Chapter 17 Lena
LENA
Sleep won't come. I've been staring at my bedroom ceiling for hours, watching shadows shift across the plaster as moonlight filters through the curtains.
Every time I close my eyes, I see John Davis's face, the way he looked at Sasha like he was trying to place a puzzle piece.
The way he said "be careful" like it was both warning and threat.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot through the cabin, my thermal sleep pants and tank top doing little against the chill. The fire in the wood stove has burned down to embers, casting the living room in a warm orange glow.
Sasha sits on the couch, shirtless despite the cold, staring into the dying flames.
The firelight catches on the defined muscles of his chest and abs, highlighting every ridge and valley.
The dragon wings tattooed across his shoulder blades seem to move with each breath, and I find myself tracing the intricate lines with my eyes before I can stop myself.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't startle, just turns his head to look at me. Those gold eyes reflect the firelight, making them look almost molten. "Too much thinking."
"About what Davis said?"
"Among other things." He pats the couch beside him. "Come here."
I should go back to bed, should maintain some distance. Instead, I cross the room and sink onto the couch beside him, close enough that our thighs touch.
His gaze drops to my chest, lingering on the way my tank top clings to my breasts in the firelight. When his eyes meet mine again, there's heat there that has nothing to do with the wood stove.
"You're staring," I say, but there's no bite to it.
"You're beautiful." He says it like it's a simple fact, not a compliment. "Hard not to stare."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Even when I'm terrified and exhausted?"
"Especially then." His hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine. "You want to tell me what's really keeping you awake?"
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, three years of secrets begging to be released. "I need to tell you something. About why I'm here. About who I'm running from."
He doesn't speak, just squeezes my hand. Waiting.
"My uncle Orleg." The name tastes bitter. "He has a gambling problem. Not the kind where you lose a few hundred at the casino and feel bad about it. The kind where you're in debt to people who break bones when you can't pay."
Sasha's thumb strokes circles on the back of my hand, the gesture both soothing and distracting.
"He owed money to loan sharks, bookies, anyone who'd take his bets. And when those sources dried up, he went to worse people. People connected to the Bratva." I pause, watching the fire. "He borrowed from them, and when he couldn't pay, he panicked."
"Let me guess." Sasha's voice is low, controlled. "He convinced someone else to help him."
"My father, Stepan." Saying his name out loud after three years makes my throat tight. "Orleg begged him for help. Said they'd kill him if he didn't pay. And my father, he couldn't say no to family. Even when it meant crossing people he should never have crossed."
I feel Sasha tense beside me, his body going rigid. He knows where this is going.
"They skimmed money. Not much, maybe fifty thousand over six months. They thought they could pay back Orleg's debts and replace what they took before anyone noticed." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "They were idiots. You don't steal from the Bratva and think you'll get away with it."
"No," Sasha agrees quietly. "You don't."
"Someone noticed. Someone always notices." I pull my hand from his, wrapping my arms around myself. "My father's friend, a man who owed him a favor, came to our house one night. He told me there was a contract out on me. A message, he said. To show what happens when you betray the organization."
The memory crashes over me. My mother's face, pale and terrified. Her hands shaking as she packed my bag. The way she kissed my forehead and whispered, "Don't call. Don't write. Just survive."
"I had twenty-four hours." My voice cracks. "Twenty-four hours to disappear before they came for me. So I ran. I dyed my hair, destroyed my phone, withdrew everything I had in cash, and drove west until I found a place where ghosts could hide."
Sasha is silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "Your family. Your parents. Are they…?"
"I don't know." The admission hurts. "I can't know. Contacting them would put them in more danger. If they're alive, they're safer if I stay dead."
"And the man who ordered the hit?"
I turn to look at him, and the intensity in his gold eyes steals my breath. The name sits on my tongue like a lit match, ready to burn everything down.
"Aleksandr Romanov." The words come out barely above a whisper. "A Bratva Pakhan. One of the most powerful men in the organization, from what I've been told."
Sasha goes completely still beside me. Not the kind of stillness that comes from relaxation, but the predatory freeze of a wolf that's just caught a scent. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
"Aleksandr Romanov," he repeats slowly, like he's testing the name on his tongue. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. "You're sure?"
"My father's friend was certain. He said Romanov doesn't tolerate betrayal, no matter how small. That he made an example of anyone who crossed him." I wrap my arms tighter around myself. "Fifty thousand dollars. That's what my life was worth. An accounting rounding error to a man like that."
Sasha stands abruptly, pacing to the window. The firelight catches on the muscles of his back, the dragon wings seeming to ripple with each movement. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"That name." His voice is rough, strained. "It feels like it should mean something to me."
My heart stutters. "Does it?"
"I don't know." He presses his palm against the cold glass. "It's like trying to grab smoke. The harder I reach for it, the faster it disappears." He turns to look at me. "What does he look like?"
"I don't know." When he gives me an incredulous look, I shrug. "Until then, my family didn't deal with the Bratva, so I'd never seen them. I was afraid to do a Google search or anything on him in case it could somehow be traced back to me. So, I have a name, but no idea what he looks like."
I stand and move toward him, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. When I place my hand on his shoulder, his skin is hot beneath my palm despite the chill in the room.
He turns to face me, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's fury there, cold and controlled, but also something protective that makes my chest tight.
"If I ever meet this Aleksandr Romanov," he says, his voice deadly calm, "I'll kill him myself."
"You can't," I say. "Men like him, they're untouchable. They have armies. Resources. You can't just walk up to a Bratva Pakhan and put a bullet in his head."
"Watch me." His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "You think I give a fuck about his army? About his resources? He put a price on your head.”
"Sasha…"
"No." His grip tightens, not painfully, but firm. Possessive. "You're mine now. And I protect what's mine."
The declaration should terrify me, should send me running. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, my body responding to the raw dominance in his voice.
"You're insane," I whisper.
"Probably." His mouth crashes down on mine, the kiss bruising and desperate. "But you like insane."
I do. God help me, I do.
His hands slide down my body, gripping my ass and lifting me. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, my arms looping around his neck. He carries me toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine, and I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my core through our clothes.
"Couch," I gasp, not wanting to wait until we get to the bedroom. Plus, it's colder in there.
"Demanding little thing, aren't you?" But there's humor in his voice, rough and warm.
"You have no idea."
He tosses me on the couch and I bounce, laughing as he stands above me with mock annoyance on his face. The moonlight streaming through the window casts silver shadows across his body as he stands over me, and I take a moment to just look.
He towers above me, his frame blocking out half the room.
The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, each muscle defined and taut, and I want to run my hands across every inch of him.
His abdomen is carved like marble, the muscles leading down to the waistband of his sweatpants sitting dangerously low on his hips.
That dark trail of hair disappears beneath the fabric, and I can see the unmistakable bulge there, thick and straining against the material.
My thighs clench involuntarily. His gold eyes burn down at me with raw hunger, and I feel exposed and wanted all at once.
The bracelet tattoo on his left wrist catches the silver light as his hands hang at his sides, and I find myself wondering what those hands are about to do to me.
My breath comes faster. God, he's beautiful.
Dangerous and beautiful and mine, at least for tonight.
"You're staring," he says, echoing my earlier words.
"You're worth staring at." I sit up and reach for the hem of my tank top, pulling it over my head in one smooth motion.
His eyes darken as they lock onto my breasts, and I feel my nipples harden under his gaze. "Fuck, you're perfect."
"Your turn." I gesture to his sweatpants.
He strips them off without hesitation, and my mouth goes dry. He's big, thick, and hard and ready.
"Second thoughts?" he asks, but there's no judgment in his voice. Just patience.
"Not even close." I shimmy out of my sleep pants and panties, leaving me bare before him. "Come here."
He moves over me like a predator, all controlled power and lethal grace. His weight settles between my thighs, and I can feel the heat of him against my entrance. But he doesn't push inside. Instead, his mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my skin.
"You." My hands slide down his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath scarred skin. "I want you."
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit and circling with perfect pressure. I arch into his touch, a moan escaping my lips.
"So wet already," he growls with pleasure.
He positions himself at my entrance and pushes inside slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but then my body relaxes, and he slides home.
We both groan at the sensation.
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper.
"Move," I demand, wiggling my hips, and he chuckles, then begins moving with slow, deep thrusts that make my toes curl.
His mouth finds mine, swallowing my moans as he picks up the pace.
One hand slides between us, finding my clit again, and the combination of sensations makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"That's it," he growls against my lips. "Let me feel you."
The couch creaks beneath us as he drives harder, deeper, his hips snapping against mine with increasing urgency. I dig my nails into his shoulders, holding on as pleasure builds like a wave about to crest.
"Sasha," I gasp. "I'm close."
"Come for me." His thumb circles my clit with perfect pressure. "Let go."
I do, my orgasm crashing over me with enough force to make me cry out his name. He follows seconds later, his body going rigid as he empties himself inside me with a deep growl that almost sounds animalistic, intensifying my orgasm all the more.
We stay like that for long minutes, both of us breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat. Finally, he shifts, pulling out carefully and gathering me against his chest.
I curl into him, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. The moonlight paints silver patterns across the ceiling, and for the first time in three years, I feel like maybe I can stop running.
Sasha's arms tighten around me, and he whispers against my ear, "Whoever put that contract on you will have to go through me first."