could forgive. Burned your father’s legacy so I could stop blaming myself for something I never caused.” I curled closer. “He doesn’t deserve to be remembered.”
“Your family—”
“You’re my family now,” he said, the words heavy, deliberate. “If you’ll have me.”
My breath caught. From this man who once took everything by force, the offer felt sacred. My nipples tightened painfully against the thin cotton of my dress; he noticed, of course he did.
I reached up first, tracing the bruise blooming along his jaw, the exhaustion etched around his eyes.
“You killed for me.”
“I’d do it again.”
“You gave up everything.”
“I’d give more.”
“Why?”
He caught my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. The tenderness cracked something open inside me.
“Because I love you.”
The words stopped the world. My heart, my breath, everything.
“Say it again.”
“I love you, Isabella.” His grip tightened, anchoring. “I love you with every wretched piece of me.”
I kissed him—soft, trembling, nothing like the desperate battles we’d fought before. Against his mouth I whispered, “I love you too.”
He made a sound like I’d wounded him in the best way, fingers threading through my tangled hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp.
“I tried not to,” I said between kisses. “God, I tried.”
“I know.”
“You kidnapped me. Hurt me. Made me bleed.”
“I know.”
“And I’m here anyway. I’ll always come back to you.”
He untied the knot at my waist with careful fingers that still trembled slightly. The wrap dress parted and slipped away, pooling on the leather. I wore nothing underneath. His sharp inhale made my skin flush hot.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”
I pressed my palm to his chest, needing the steady thump of his heart beneath scarred skin. My fingers traced the marks I knew by heart: Chechnya, his father’s lessons, the fresh scratches I’d left on his back days ago.
“I know where every one of these came from now.”
“Some of them you gave me.”
“Good.” I leaned in, kissed the scar over his heart, then lower. “You deserved them.”
“I deserved worse.”
“Probably.” I pushed his boxers down. His cock sprang free, hard and already leaking. I wrapped my hand around him, stroked once, slow. “But I’m done punishing you.”
He groaned when I took him into my mouth, the taste of salt and need flooding my tongue. I worked him until his fingers tightened in my hair and Russian curses spilled from his lips.
“Stop,” he rasped, pulling me up gently. “I need to be inside you when I come.”
He carried me to the bed, laid me down on cool satin like something precious. He hovered above me, weight on his elbows, eyes searching mine.
“I’ve taken so much from you,” he said, voice rough. “Tonight I want to give.”
“Then give.”
He started at my forehead, lips brushing skin. Each eyelid. The tears that had started without my permission. Down the slope of my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I never thought I’d have this.” My voice cracked. “Someone who knows every ugly truth and stays.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” He kissed the tip of my nose, and I almost smiled. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
His mouth found the frantic pulse in my throat, lingered there, feeling it race. His hands mapped my body slowly—shoulders, breasts, waist—like he was memorizing me all over again.
When he closed his lips around my nipple I arched, gasping. He sucked gently, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to spark pleasure down my spine. His fingers rolled the other peak until I was writhing.
“Please,” I whispered. “Viktor…”
“Shh. Let me worship you.”
He spread my thighs. I was already embarrassingly wet; he groaned at the sight.
“Perfect,” he said against me, breath hot. “So perfect.”
His tongue traced me slowly, deliberately. Two fingers slid inside, curling to find that spot that made my vision blur. He worked me with devastating patience until the pressure coiled unbearably tight.
“I’m—”
“Come for me.”
I shattered, crying out his name, hips bucking against his mouth. He drew it out until I was shaking, oversensitive.
He crawled back up, kissing me deeply so I tasted myself on his tongue. His cock nudged my entrance; we both stilled, breathing hard.
“Look at me.”
I opened my eyes. His gaze was fierce, tender, transformed.
“I see you,” he whispered, sliding in inch by inch. “All of you. The weapon. The sister. The girl who made an impossible promise. The woman who survived.”
“What else?”
“Myself.”
He moved slowly, deeply, every thrust deliberate. This wasn’t claiming. This was communion.
“Harder,” I begged, nails raking his back. “Please.”
He gave me harder, deeper, but never lost the reverence. His hand slipped between us, thumb circling my clit in perfect rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” he said against my mouth.
“Don’t let go.”
“Never. Promise.”
I felt it building again, deeper this time. “Alyosha…”
He groaned, thrusts turning erratic. “Again.”
“Alyosha… please…”
“Together.”
We came at the same moment, my body clenching around him as he pulsed inside me. We held on through the waves, refusing even air between us.
After, we stayed joined, tangled in satin and each other. His fingers drew idle patterns on my back. My head rested over his heart, steady and real.
“What happens now?” I asked quietly.
“Now we rest.”
“I mean tomorrow. Next week. The rest of our lives.”
His cock twitched inside me at the words; I clenched involuntarily and felt him smile against my hair.
“We figure it out together. Whatever you want. Wherever you want to be.”
“I want to be with you.”
“Then that’s where you’ll be.”
He rolled us carefully, still inside, and kissed me until we were both ready again. The second time was slower, lazier, whispered promises between thrusts until we came softly, devastatingly.
Later he cleaned us both with a warm cloth, tender and thorough. Then we were back in bed, limbs entwined, the city glittering beyond the windows like a dangerous promise.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For walking into my family’s house in your underwear.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest, unguarded and real. “For you? I’d do it naked.”
“Shrinkage would be tragic.”
“I’d risk it.”
I laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in days. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The words wrapped around us, through us, undeniable.
Outside, the world waited: my brothers plotting, his organization fracturing, the tangled wreckage of our families. But tonight none of it touched us.
Tonight there was only this room, this bed, this man who had burned his father’s legacy to free me.
And three words that changed everything.
For the first time in eleven years, I slept without ghosts.