Page 102 of Imperfect Desires

I pause. My jaw clenches.

“And for a long time, I was okay with it. I thought that was all I could do with my life. That all I could offer was violence, control, and fear.”

Her fingers curl gently into my shirt.

“But then you walked into my life,” I whisper. “All soft and fiery. All grown up and impossible to overlook. And for the first time in years, I wanted something I thought I didn’t deserve.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I sense the catch in her breath, that quiet hurt she attempts to conceal from me.

So I give her the rest of it.

“I used to run packages for Carlos Mendes from when I was twelve. Drugs, mostly. Small stuff. He had me on a leash. A kid with no last name, no family, trying to survive in a city that ate kids for breakfast.”

I close my eyes, remembering the cold of the basement floor, the blood in my mouth, the weight of that gun pressed against my temple.

“A package worth ten grand got lost once. I didn’t even see it with my own eyes, but I still got pulled into a warehouse by one of his men and beaten half to death. I begged. I offered to work it off. But they laughed.”

Alina is entirely still beside me. I can see her struggling to reconcile the teenager I was to the man now standing before her.

“He was going to kill me with no hesitation. I was just a fucking disposable pawn.”

“No, you are not a mere disposable pawn. You are Lev, the man whose blood is woven into the very foundation of the Makarov bratva here in New York.” Her voice is desperate and reassuring, as if to convince me of who I am now.

“And then Viktor came,” I say, my voice softer now. “He didn’t just pay the debt. He stood between me and Mendes, snatching me right out of the clutches of death itself.”

She turns to look at me now. I feel her eyes on my face.

“I owed him everything,” I murmur. “Still do.”

A long silence follows. Only the wind dares to speak between us. Then finally, Alina reaches out and gently touches the side of my face, turning me to her.

“You left because you didn’t feel worthy,” she says, and I nod.

Her expression is gentle yet fierce. “Lev, I wish I could go back in time and find that boy. I’d hold him tight and tell him it’s not his fault, that he’s more than what they tried to make him.”

My throat tightens.

“And then I’d tell him,” she continues, “to hold on. Because one day, he’s going to become the kind of man women fight to love—and men fear to cross.”

I shake my head, emotion choking my words. “You deserve more than a man who learned to live with blood on his hands.”

“No,” she says firmly, her hand still against my cheek. “I deserve you. The real you. The one who protects, who sacrifices, who stayed up all night just to make sure I could breathe.”

I can’t speak, so I don’t. I simply lean forward and rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.

“I’m not clean, Alina,” I whisper. “I never will be.”

“Good,” she breathes. “Because clean men don’t fight the way you fought for me.”

And just like that, something inside me breaks. And something else begins to heal.

Alina’s POV

For a long moment, we say nothing. Our foreheads are pressed together, and I can feel Lev’s breath on my lips, steady buttight. Like he’s holding something inside—something sharp and buried for far too long.

But it’s not just grief I feel.

It’s release.

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