Page 36 of Imperfect Desires

I slide the duffel bag onto the nearest table and unzip it. Neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills stare back at me. Four million, all from a quick portside flip we ran last week.

Once the money is stored and the vault resealed behind me, I climb back up into the main house. The lights are dimmed in most wings—security is on nighttime mode. The guards outside are on rotating patrols, and the interior team has been doubled with Viktor and Zasha out of the country. Viktor’s wife, Scarlett, and their twins occupy a different wing of the house. And I wonder if Alina feels lonely, given that Yelena is married and now living in Philly.

I shouldn’t linger. I should leave. But my feet don’t head for the front door. They carry me down the west corridor. Past the family library. Past the sunroom with its vaulted glass ceiling.

Toward her.

I tell myself I just want to make sure she’s all right. That she’s safe and not lonely.

She’s been distant since Yelena got married. Quieter. Her laughter doesn’t come as often. She barely looks at me. I tell myself it’s good—better for both of us.

But I hate it.

I stop in front of her door. Just for a second. Just to be sure she’s okay. The hallway is quiet, the lights soft and golden from the recessed sconces. I raise my hand and knock softly.

A moment passes.

Then I hear her voice—low, guarded. “Yes?”

I open the door.

And step into the room.

Her room is nothing like the rest of the house.

It’s warm. Feminine. Draped in muted tones of lavender and soft ivory. Shelves filled with worn books and delicate trinkets line one wall. A candle flickers near the window, casting dancing light across the hardwood floor. The air smells like something soft and floral—lavender and rain.

She stands at the far end, barefoot, in an oversized robe that slips off one shoulder. Her hair is loose, dark and falling like ink around her face.

She blinks at me. “Lev?”

I fucking shouldn’t be here.

But something about this room—the gentleness of it, the softness of her—it reaches places inside me that I’ve spent years burning into ash.

“I was just…” I clear my throat. “I came to check if you were okay.”

Her eyes linger on mine, cautious but curious. “I’m fine.”

I haven’t seen her all week. I've been avoiding the estate, drowning myself in work while Viktor and Zasha are abroad, locking down a deal. There’s too much on my plate to risk slipping again—to risk… her.

But I’ve been thinking about her. More than I want to admit.

I clear my throat. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” Her voice is soft. “Is something wrong?”

I almost say no.

I should say no.

But instead, I look past her. Her room is feminine and soft in every way that mine isn’t. There’s a faint scent of vanilla and jasmine in the air. Her reading chair is covered in a delicate cream throw. A plush blanket sits folded at the end of her bed. There’s a teacup by the window and a book half-open on the floor.

I’ve walked through fire.

I’ve carved enemies open with a smile.

But this room… this softness?

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