Chapter 3
LUKA
The cold air trails in behind me as I step inside the cabin, brushing across the floors before fading into silence. I close the door and pause, letting the quiet fill the room.
The lights downstairs glow in muted pools, soft but dim, enough to see without inviting the outside world in.
The hearth holds a few dying embers, more for appearance than warmth.
The air carries faint traces of cedar from the paneling and the sharper scent of gun oil that never fully fades from my clothes.
My coat holds the night, smoke, and fuel, clinging to the fabric, and blood, dried to grit, along the sleeves. The adrenaline still hums in my veins, fierce and restless. The calm after violence is the worst part, when everything goes quiet, and you start replaying what is left.
Three drivers gone, glass scattered across the asphalt like ice.
Orange cones that belonged to no work crew, and black smoke rising where there should have been only sky.
A brass medallion left behind for me to find, with the Sokolov insignia worn down by years of fingers.
They are not testing my patience. They are testing my reach.
I pull the medallion from my pocket, turn it once in my hand, and let it fall. It strikes the table with a dull metallic ping, the brass flashing under the lamp. I leave it for the morning.
I cross the lower level without turning on more light.
The staircase gives me two quiet creaks and then keeps my steps to itself.
The landing is dim and still, the cold from the mountains seeping through the glass as the night presses close.
Sage’s door stands a hand’s width open. The lamplight inside is dim.
Vega lies at the foot of the bed, his head lifting and tail thumping once when he sees me.
Sage is awake. She sits against pillows with the quilt gathered at her hips.
The light edges her cheekbones and paints a soft line along her throat.
Worry marks the set of her mouth even as she tries to smooth it away.
She looks at my sleeve first, noticing the stains, then searches my face for what she cannot see on the fabric.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
“It is not my blood.” The words come out rough.
She moves to the edge of the bed and stands, Vega rising beside her. Cautiously, she steps forward, as if she is not sure how close I will let her get. The scent of tea, soap, and warm skin reaches me before her hand does, mixing with the smoke and metal clinging to me.
Her fingers lift toward my sleeve. A faint tremor runs through her, but she keeps moving, calm despite the fear beneath it. If she knew what my hands did tonight, she would not reach for me now.
I catch her wrist before her fingertip meets the blood stain. “Don’t.” It comes out low and harsh, not anger but a warning, an instinct to keep her untouched by my world.
Her pulse flutters against my thumb and then evens. She does not pull free. She studies my face, reading more than I gave her.
Vega exhales and moves closer to her leg, his tail giving a slow wag. He stays alert, watching us both.
She is already drowning in my war. What good is honesty if it only teaches her how deep the water is?
“I told myself you were a problem,” I admit. “A distraction wrapped in fire and gentleness. Then the convoy went dark and all I could see was you in this bed and a door I could not reach fast enough.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. Her eyes gloss with light rather than tears. “How many?” she whispers.
“Three of my men. I will bring their bodies to their families and pay what is owed.”
She swallows. “And the message?”
“Sokolov.” I feel the bite of the name on my tongue. “They want my eyes on the past while they move through the present. They forget I can watch both.”
She takes another half step while I am still holding her wrist. I let go and touch the line of her jaw with the back of my knuckles. Her breath falters and then steadies under my touch.
“I didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she breathes, her eyes fixed on mine.
“I will always come back,” I tell her quietly.
I listen to our breathing, the space between us disappearing until it is all I notice. Tension climbs my spine, demanding release, but I hold the line. I keep my touch steady, giving her only what she is ready for. I want to lose control, but I don’t. I lean in and kiss her.
It is slow and intentional, a choice I make without rushing.
She does not pull back, meeting me with a quiet kind of honesty.
She follows my lead, sure and warm, tasting of tea and a night that has not given her enough sleep.
My shoulders ease, and the burden I have been carrying loosens.
I angle her gently with my hand at her hip.
Her breath draws in quick and leaves more slowly.
The sound she lets into my mouth is small, real, and lands in every place I have spent years pretending does not feel.
I deepen the kiss. My thumb moves along her cheek, and my other hand settles at her waist. She meets each new touch with her fingers on my lapel. I pay attention to every reaction she gives. The bed waits behind her, and the lamp throws a circle of light across the quilt.
I guide her back until her knees meet the mattress. I lower her with a hand at her back, my other keeping the strain off her injuries. She sinks into the quilt and looks up at me like she is trying to see the man I am, not the stories tied to my name.
“Tell me to stop,” I say. It is not a courtesy. It is the line on which everything rests.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
I stay beside her instead of crowding her. I draw her in until her ribs meet my chest, where I can take the pressure. I kiss her again, and the heat between us sharpens the room into something simple. The smoke I carried upstairs fades. My hands move over her body, careful around the bruises.
Her palm slides to the back of my neck. Her breath shakes once against my cheek and then falls into rhythm with mine. I follow the line of her jaw, the pulse at her throat, the curve of her shoulder above the quilt. Each touch builds something solid between us.
A thought pushes up, bringing with it the brass on the table downstairs, the blood on the road, everything waiting outside this room. I let it go. I keep us here in this bed, with Vega at the door and this woman who keeps standing up after every hit life gives her.
She turns toward me, and her words brush my skin. “I am terrified I will lose her.”
“I will find her.” It leaves me like a promise I do intend to break. “I will not let another man’s threat define your life.”
She searches my eyes, and a part of her eases. The next kiss hits deeper for both of us.
I pull back, slip out of my jacket, and guide her out of her clothes piece by piece. She never looks away. She is the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever had in my arms.
I lean over her, tasting her mouth again, my fingers tracing the line of her skin with slow attention.
My lips travel down her body, each inch learned with a kind of reverence.
I kneel between her legs and ease them apart, careful with every movement.
Sage draws in a sharp breath the moment my tongue slides through her slick folds.
Her breath hitches, and her hips lift the slightest bit toward my mouth. I keep my hands firm on her thighs, not to restrain her but to guide her through the rush building under my tongue. She tastes warm, alive, all the strength she hides threaded through every sound she tries to swallow.
I take my time because she deserves it. Because every part of her has been pushed and bruised and threatened these past days, and I need her to know she is safe here in my hands, in my home, and in this moment that no one gets to take from us.
Her fingers slide into my hair, not pulling, just holding. Claiming. I feel the tremor in her touch, the mix of fear, want, and trust. Trust she has no reason to give anyone, least of all a man with my history. But she gives it anyway, piece by fragile piece, and I treat it like a vow.
“Sage,” I murmur against her, my breath brushing her clit before I taste her again.
She shudders, and the sound she makes tightens the pull low in my chest. Her legs tense around my shoulders, her thighs drawing me closer.
I let her guide me with those small, honest reactions.
Every lift of her hips, every breath that breaks too fast, and every drop of restraint she lets fall away.
I glance up at her, and the sight almost knocks the air from my lungs. Her head tipped back, her lips parted, her hands clutching the quilt as if she is fighting to stay present in her own body. But her gaze finds mine again, her blue eyes blazing with need, trust, and fear twisted together.
“I have you,” I say quietly, my voice roughened by the truth in it.
She nods, a tiny, desperate movement.
I lower my mouth to her pussy again, letting her feel exactly where my tongue is and how tightly I am focused on her.
Her breath breaks on a gasp, her hips rising with a pull she cannot contain.
I follow every movement she gives me, matching the angle of her body, learning what she needs.
My hands slide up her thighs, holding her open without pressure, guiding her through every tremor that rolls through her.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her voice slips out in pieces, small sounds she cannot quiet, each one pushing through my chest until I feel them where it matters.
“Luka—” Her voice shivers around my name.
“I am here,” I tell her against her clit. “Let go.”
Her breath stutters. Her legs tense hard around my shoulders.
I feel the exact moment she hits the edge, her body pulling tight as she searches for the release she has been holding back, even from herself.
I stay with her, steady and sure, guiding her through the climb until she cannot hold it anymore.
She breaks with a cry she tries to swallow. Her thighs tremble. Her hands fall back to the quilt, grasping for something solid. Her whole body shivers around the pleasure that takes her under and pulls her through.
I hold her there with me, easing her through the fall and keeping her safe inside it. Only when her breath starts to slow, and her muscles begin to soften, do I pull my mouth away, lifting myself over her with care.
Her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven pulls. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, her body limp with aftershocks. She looks undone and beautiful in a way that makes my ribs ache.
I reach for her gently. “Come here, printsessa.”
She does not resist. She never takes her eyes off me as I strip the rest of my clothes, leaving nothing between us but heat and breath. I slip into the bed beside her and draw her against me, her skin soft and warm against mine. She folds into my chest with a trust that hits harder than any desire.
Her bruises pick up the light, faint shadows along her ribs and hip, reminders of everything that has been taken from her, and everything she has survived. I adjust my arms so none of them bear pressure, keeping her wrapped in warmth without letting a single part of her hurt more.
This was never about taking anything from her. Only giving back a piece of what the world tried to tear out of her.
Her breath evens out slowly, a quiet rhythm against my throat. I feel her tension unravel, thread by fragile thread, the storm inside her settles somewhere outside the room for the first time in days.
I lower my lips to her temple, speaking into the soft strands of her hair, a vow meant only for her.
“I’m not letting you face the rest of this alone,” I whisper. “Not while I am breathing.”
Her fingers curl weakly against my chest, the smallest acknowledgment and last bit of strength she has tonight. Her body relaxes fully into mine. And then Sage drifts off to sleep in my arms.