Page 118 of Dangerous Beginnings

I blink up at him, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For this.” He gestures vaguely, his hand sweeping toward the door, the darkness outside, the weight that hangs between us.

I shake my head, my chest tightening. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what we are doing together.

His gaze softens, the edges of his expression smoothing into something almost tender. He crouches down in front of me, hisknees creaking against the floorboards, and takes my hands in his. His touch is warm, and grounding.

“I’m keeping you safe,” he says, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

My eyes drift, tracing the intricate roses that climb up the side of his neck, their petals blurred by the ink that stains his skin. The patterns dance beneath the faint light from the fire, twisting in ways that almost seem to breathe, just like him. The roses are beautiful—dangerous, even. They remind me of something forbidden, a truth hidden in plain sight. They’re a part of him, just as the darkness is.

I swallow hard, my breath catching in my throat as his eyes flicker to mine, sharp, intense, like he’s searching for something I’m not ready to give. His lips part slightly, but the words seem to die on his tongue, swallowed by the space between us.

The room feels smaller now, the air thicker. I’m not sure if it’s the fire, or the way his presence stretches into the corners of the room, pulling me in, or the pull of something else, something I can’t name but feel in every inch of me.

His hand tightens around mine, a slight tremor in his grip, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s afraid—of what we are, of what this might become. And that thought alone sends a ripple of something dark and electric skittering down my spine.

I blink, caught between the ache of needing something I can’t have and the fear of losing it all.

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, as if the very air is holding its breath, waiting for something neither of us wants to say. My chest tightens with the weight of unspoken thoughts, and for the first time, I realize I don’t know how to ask for what I need.

His grip remains steady, but there’s a subtle tension in his fingers, as though he’s battling something inside himself, something he’s not ready to reveal. I feel the warmth of his skinagainst mine, and yet, the chill in the room presses in, pulling the world just a little bit farther away.

I break the silence, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Aslanov…” I pause, unsure how to put this delicate thing into words. “Promise me that you’ll protect yourself, no matter what.” My voice trembles slightly, betraying the vulnerability I’m trying so hard to keep hidden. “I don’t want you to give yourself up in the process of protecting me.”

I can feel his gaze on me, sharp and unyielding, but he doesn’t say anything at first. The fire crackles in the background, the only sound in the room, the soft hiss of the flames almost mocking the stillness between us.

“I don’t need protection, Aslanov,” I add, almost in a whisper. “I want to protect you. Please.” My heart beats loudly in my chest, each pulse a reminder of how much I’m asking him to hear, to understand.

He stays silent, his eyes fixed on mine, and the seconds stretch into eternity. It feels like an age before I repeat myself, my voice firmer this time, though my breath catches at the last word. “Promise me.”

Finally, he shifts, a subtle movement, but the weight of it is enough to send a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break contact. But he doesn’t answer right away, either. Instead, there’s something unreadable in his eyes, a storm of emotion that I can’t quite decipher.

His hand loosens around mine, not in rejection, but in a way that feels almost resigned.

I’m waiting for him to say what I need to hear, to promise me that he won’t sacrifice himself, that he’ll stayalive.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say any of those things.

He just stares at me, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tensing, like he’s holding back a storm. The air between us feels like it’s thick with something unsaid, something that could breakus, if I pushed too hard.

Finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze never wavering from mine. And in a voice so quiet, so final, that it cuts deeper than anything I expected, he says:

“I can’t do that,love.”

Chapter 64

Shadows in the Network

Aslanov

The room hums with the weight of silence, broken only by the occasional click of a keyboard or the rasp of a chair against the cold concrete. The air smells of smoke, sweat, and the bitter tang of fear, but none of it touches me. I stand at the center of it all—still, like a shadow cast by a towering figure. The flickering lights overhead cast an eerie glow on the men at the table, their faces hardened by years in this world, their eyes haunted by the same darkness that lives inside me.

I exhale a thick cloud of smoke from my cigarette, the ember burning at the tip, casting a faint red hue across my face. My jacket—black leather, worn from years of use—creases as I shift my weight. The cold touch of the room, the sharp sting in the air, doesn’t bother me. I’ve lived in worse conditions.

I run a hand through my hair, disheveled and too long at the edges, the stubble on my jaw rough beneath my fingertips. The sharp lines on my face reflect the life I’ve carved for myself—scarred, unforgiving, like the cold steel of a blade that’s cut too many times to feel its own edge. Tattoos curl around my arms—symbols of power, protection, and a history that I don’t need to explain to anyone. My men understand them without a word.

I lean against the edge of the table, my boots heavy on the concrete floor, the weight of the polished leather boots making a satisfying thud with every step I take. The sound of my movements reverberates in the room, as if every gesture is deliberate, calculated.

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