Chapter 17 #2
"Nikolai's wife has connections from her ballet days.
Patrons, collectors, people who actually care about art.
" The words were coming faster now, fueled by the desperation of watching her disappear behind that wall.
"Maya runs in circles that intersect with gallery openings and charity auctions.
And I—I know people. People who know people.
People who would look at your work and see what I see. "
She was shaking her head. Tiny movements, almost involuntary.
"Your work deserves to be seen," I said. "Not because of me. Not because of who I am or what resources I can bring to bear. Because it's extraordinary. Because when I look at what you paint, I see everything you feel, everything you are, laid bare on canvas."
Her eyes were filling now. Finally. The tears she'd been holding back, the ones she didn't want to shed.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
The words came out fierce. Absolute. The tone I used when giving orders, when negotiating with dangerous people, when making promises I had no intention of breaking.
"I believe in you, Ptichka. I always have."
The tears spilled over.
Silent. Tracking down her cheeks the way they had that first day in my apartment, when she'd been overwhelmed by kindness and couldn't quite believe it was real. She didn't wipe them away. Just let them fall, something in her expression cracking open despite her best efforts to hold it together.
"I hate him." The words carried surprising venom. Auralia wasn't built for hatred—she was soft, anxious, designed for art studios and quiet corners. But in this moment, I could see something sharper underneath. "I hate that he made me hope."
I pulled her into my arms.
Ghost scrambled off her lap with an indignant huff, but I didn't care. All that mattered was the feel of her against my chest—small and shaking, finally letting herself feel the magnitude of what had been done to her.
"He'll pay for this," I murmured against her hair. "For all of it. I promise you."
She didn't answer. Just pressed her face into my shoulder and cried—not the happy tears of yesterday, but the grief ones. The mourning ones.
The ones that came from burying a dream you'd barely allowed yourself to have.
I held her through all of it. Memorized the weight of her in my arms. The smell of her hair. The way her fingers gripped my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear.
Then, she kissed me.
Soft. Tentative. The pressure of someone seeking comfort rather than passion—her lips against mine, tasting of salt from the tears still drying on her cheeks. I held still. Let her come to me. Let her set the pace of whatever she needed.
Comfort was what I expected.
But something shifted.
The kiss deepened. Her hands found my jaw, my neck, the collar of my shirt. Not demanding—not the way she got when I'd wound her up, when she was desperate and begging. This was different. Quieter. A need that came from somewhere deeper than arousal.
She needed to feel connected.
She needed to feel held.
I understood. God, I understood. Because watching her retreat behind that wall, watching her fold her dreams away like damaged origami—it had done something to me too.
Something that demanded contact. Demanded proof that we were still here, still us, still whatever this thing was we'd built together.
"Come here, baby girl," I murmured against her mouth.
I rose from the couch. Pulled her with me. Ghost watched us go with knowing eyes, settling into the warm spot we'd left behind.
The bedroom was dim. Late evening light filtering through curtains, turning everything soft and shadowed. I guided her to the bed but didn't push her down. Instead, I turned her to face me.
And began to undress her.
Slowly. So slowly. The sweater first—lifting it over her head with the same care I'd used this morning, but different now. Not choosing what she'd wear. Memorizing what she felt like beneath my hands.
Her skin was warm. Flushed from crying, from the kiss, from whatever was building between us. I traced the line of her collarbone. The curve of her shoulder. The softness where her neck met her jaw.
The collar sat dark against her throat. I didn't remove it. Couldn't—it felt wrong somehow, like stripping away something essential. Let it stay. A constant through whatever came next.
Her bra came next. I unhooked it slowly, watching the straps slide down her arms, watching her breath catch as the fabric fell away.
She was beautiful. I'd known that from the first moment I'd seen her—really seen her, not just her photographs but her, in person, all awkward anxiety and fierce intelligence.
But this was different.
This was her trusting me when she'd just been betrayed by hope itself.
I kissed her breast. Soft. Reverent. Felt her shiver under my mouth.
"Daddy."
"I've got you."
The words came out automatically. The promise I'd been making since that first day in my apartment, when she'd collapsed on my floor and I'd held her through the panic.
I've got you.
I stripped her leggings. Her underwear. Left her bare except for the collar, standing in the dim light of my bedroom like something sacred. Something I didn't deserve but had somehow been trusted to protect.
She reached for me then. Pulled at my shirt with hands that trembled slightly. I let her undress me—let her set whatever pace she needed, let her fingers fumble with buttons while I watched her face.
When we were both bare, I lowered her to the bed.
Covered her body with mine. Not crushing—never crushing—but present. Solid. The weight of me against her, skin to skin, every inch of contact an anchor.
I entered her slowly.
So slowly. Watching her face, feeling her body adjust to me, giving her time to tell me if this wasn't what she wanted. But her eyes stayed open. Fixed on mine. Her breath caught and released, caught and released, the rhythm of someone accepting pleasure.
I pressed my forehead to hers.
Breathed the same air.
"I've got you, little bird."
I began to move.
This wasn't our other times. No edges, no denial, no commands that made her beg and tremble. This was something simpler. Something more devastating in its simplicity.
Just two people holding onto each other.
I moved inside her with long, slow strokes. Felt her walls grip me, felt the tremor in her thighs where they wrapped around my hips. Her hands found my back. Nails pressing—not clawing, not desperate, just holding. Holding on.
"I've got you," I murmured again. With every thrust. A rhythm of words matching the rhythm of our bodies. "I've got you. I've got you."
Her eyes were shining.
Not with tears—not quite. With something else. Something that looked like safety. Like trust. Like all the things she'd been afraid to want because wanting had hurt her too many times.
I wanted to give her everything.
Wanted to pour every ounce of devotion into this moment—into the slide of my body into hers, the press of my chest against her breasts, the way our breath mingled in the small space between our mouths.
"Maks." My name on her lips. "Maks."
She came quietly.
No screaming, no thrashing, none of the desperate release I'd wrung from her before. Just a trembling—her whole body shuddering beneath me, her walls clenching around my cock, her face buried in my neck as the wave crested and broke.
The sound she made was small.
Vulnerable.
The most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.
I followed moments later. Couldn't help it—the feel of her coming undone, the trust in the way she clung to me, all of it pulled me over the edge. I spilled inside her with a groan that came from somewhere deep.
It sounded like devotion.
It was.
Afterward, we lay tangled together.
I didn't pull out. Couldn't bear the separation—even that small distance felt like too much. She was soft against me, her breathing slowing, her body going heavy with surrender.
I stroked her hair.
Counted the breaths. One. Two. Three. The rhythm steady, slowing further as sleep claimed her.
The room was quiet. The city hummed beyond the windows—that constant pulse of New York, indifferent to the private dramas playing out in its apartments. I pulled the blanket over us. Tucked it around her shoulders. Let my hand rest on the curve of her hip, thumb tracing absent patterns on her skin.
I memorized her.
The weight of her against my chest. The smell of her hair—lavender and paint and something uniquely her. The way her fingers curled even in sleep, still reaching for me.
I didn't know it yet.
Didn't understand what my subconscious was already preparing for.
But I was memorizing goodbye.
T he war room had never felt smaller.
Three screens displayed my evidence—the fake website, the stolen photos, the email trace routing through Moscow.
My brothers stood on either side of me, their attention fixed on the damning trail I'd uncovered.
The compound's reinforced walls pressed in, thick with history and blood and the weight of decisions made in this exact room.
Nikolai's face had gone cold.
Not angry—never angry, not visibly. My oldest brother processed rage the way he processed everything else: with calculation, with strategy. His grey eyes tracked across the screens, absorbing every detail.
Beside him, Konstantin cracked his knuckles.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. Deliberate. The tell of a man itching for violence and being denied it—for now.
"Blyat," he growled. "Using her dreams against her. Even for Anton, that's low."
"It's smart," Nikolai said quietly. "Cruel, but smart. He knows we've got her protected. Can't get to her directly. So he targets the vulnerability we couldn't anticipate."
"He studied her." My voice came out harder than I intended. "Read her posts. Tracked her online presence. This wasn't opportunistic—it was surgical."
Nikolai nodded. His eyes never left the screens.
"What do you propose?"