Page 18 of Crimson Curse
My eyes flutter open, and I turn to face him, my hand pressing against his chest where his heart beats steady and strong. “Say it again.”
His gaze locks with mine, unguarded. “I love you.”
The words land heavy and certain, not a vow made in passing, but one carved out of everything he is.
“I love you, too,” I whisper, my chest tightening with a rush of warmth that feels almost too big to contain. “And nothing in this world could make me choose differently.”
His hand tightens at my waist, as if to seal the words into place. “Then I’ll tear apart the world before I ever let it take you from me.”
I smile softly, resting my forehead against his. “Then we’ll conquer whatever comes next…together.”
He makes love to me again, slowly and reverently, as if each touch is a vow he’s carving into my skin.
7
NAOMI
I wake with sunlight on my skin and the scent of Daniil still clinging to my body. My limbs are tangled in cool sheets, but the warmth from the night before lingers beneath my skin, blooming in my chest every time I replay his voice in my mind.
“I love you.”
Not whispered out of obligation or panic or claimed in a moment of passion. But spoken with aching truth and returned with everything I had.
I stretch slowly, every muscle in my body remembering his touch, and the way he held me like I might disappear if he loosened his grip. The memory sends heat pooling low in my belly, and I press my face into the pillow where his scent still lingers. Cedar and smoke and something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken.
My fingers trace the indent his head left on the pillow beside mine. The sheets are still warm where he slept, but he's gone now. Probably to handle whatever crisis demands his attention this morning. The Bratva never sleeps, never rests, and nevergives him a moment's peace. But last night, for a few precious hours, the world beyond these walls ceased to exist.
I slip from the bed, the coolness of the marble floor shocking against my bare feet. I pull on one of his shirts that hangs loose around my thighs. It smells like him, wrapping me in his presence even when he's not here.
The estate stretches before me in hushed reverence. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny spirits in the air. The silence feels different now. Not empty or hollow, but full of possibility. I run my hand along the banister as I walk, feeling the smooth wood beneath my palm, grounding myself in the solid reality of this place that has become home.
Irina appears at the far end of the hall, a slim folder in her hands. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, then drift lower, lingering briefly on my midsection before returning to my face.
“You’re looking well,” she says, her tone mild but carrying a nuance I can’t quite read. She moves past me without waiting for a reply, the faint scent of her perfume trailing in her wake. A flicker of unease stirs in my chest, but I push it aside.
I already know where I'm going. The locked room. A shrine to the girl who once held Daniil's heart, and whose memory he carries like a scar. Sasha. I've never tried to enter, not out of fear but out of respect. There are some wounds too sacred to disturb, and some grief too profound to intrude upon. But something pulls me forward now, a need I don’t fully understand.
The east wing hallway leading to the room feels longer than usual. Either it’s stretched, or my steps have slowed. When I finally reach the black door, I stop. My hand hovers over thebrass handle, trembling. It’s always locked. I know that. Still, I hesitate. Then, slowly, I lower my hand and draw in a deep breath.
“It's open now,” Daniil murmurs behind me, his voice low and sleep roughened.
I turn, my heart lurching at the sight of him. He's barefoot, and his dark shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat where the faint mark of my mouth still blooms purple against his skin. His hair is tousled from sleep, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger and less dangerous. But it's his eyes that stop me, the way they search mine for understanding.
There's vulnerability in his expression that I've rarely seen. The front he wears for the world has slipped, revealing the man underneath. The man who loved so deeply that losing her nearly destroyed him. The man who's afraid to love again but can't stop himself.
I turn the knob, and the door clicks open easily. I step inside, and my breath catches in my throat. The room is bathed in soft morning light that streams through sheer curtains, flooding the space with a quiet, almost otherworldly warmth. The air is perfumed with the faint scent of jasmine, as if someone has been tending to fresh flowers.
The walls are lined with paintings, some framed in elegant gold leaf, others unfinished on canvases propped against the ebony wainscoting. Watercolors of Russian landscapes blend with oil portraits of faceless women in flowing gowns. Abstract pieces in bold strokes of blue and gold capture emotions rather than images. An easel sits near the window, a half-completed painting of a garden in spring still clipped to its frame.
There's a sketchbook open on a delicate writing table beside a blue velvet chaise lounge. The pages are filled with pencil drawings, hands, faces, and flowers rendered with skilled artistry. A silk scarf in pale lavender drapes across the arm of the chair, the fabric so delicate it moves with the slightest air current. It looks like it was placed there yesterday, as if she might return at any moment to claim it. This room doesn't feel abandoned or forgotten. It feels preserved, cherished, and loved.
“She called it her sanctuary,” Daniil whispers from behind me, his voice thick with memory. “Even when we were in the middle of everything, the pressure, the threats, this was the one place she felt safe.”
I don't speak. I'm afraid to disturb the peace that permeates this space. Instead, I move deeper into the room, my fingers trailing along the edge of the writing table. The wood is smooth beneath my touch, well-cared for despite the years.
A photo on the mantel draws my attention like a magnet. Sasha, young and radiant, her smile gentle and genuine. She's sitting in a garden, sunlight gleaming through her dark hair, her eyes bright with life and laughter. The frame is silver, ornate but tasteful, and it's been polished to a mirror shine. This isn't a forgotten shrine gathering dust. Someone has been caring for this room, tending to it with devotion.
“She painted every morning,” he continues, moving to stand beside me. “Even when she didn't feel like it. She claimed it kept her grounded. When the world outside became too violent, or chaotic, she could lose herself in color and light.”
