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"Robin." His name for me is a growl, low and fierce. “I know everything. Damien discovered the truth when we set spies to find you girls. But damn it,” Boris's fist slams into the wall, the sound a punctuation mark to our shared pain. "You should've come to me."
“I know. God, I know,” I cry out, my thoughts spiraling out of control. “But when your life has been a series of solitary battles, trust doesn't come easy, not even with a ring on your finger and a Bratva kingpin vowing to protect you,” I almost sob, now pacing up and down.
There’s a strange quiet between us. Boris says nothing, but I can hear his every breath. Slowly, I turn to face him.
"Can you ever forgive me?" The question hangs fragile, a spider web glistening with morning dew, ready to snap.
"Robin," he starts, and there's a new note in his voice that sounds suspiciously like tenderness. "I realize I might have been at fault, too. Perhaps I never gave you enough reason to believe you could trust me. We'll fix this. Together. I promise."
The word wraps around us, a vow, a promise, a lifeline.
His jaw clenches, a storm brewing behind those icy eyes as he comes closer and gently holds me in both arms. "I should have been your fortress, Robin," Boris rasps, self-reproach seeped into every word.
"Hey," I murmur, reaching up to touch his face, rough with stubble and tension. It's not just me unraveling; he's also coming apart at the seams. "You've had a lot on your plate."
"Ne blagodarya." He swears under his breath in Russian, a habit when he's pushed to the edge. "That's no excuse. I was so focused on shielding you from this life that I didn't see you might have some of your own darkness, too."
I bite my lip, feeling like I'm teetering on a ledge. His anger isn't directed at me but at himself, and it's as fierce as any wrath he's shown our enemies. Maybe fiercer.
"Look, you're the guy with the power here, but you're not psychic, Boris." I attempt a weak joke, but it falls flat, swallowed by the gravity of our situation.
"Robin," His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away the tears I didn't realize were falling. "This marriage, it's not just a paper to me. It's you and me against the world. We're a team now. Your battles are mine, whether with your uncle or anyone else."
"Even if I screw up?" I whisper, vulnerability bleeding into my voice.
"Especially then." He pulls me close, his heartbeat steady against my ear. "We'll protect each other and our child. That's a promise."
"Okay," I breathe out, allowing myself to lean into his strength. Trust is a leap in the dark, but maybe, with Boris, I can land safely.
"Come," Boris says suddenly, straightening up. "We should leave this place. You need rest, and so do I."
"Leave? But Anoushka—" I start, torn between the need to stay and the exhaustion pulling at my limbs.
"She will be taken care of. She's strong, and Lev is here. We both need to recharge if we're going to help her or Adam." His tone leaves no room for argument, and truthfully, I'm too tired to put up much of a fight.
The fact that he knows Adam is on my mind isn’t lost on me. In this moment, I truly begin to understand the strength in having him as a husband. He might not know it, but just saying we need to help Adam has taken away some of the pressure I’m under.
"Alright," I concede, allowing him to lead me away from the buzzing lights and the scent of antiseptics.
***
Back at Boris’s, the hot water cascades over me, steam fogging up the glass as I step under the shower's embrace. It's a relief, almost like a balm to my frayed nerves. Each drop seems to carry away the grit of the day's fears, the tension coiled tight in my muscles. I close my eyes, tilting my face up into the stream, letting it wash the remnants of the hospital from my skin—the smell of antiseptics, the whisper of gauze, the weight of silent prayers for Adam.
"Robin," his voice rumbles through the mist, laden with a need that matches my own.
My heart stutters at the sound of Boris's voice, and I turn to see him, his broad figure shadowed behind the blurred shower door. It swings open, and he steps inside, his presence engulfing the small space. The air shifts, charged, as if the steam itself is electrified by his arrival.
"Can't stay away, can you?" My attempt at lightness doesn't quite mask the quiver in my voice—a mix of anticipation and something akin to awe at how good he looks naked.
"Never from you." His words are a growl, low and possessive, as he closes the distance between us.
Our eyes lock, and there's a universe in his gaze. He reaches for me, and I meet him halfway, our lips colliding with an urgency that speaks of shared turmoil.
His solid and unyielding arms wrap around me, and I mold into him. My hands roam across the planes of his back, feeling the strength in his frame.
"God, Robin," Boris breathes out, his lips finding the nape of my neck, his embrace tightening. "What you do to me..."
Water cascades over us, steam rising around us as Boris's hands explore every inch of my skin, lingering on the curves of my breasts and the swell of my belly. His mouth follows, hot and insistent, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I'm lost to thesensation, to the relentless press of his lips against the valley between my breasts, lower, until he's on his knees and the world narrows down to the fervent worship of his tongue.
