"Don't try to charm me. Don't pretend this is anything other than necessity."
He steps closer, moving with that predatory grace that makes my pulse skip. "And if it's not pretense?"
If it's not pretense.The possibility hangs between us like a live wire, dangerous and electric and completely inappropriate.
"Then we're both in trouble."
"We're already in trouble, little wolf. The question is whether we face it together or apart."
Together.The word carries implications I'm not ready to consider. Partnership beyond necessity. Trust beyond circumstance. Something that looks dangerously like the beginning of feelings I can't afford to have.
"I need to see it," I say suddenly.
"See what?"
"Your scars. You know about mine, and I want to understand what you've been through."
For a moment I think he's going to refuse. Then something shifts in his expression, and he pulls the black sweater over his head in one fluid motion.
Holy hell.
Mikhail without a shirt is a study in controlled power. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that suggest serious dedication to physical fitness. But it's the scars that steal my breath. Not justone, but dozens. Some surgical, others clearly from violence. A roadmap of pain written across skin that's otherwise perfect.
"Jesus, Mikhail."
"Fifteen years of making enemies," he says matter-of-factly, like we're discussing the weather instead of evidence of a life lived on the edge of violence. "Some of them fought back."
I reach out without thinking, fingers tracing a particularly vicious scar that runs along his ribs. His skin is warm, smooth except for the raised tissue that speaks of old pain. He goes completely still under my touch, like he's afraid to breathe.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore." His voice is rougher than before. "Most of the time I forget they're there."
"How do you forget something like this?"
"Practice."
Practice.Learning to live with pain until it becomes background noise. Learning to function despite carrying the evidence of violence on your skin.
I trace another scar, this one near his shoulder. "What about this one?"
"Knife fight in Prague. Three years ago."
"And this?" My finger finds a circular mark that's obviously from a bullet.
"Moscow. Five years ago."
Five years ago.While I was building cases and following protocol and believing in justice, he was bleeding in Moscow from a gunshot wound that nearly killed him.
"Why?" The question emerges without permission. "Why live like this?"
"Because someone has to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." He catches my hand, stilling my exploration of his scars. "I became what I am because the world needed someone willing to do ugly things to protect beautiful ones."
Beautiful ones.Like Mila. Like the reformed families trying to build legitimate lives. Like federal agents who believe in justice even when the system fails them.
