“I dream about it,” she confesses, so quietly I almost miss it. “The warehouse. The cell. Ilya’s voice. Sometimes, I wake up and can’t remember where I am.”
My arms tighten involuntarily. The need to hunt my brother rises like bile in my throat. “You’re with me. You’re safe.”
“Am I?” She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look up. Just breathes the question into the space between us like a prayer.
Instead of answering, I press my lips to her temple and whisper against her skin in Russian, “Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu tebya obizhet’.”
I will never let anyone hurt you again.
Nova melts further into me, her body softening degree by degree. Her hands stay fisted in my shirt, but the desperate grip loosens slightly. Each breath she takes grows steadier, deeper.
I should move us to the bed. Let her rest. Her body is still healing, still weak from days of captivity and fear. But I’m frozen in place, afraid any movement will shatter this moment of trust.
“Tell me what that means,” she murmurs against my chest. “What you said.”
My thumb traces circles against the nape of her neck. “A promise.”
She shifts, pressing closer, seeking more warmth. More contact. More comfort. “The good kind or the scary kind?”
“Both.” I rest my chin on top of her head. “The kind that will keep you alive.”
The yacht rocks again, but this time, Nova moves with it, letting me take more of her weight. Her eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally winning over fear.
“I should let you sleep.” The words come out, but I make no move to release her.
“Not yet.” Her fingers twist deeper into my shirt. “Just… just stay like this. For a minute.”
So I hold her in the dark, my broken bird who’s slowly learning to trust again. Outside our window, the Mediterranean stretches endless and black. Somewhere beyond that darkness, my enemies plot. My brother hunts. The world spins on with all its violence and betrayal.
But here, in this moment, Nova breathes steady against my chest.
And for the first time since I found her in that cabin in Wisconsin, I feel like I’m doing something right.
8
SAMUIL
She trembles against me in the dark, and for the first time in my life, I’m fucking terrified of breaking something precious.
Nova’s pulse flutters beneath my fingers where they rest against her throat. Her skin is silk and heat, so delicate I could snap her in two. But she’s not made of glass—she proved that by surviving Ilya, by escaping, by finding her way back to me even when she had every reason to run.
“Ya ne mogu tebya poteryat,” I whisper into her hair.
I can’t lose you.
The confession slips out in Russian because I’m a goddamn coward. Because saying it in English would make it real. Would make her real. Would make this ache in my chest something I can’t ignore.
She shifts closer, seeking warmth, comfort, protection. All the things I want to give her. All the things I’m not sure I know how to provide without turning them into chains.
“More Russian secrets?” Her voice is drowsy, colored with exhaustion and trust she probably shouldn’t feel.
My thumb traces the curve of her jaw. “Just truth.”
“Mm.” She tilts her head, pressing into my touch. “Sounds dangerous.”
It is. Christ, it is. Every soft sound she makes, every unconscious display of trust, every moment she lets me hold her like this—they’re all fucking landmines in my chest, waiting to detonate.
I should put her to bed. Should give her space to rest and heal. Should maintain some kind of distance before I forget every lesson I’ve learned about letting people get close.