Page 61 of Imperfect Desires

But even that wouldn’t bring me peace.

I could leave this world and still carry the weight of her — not even death can bring me peace from walking away from her. I set my jaw and push away from the railing. I can’t live without her, and I sure as hell won’t die without trying to get her back.

Even if it means facing Viktor, even if it means dying at his hands. My pulse hammers as I head back inside the cabin. The fire is low in the stone hearth, with the soft crackle of embersfilling the empty room. I shrug off my jacket, pull my phone from my pocket, and turn it on. I scroll through a month's worth of messages — missed calls from Viktor and Zasha. But there’s nothing from Alina.

Of course, there isn’t.

I left her. She probably hates me. But it doesn’t matter. Viktor could kill me. He might put a bullet in my head the second I walk through the door — and I wouldn’t blame him. But I’d rather die with her name in my mouth than live another day without her.

My hands are steady as I toss the phone onto the table.

I pull on my jacket and grab my keys. My heart slams against my ribs as I step out of the cabin, the cold air biting at my skin. I climb into the driver’s seat of my black Maserati and fire up the engine.

The road stretches out before me — dark and endless beneath the early morning sky. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I hit the gas, the tires spitting gravel beneath me. Whatever happens next — whatever Viktor does to me — I don’t care.

Because I’m going home.

To her.

My New York apartment hasn’t changed since I left. Same dark walls. Same sleek black leather furniture. Same view of the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s cold and impersonal — like a place that belongs to someone else. Maybe it always did.

But I’m back now—a different Lev from the one that left.

I toss my keys on the glass table in the living room and strip off my jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. My hands feel shaky as I loosen the cuffs of my shirt and drag a hand through my hair.

I’m fucking exhausted. The long drive from Maine was brutal, but it’s not the miles that have left me raw. It’s the weight of the decision I’ve made. The fact that I’m standing here at all.

I walk toward the bathroom, stepping out of my boots as I go. My reflection in the mirror looks worse than I expected — dark stubble lining my jaw, the shadows beneath my eyes deeper than usual.

I need to clean up.

If I’m going to face Alina — if I’m going to tell her how I feel — I need to look like a man who’s worth her time.

Not the wreck I’ve been since I left.

I strip off my shirt and step into the shower. The hot water pounds against my skin, scalding, but I don’t care. I brace my hands against the tile and let the heat seep into my bones. It washes away the grime and the ache of the road — but not the thoughts. Not the memory of her.

Her soft mouth beneath mine. The way her breath hitched when I touched her.

My chest pounds painfully.

When I finish, I towel off and step into the bedroom. I pull on dark jeans and a fitted black shirt — simple and clean. I run a hand through my damp hair, brushing it back as I head toward the kitchen.

I lean my palms against the counter and stare down at my phone. Then I finally pull up Viktor’s contact. I’ve avoided this moment for as long as I could. I know exactly how this conversation will go and what Viktor will say. But if I’m going to have a chance with Alina — if I’m going to stand in front of her and tell her that I love her — I need to handle this first. I sit on the edge of the couch, my pulse hammering painfully in my ears as I dial the number.

It rings once. Twice.

Then he picks up.

The silence on the other end is louder than any sound I’ve ever heard.

“Lev,” Viktor’s voice cuts through the line like ice.

I swallow hard. My hand tightens around the phone. “Boss—”

“How could you?”

The words hit harder than any punch. My chest tightens painfully.

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