Chapter 20
Kira
The safehouse sits in the Catskills like a secret whispered among the trees—unremarkable from the outside, a weathered farmhouse that could belong to any rural family seeking solitude. Only the reinforced windows and hidden security cameras hint at its true purpose.
Rafa’s hands shake slightly as he unlocks the front door, adrenaline still coursing through both our systems hours after the gunfight. The drive from Brooklyn passed in relative silence, both of us processing what happened, what we survived, and what it means.
Inside, the house is surprisingly warm and lived-in. Exposed wooden beams, stone fireplace, comfortable furniture arranged for actual relaxation rather than strategic positioning. Nothing like the sterile efficiency of his Manhattan workspace.
“Kitchen’s through there,” Rafa says, gesturing vaguely as he drops our gear by the door. “Bathroom upstairs. Everything’s stocked and secure.”
I nod but don’t move, still caught in the surreal aftermath of violence. My hands won’t stop trembling—a delayed reaction to coming so close to death, to watching Rafa become someone different right before my eyes.
“You’re bleeding,” I observe, noting the dark stain spreading across his left sleeve.
He glances down with surprise, as if he’d forgotten about his own injury. “Graze. Nothing serious.”
“Let me see.”
“Petrov, it’s fine—”
“Let me see,” I repeat, using the tone that brooks no argument. “Sit down.”
He settles onto the couch with reluctant compliance while I locate the first aid kit mounted discreetly behind a landscape painting.
When I return, he’s already shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeve to reveal a three-inch gash along his forearm—deeper than he’d admitted, but not life-threatening.
“This is going to need stitches,” I say, kneeling beside him on the couch.
“Just bandage it. I’ll deal with proper medical attention later.”
“I can do sutures.” At his questioning look, I add, “Part of my training. Father insisted all his children learn basic field medicine.”
“Of course he did.”
I work in silence, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that makes him wince despite his attempts to remain stoic. My hands are steady as I focus on the familiar routine—clean, examine, stitch, bandage. Concrete actions to ground me after the chaos of the last few hours.
“Twelve stitches,” I announce, securing the final bandage. “Try not to do anything stupid with that arm for the next week.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I’m still kneeling beside the couch, close enough to see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the tension he’s trying to hide. Close enough to reach out and touch him, which is precisely what I find myself doing—fingertips tracing the line of his jaw where a muscle jumps with residual stress.
“You saved my life,” I say quietly.
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Would I?” The question comes out more honestly than I intended. “I froze, Rafa. When it mattered most, I completely froze.”
“You’re not trained for that kind of situation. There’s no shame in—”
“You threw yourself in front of me.” The words rush out, carrying weeks of suppressed emotion. “You could have been killed. Why would you do that?”
His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests against his face. “Because I couldn’t watch you die.”
The simple honesty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest—a wall I’ve spent years building, brick by careful brick. Without a conscious decision, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question rather than a demand. But when his free arm comes around my waist to pull me closer, something ignites between us—all the tension, fear, and attraction we’ve been fighting transform into pure need.
I move without thinking, climbing onto the couch to straddle his lap, my hands tangling in his hair as the kiss deepens into something desperate and consuming. His mouth tastes like adrenaline and danger, something uniquely his that I want to drown in.
“Kira,” he breathes against my lips, but whether it’s a warning or encouragement, I can’t tell.
“Don’t think,” I whisper back, nipping at his lower lip. “For once in your life, don’t calculate the risks.”
His laugh is rough, breathless. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been fighting this for weeks.”
“Fighting what?”
“This.” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You. The way you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“Then stop fighting.”
Something shifts in his expression—surrender mixed with fierce determination. When he kisses me again, there’s nothing hesitant about it. His mouth claims mine with an intensity that steals my breath, his hands roaming over my body with reverent exploration.
I’ve never wanted anything the way I want this—want him. The careful control I’ve maintained my entire life feels not just unnecessary but actively harmful, a barrier between me and something vital.
“Upstairs,” I manage when we break apart for air.
“Are you sure?” His eyes search mine, looking for doubt or hesitation. “Because once we—”
“I’m sure.” I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. “I want this. I want you.”
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. The stairs are a blur, then we’re in the master bedroom—another surprise of warmth and comfort in this hidden sanctuary.
He sets me down beside the bed with careful gentleness, his hands framing my face again. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” I silence him with another kiss, pouring all my certainty into the contact. “But Rafa... I need you to know. I’ve never...”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Never?”
“Never.” Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. “I’ve never found anyone worth—”
“Worth the vulnerability,” he finishes softly. “Worth the risk of losing control.”
“Until now.”
The admission hangs between us, loaded with implications that terrify and exhilarate me in equal measure. I’m offering him something I’ve never given anyone—not just my body, but my trust, control, and carefully guarded heart.
“We can go slow,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “As slow as you need.”
“I don’t want slow.” My hands find the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel something other than fear, calculation, and the weight of other people’s expectations.”
His response is wordless but eloquent—hands, mouth, and heated skin, clothes disappearing urgently. When he lays me back on the bed, his touch is reverent but demanding, awakening responses I didn’t know my body was capable of.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispers against my throat, and I realize he’s trembling too, not with fear, but with the effort of holding back, of making this perfect for me.
“You won’t hurt me,” I breathe, arching into his touch. “You couldn’t.”
He took a bullet for me.
Everything else—my name, my legacy, this arranged marriage we both swore we didn’t want—blurred into white noise the second I saw the blood on his side. It wasn’t bad, he said. Just a graze. Just adrenaline.
But he bled for me. Shielded me like I was something worth protecting.
And when I kissed him, when I pressed my lips to his like I was afraid I’d lose him, he didn’t hesitate.
He kissed me back like it killed him not to.
Now, we’re in his sanctuary. It’s dark. Quiet. Smells like gunpowder and sweat. The adrenaline still humming in my bloodstream.
His chest is rising fast.
Rafa’s jaw clenches. His whole body goes tight, like he’s barely holding something back, something dangerous. He steps toward me slowly, as if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin me.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he growls. “Hearing that. Knowing I’m your first.”
I meet his eyes, heart pounding. “Then take it. Take me.”
That’s all it takes.
He’s on me in a blink, slamming his mouth to mine, rough and consuming. His hands are everywhere. One in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp. The other wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, like he needs to feel my pulse under his palm.
But even as he devours me, there’s this restraint in him like he’s burning alive and still pulling back for me.
When he breaks the kiss, his forehead presses to mine. His breath fans hot over my lips. “Tell me if I go too fast. If anything hurts. I need to hear you, Mia Ragazza. I need you to need this.”
“I do,” I whisper. “I want you to ruin me.”
A vicious sound tears from his throat, and then he’s stripping me bare, slow but desperate. Like he’s fighting the urge to rip every piece of clothing off my body, his knuckles brush my skin like he’s memorizing it. Reverent. Possessive.
When I’m naked in front of him, his mouth drops open. He stares like he’s starving.
“Cristo, sei perfetta.” His voice is wrecked, like he is holding back. “I’ll go slow. I’ll worship every fucking inch of you.”
Rafa touches me like I've never been touched before because I haven't.
His fingers find places I didn't know could burn.
His mouth, hot and wet, trails down my throat, over my chest, across my belly.
When he finally settles between my thighs, my breath catches, and I grip the sheets, finding an anchor.
“Kira,” he groans against my inner thigh, kissing it. “This perfect little cunt is mine, you hear me?”
I whimper. Nod.
“No, say it,” he demands, voice dark velvet. It’s not just about my body. It’s about the choice I’m making. The line I’m crossing. “Say who owns this.”
“You do,” I choke, trembling beneath him. “You, Rafa. Tvoi?a ya. Navsegda.” The words feel like stepping off a cliff. I’ve never belonged to anyone. I’ve never wanted to.
He groans again like the words wreck him and then his tongue is on me, slow and teasing, until I’m writhing. He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, gripping his hair, crying out for him.
Then he’s above me, kissing me deep and filthy.