Chapter 24
Elena
Kiryan stood in my bathroom doorway in a robe.
The hem barely hit his knees. The fabric stretched tight across his shoulders and back, sleeves riding up his forearms.
It looked ridiculous—if I could've ignored the way every muscle line showed through.
"You said it would kinda fit."
"I overestimated it," I said.
"Or you underestimated me?"
His gray eyes stayed on my face, a hint of a smile trapped at the corner of his mouth.
Heat ran up my spine.
The image from a minute ago slammed back into my head—the steam, that two-headed eagle, his undone fly, his voice going low when he asked why I was getting shy.
I shouldn't have remembered it that clearly. I definitely shouldn't have pictured what was under the robe.
"Neither," I snapped, grabbing a towel. "You are just too big."
The air went dead for one second.
Kiryan's brows lifted.
My face went up in flames. "I meant your build."
"I didn't say a word."
Fuck.
This man knew how to make silence feel like a hand around your throat. He didn't even have to step closer. My heartbeat sold me out anyway.
I tossed the towel over my shoulder and turned toward the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. Don't touch my paintings. Don't go through my stuff."
"Elena."
I gripped the doorknob and looked back.
That too-small robe didn't soften him at all. His wet hair fell over his forehead, and the faint scar along his jaw flashed in and out.
"I only stay where you let me stay."
The teasing drained from his eyes. What was left was serious.
Something pressed down on the fire in my chest.
It proved he meant it. It didn't erase what he'd done to me.
"The couch," I said. "That's it. Hungry? Kitchen."
"Understood."
I shut the door and locked it, then leaned against the wood and breathed like I'd been running. My heart kept slamming my ribs.
I couldn't forgive him just like that.
Gratitude wasn't forgiveness. Going soft wasn't forgiveness. My body betraying me when he got close sure as hell wasn't forgiveness.
I kept repeating it—then froze the second I stepped farther in.
The bathroom was fogged up. Shampoo and body wash hung in the air, and underneath sat something darker, hotter—man, skin, want. A lingering mark.
I knew it too well.
Those nights after the wedding, he never admitted he needed me. His body always told the truth for him.
The shower glass was streaked. A towel lay thrown over the bar. Kiryan did everything neat, unless he hadn't been able to give a damn.
"Asshole," I muttered.
Whatever he'd done in my bathroom while smelling my clothes—there wasn't even a question.
Worst part? My body answered.
My lower belly clenched hard. Heat sank low. I squeezed my thighs together, pressed my fingers to the cold sink—still didn't snap out of it.
My mind remembered him letting go of my hand at that birthday party. It remembered the soft, filthy sound on the phone. It remembered him admitting Isabella had been the one who should've married him in the first place.
My body only remembered the force of his hand at my waist—and that open fly.
I turned on the shower. Cold water hit my shoulders. The fire just burrowed deeper.
Outside the door, I heard quiet movement.
Kiryan was right there. A few steps away.
One door between us.
All I had to do was open it, look at him once, and he'd know.
The thought made my breath shake. I bit my lip hard.
No.
I couldn't use desire to pay off his sins. I couldn't let "he saved me" erase the debt of everything before.
But I couldn't order my body to stop, either.
Water ran down my chest. I closed my eyes, rested my forehead against the cold tile, and let my hand slide with the water.
I told myself it had nothing to do with Kiryan.
I'd just been holding too much in for too long.
Pregnancy made my body more sensitive than before.
The storm, the fear, the way he'd gotten too close at the worst possible moment—everything had pushed my nerves to the edge.
But when my fingers moved through the steam, slow and sure, it was still him in my head.
His knuckles tight on the steering wheel.
The way he held himself back, stepping away like it cost him.
The way he'd stood in the rain and covered my paintings with his coat—soaked to the bone, and still the first thing he said was, Get in the car.
And when he'd opened the bathroom door and caught me staring, that mean, almost-tender curve to his mouth.
My body drew tight. Heat pooled and melted into the water, sliding down my legs.
"Fuck—" the shock hit like electricity, and I almost went down.
I shut my eyes and let the water drown the sound of my breathing. In the last hard tremor, my legs gave out. One hand caught the wall. The other moved on instinct to my belly.
When the heat faded, shame flooded in.
And he probably had done the same thing in here—thinking about me, losing his mind. Two of us on either side of one door.
I stayed under cold water until my skin went chilled, then shut it off.
In the mirror, my face was still flushed. I didn't look like a woman done with her ex-husband. I looked like a liar.
"This doesn't mean anything," I told her.
She didn't buy it.
I changed into pajamas and walked out. Kiryan stood by the window.
He turned. His gaze dropped to my wet hair, then my face, and paused.
"You're really red."
"Water was too hot."
His eyes flicked toward the bathroom, then back to me.
He didn't say anything. He just folded the towel on the couch. "Rain still hasn't stopped."
Rain hammered the glass. A few blocks were already blocked off. He picked up his wet coat.
"I had someone come get me."
"Roads are closed."
"There is always a way through."
That sounded exactly like him. No road was truly sealed—just a question of whether the price was high enough. But if he put that wet coat back on, he'd probably wake up fevered.
I remembered him yanking me away from that drunk.
Something in my chest softened at the worst possible time.
"Stay."
His hand stopped on the coat.
"Just one night," I added fast. "You sleep on the couch. I sleep in the loft. No going upstairs without my permission."
"Okay."
"This isn't forgiveness. It doesn't mean we start over."
"I know."
"Can you not agree so damn fast?"
A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes. "Which rule do you want me to argue with?"
"None of them."
"Then all I can do is agree."
I glared at him. He set the coat down like he'd won without trying.
"Don't look so satisfied."
"I am just glad I don't have to walk halfway across New York wearing that thing."
I thought of myself in the shower and snapped my eyes away. "Blanket's in the cabinet."
Behind me, he let out a soft, almost-silent laugh.
Kiryan was too tall. That couch didn't stand a chance. He didn't complain, though. He didn't go upstairs.
After midnight, thunder jerked me awake. From downstairs, I heard his voice, low.
"She's sleeping. Talk in the morning. Keep eyes on Matteo."
A pause. His voice went colder. "Clear the roads around here. Don't let any car park under her window."
He left me a boundary no one could look through.
I lay back down, palm over my still-flat stomach.
The baby stayed quiet. And the baby's father stayed downstairs.
I'd hidden everything about the baby at first because I was hopeless. Then because I was scared—scared he'd take my freedom, scared he'd only care out of duty.
But tonight, he hadn't even known, and he'd still chosen to respect me.
If he kept doing that... how long could I hold out?
At dawn, the smell of food woke me.
I threw on a coat and went down the wooden ladder, stopping on the last rung.
Kiryan stood at the stove, shirtless. Light hit the tattoos across his broad back and the old damage—gunshot marks and knife scars stretching as he flipped eggs.
His waist sat obscenely low. The images I'd barely crushed last night came roaring back.
"Morning," he said without turning.
"How do you know I am here?"
"The ladder creaked."
He killed the burner and faced me. The two-headed eagle on his chest was split by old scars, but it only made him look meaner. The wooden spatula in his hand made him look like a dangerous man dropped into a quiet life by mistake.
"You could have put a shirt on."
"Nothing is dry yet."
"Your shirt isn't dry, but your pants are?"
He paused for half a beat.
I held back a smile. On the table sat eggs, bread, fruit—my cup already filled with milk. His side held coffee.
"How do you know I don't drink coffee in the morning?"
He slid a plate toward me. "The coffee shop across from your gallery. You always order milk."
"Learning my habits?"
"Just figuring out what I've missed."
He didn't try to sound gentle. That was why it landed like truth.
The egg yolk was perfect. The fruit was cut neat.
Kiryan set his coffee down. "I need to tell you something."
The warmth in my stomach tightened at once. "Matteo?"
I'd heard that name from my father before.
Kiryan's gaze dropped, heavy. "How do you know that?"
"I heard you on the phone last night."
"He is clearing out a warehouse, bringing in out-of-town shooters. He bought a few unregistered cars."
"So he is coming for you."
"Most likely."
"You say that way too calmly."
Danger looked like shadow to me. To him, it looked like routes, guns, cars, timing—pieces you could sort. He'd lived in that world too long. He even filed death under logistics.
I remembered my father tapping his cane on the edge of his desk, saying Matteo was a stray with no territory and nothing to lose. Don't fall for the tail wag. Don't ever turn your back on it. My father rarely misjudged profit—he just didn't care who got crushed under it.
"Father warned us. Matteo has no line. He'll bite anyone."
"This time he wants me."
"But you think he'll hit me first."
Kiryan didn't answer. He didn't have to.
I set my fork down. "So those drunk guys yesterday—"
"Not him. My people checked."
"You sound disappointed."
"If they'd been Matteo's, I would have had a reason to make them disappear a lot more thoroughly."
He said it like he was talking about taking out trash. I knew he wasn't joking.
"I'm not going back to the manor."
"I'm not going to ask you to."
"And you can't monitor my phone, my friends, or where I go."
"I won't."
"You already followed me yesterday."
He didn't bother denying it.
"I left four bodyguards. Two teams of two. You decide how far back they stay, and you can send any of them away. They don't report your schedule to me."
"And if I refuse?"
He went quiet, thumb rubbing the handle of his cup. "I'd worry. So... I am asking you to accept it."
Asking. Not ordering.
Hearing that word from him hit heavy enough to tighten my chest.
His eyes flicked to my mouth, then he forced them away. My fingers stayed on the cup, and my heart started to run.
"And us," he said. "I'm not going to trade protection for your forgiveness. I'm not going to pretend we are okay. But I will keep pursuing you until you tell me it is never happening."
"What if I tell you right now?"
His gaze locked onto mine. "I'd accept it. Then I'd leave your life."
That should've been what I wanted to hear. Instead, the air in my lungs suddenly felt thin.
I looked down. "I haven't forgiven you. I don't trust you."
"I'll prove it."
"That could take a long time."
I clenched my fork, then eased my grip.
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Is that an invitation?"
"It is a warning."
"I accept."
I couldn't stop a small laugh. His eyes softened with it.
The next few days, I spent more time at the new free art studio in the neighborhood.
I taught kids how to mix color, told them shadows didn't have to be black. One girl painted her mother orange because her mom felt warm when she picked her up. The mother beside her blinked hard, eyes shining.
I didn't correct the girl.
Art wasn't about getting the "right" answer. It was about saying what you couldn't say any other way.
The kids started calling me Teacher Elena. Parents stayed to help. Before class, kids fought to carry my paper.
"Teacher, why do you always touch your tummy?" a little girl with braids asked.
My hand froze. "Do I?"
"You do. You just did it again."
"Maybe I am hungry."
She pulled out a crushed cookie and held it out like it mattered. "Then you eat this."
My nose stung. "Thank you."
I took it and looked out the window. Two men in plain clothes stood apart—one near the coffee shop, one by the newsstand. They didn't come close to the studio.
Kiryan kept his promise.
That kind of safety felt strange. I still chose where I went. Someone just made sure danger couldn't stroll up and grab me.
Protection wasn't wrong. Stealing choice and calling it protection was.
Friday evening, a boy knocked over paint and a few kids "helped" in the worst possible way. I ended class late, stayed to mop and wash brushes.
"Elena, see you tomorrow!"
"See you tomorrow."
The last mother and daughter vanished around the corner. The studio went quiet.
I turned off the lights and locked up. Cutting through the alley beside the building saved me two blocks. The bodyguards waited at the other end.
I tightened my grip on my art bag and walked a dozen steps—then stopped cold.
Too quiet.
No footsteps behind me. No engine starting at the street.
I turned. The mouth of the alley was empty.
Where the hell were the guards?
"Anton?"
No answer.
My phone screen had barely lit when a hand shot out of the shadows and clamped my wrist.
I swung my art bag and smashed it into him, spun to run—another man hooked an arm around my neck from behind and slammed me into the wall.
The air punched out of my lungs. My phone hit the ground.
"Let me go!"
I stomped his foot. When his grip loosened even a little, I drove my elbow back hard.
A third man in a black cap blocked the other end.
No way out.
I reached for my pepper spray—my wrist got twisted, and my body hit the wall again.
Pain exploded from my shoulder.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Morozov's woman is a pain in the ass, huh."
That last name turned my blood to ice.
"Where are his guys?" the one in the cap asked.
The man holding me laughed. "To grab this bitch, we killed a few watchdogs."
My ears rang.
Killed.
The guards across the street were dead.
"Move," the one in the cap said. "Stop wasting time."
I fought like hell, raking my nails across a man's face until I tore skin. He raised a hand to hit me—I curled in fast, throwing my arms over my belly.
Don't hurt the baby.
The slap landed hard on my shoulder. White flashed in my vision.
"Why does she keep covering her stomach?"
My heart missed a beat. I yanked one arm down, pretending to grab his collar.
Too late.
The man in the cap stared at my belly for half a second. "Who cares what she covers? As long as she's breathing."
I opened my mouth to scream. A hand clamped over it.
Something sharp and chemical blasted my face.
I held my breath, but I still sucked in a little. My throat burned like it caught fire. The light started to wobble, men's faces doubling and sliding over each other.
My knees went soft.
I couldn't pass out. I couldn't let them take me.
Baby.
It was the only word that stayed clear in my head.