Chapter 9
SAMUIL
Her words hit something in me I’m not prepared to feel.
The impact is like a punch to the ribs, sharp enough that, for a moment, I forget to breathe.
She stands in the glow of the city lights, shoulders rigid, jaw set in defiance.
Her back is to me now, but the look in her eyes a moment ago is already seared into my memory forever.
She’s been through something dark. She may never feel comfortable enough to share it with me, but I see it in her eyes. I hear it in the words she doesn’t say. I want to take all that pain away, to wrap her in my arms and hold her until nothing exists but the two of us.
I swallow and feel the weight of the sentence settle between us. It’s heavy and uncomfortable, but intimate in a way that makes my pulse tighten. A muscle in her jaw flickers, and she wraps her arms around herself like she’s preparing for a blow she expects to come.
I have the strangest urge to go to her. To lift her arms away from her body and pull her against me. I want to show her she can be soft and vulnerable, that she never has to worry whether someone will take care of her.
Instead, I clear my throat because if I touch her now, I won’t stop there.
“Come sit,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, but eventually walks toward the kitchen table. Her posture is stiff, her chin high, and every part of her fighting not to show how vulnerable she feels. I reach for a bottle of vodka out of habit and unscrew the cap, but she lifts a hand.
“No,” she says. “I don’t want a drink.”
“It’ll relax you,” I tell her. “You look like you’re vibrating out of your skin.”
“I can’t,” she says, and something in her voice shifts. A new tension. A tiny crack. “I’m on a new medicine. You’re not supposed to drink on it.”
It’s a reasonable answer, but her eyes slide away when she says it, and something in her tone is off. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t push. I watch her for a long moment, filing away the unease building under her words.
Instead, I set the vodka aside and pour her a glass of water. I push the glass toward her. She takes it and holds it between both hands like she needs something solid to cling to.
She sits in silence for a long time before speaking again.
“I grew up in foster care,” she says quietly.
“I moved around a lot. Nobody ever seemed to want me for very long. There were so many different houses, so many different rules, so many people who didn’t actually care if I was taken care of.
They just wanted the paycheck that came from the state.
I learned to survive by keeping my head down and carrying my own weight. ”
I lean against the counter slowly, trying not to show how her words affect me. But something dark and protective curls deep in my chest, growing heavier with every sentence.
She twists the water glass between her palms, staring at the table.
“When you grow up like that, you learn not to depend on anyone. You learn not to believe anyone who says they care. Because people leave. They always leave. Or worse, they stay and make you wish they hadn’t.”
She takes a shaky breath.
“So when someone suddenly acts like they give a shit whether you live or die, it feels like I’m losing control of everything. Like I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize.”
My hands curl into fists. The image of her as a child, small, alone, and unwanted, makes molten anger simmer under my skin. Uncontrollable rage surges through me at strangers from decades ago, people I will never meet but would gladly destroy for making her feel this way.
“You deserved better,” I say.
She lets out a tired laugh under her breath.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But I didn’t get better. I got what I got. And I survived it.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Survival is admirable. But it should not have been necessary. She should not have needed to scrape her way through childhood like a stray dog fighting for a dry place to sleep.
She looks up again, meeting my eyes. Something softens in her expression and electricity sparks across my skin.
“You don’t have to fix everything,” she whispers. “I know you want to protect me. But you don’t have to fix me.”
My jaw tightens as if someone hooked their fingers into it. “I’m not trying to fix you.”
Her brows lift slightly, challenging me.
I draw a slow breath and repeat the same words I’ve already said, hoping maybe they’ll get through this time. “I’m just trying to keep you alive.”
Her lips part, but she says nothing. Something in her gaze shifts again, flickering between wariness and gratitude.
I move to the couch and sit, if only to keep from reaching for her. She hesitates before following, like she’s crossing some invisible threshold. She sits at the far end, legs tucked under her, hands folded in her lap. The distance between us feels simultaneously too large and too small.
I look out the window and clear my throat.
“When I was young, my father sent my brother and me to Moscow for the summers. We lived with an uncle who hated everything. His wife. His job. The world. He drank all the time and shouted at us for breathing too loud.”
Her eyes soften as she listens.
“One night he got drunk and locked us outside by accident. It was winter. There was snow everywhere. I remember pressing my back against the wall, trying to stay warm while my brother wrapped his jacket around both of us. We stayed there until morning, when someone finally found us. I was sure we were going to freeze to death.”
She inhales sharply. “Samuil, I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “It was a long time ago.”
But even as I say it, I feel the weight of it all over again. The cold. The fear. The helplessness. And something twists inside me when I realize I’m telling her this story. I’ve never told anyone this. Not Davyd. Not even my own mother.
Something about her makes me want to give her pieces of myself I’ve kept buried all my life. She shifts closer, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body reach me. Her voice is soft.
“No child deserves that.”
Neither did she, but she doesn’t seem to believe it about herself. She never asks for sympathy. She never expects comfort. And maybe that’s what makes me want to comfort her more.
Silence settles over us. It’s easy and peaceful, refreshing after the heavy truths we’ve just laid bare to each other.
She leans back against the cushions slowly.
Her breathing evens out. Her posture relaxes inch by inch as the exhaustion of the past weeks finally claws its way to the surface.
I watch her eyes blink slower and slower until the lids flutter.
Her mouth softens. Her head tilts slightly until it comes to rest against the edge of the couch cushion.
She falls asleep right beside me, and I recognize that, in some small way, I’ve given her enough comfort to feel safe with me. That’s huge. It’s everything. I’ve never particularly seen myself as a comforting person, but I want to give her that. I want her to always feel safe with me.
Even if everyone else in this city fears me.
Her breath moves in a slow rhythm, a soft rise and fall that makes something tighten low in my stomach. Her face looks younger when she sleeps. Peaceful. Soft. Unwounded by the world.
I want her so badly my hands shake.
I want to lift her into my lap, kiss her until she wakes with that sleepy gasp she makes when desire hits her, and take her to bed. I want to bury myself in her until she forgets every ugly thing that ever happened to her.
I want to take care of her in every way a man can take care of a woman.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not when she’s exhausted and vulnerable and trying so hard to stand her ground in a life that’s not hers.
I force myself to stand. My muscles protest. My body feels like it’s trying to anchor me to the couch beside her. I ignore the instinct and slide my arms under her gently.
She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, but she doesn’t wake. Her head falls lightly against my shoulder. Her arms curl instinctively against her chest, small and soft, like she’s protecting someone precious. The motion sends another sharp ache through me.
She’s light in my arms as I carry her down the hall to the guest bedroom. When I lower her to the mattress, she releases a small sigh. I cover her with the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders. She curls toward the pillow and presses her cheek against it.
I stand there longer than I should. Long enough to feel something in me shift again.
Long enough to realize I’m in real danger of caring for someone more than I care about myself.
That’s the worst sin I could possibly commit.
Because caring for her would mean putting her in danger. It would mean making her a liability.
But I do want her. I want her more than I want control. More than I want distance. More than I want the safety of keeping my life clean and cold and uncomplicated. I want her in ways I have no right to want anyone.
I step back and close the door quietly, my pulse thick in my throat.
I’ve never been a man with soft edges. I’m the Wolf. I’m a predator, a villain, a criminal. Men like me don’t have any right to women like her.
More importantly, men like me shouldn’t want women like her. I can’t afford the liability.