She went quiet for a beat. “I don’t know. Are you going to keep lying to me?”
I exhaled hard. “If I could slice myself open and dump every secret at your feet, I would. But before I do that—I need time. And I need you not to bail.”
The water lapped softly. She tilted her head just enough to meet my gaze. “Then give me something real,” she said—calm, but with that dangerous edge.
I dragged my thumb along her collarbone, slow. “Fine. I have something for you.”
She arched a brow.
“I put a tracker on you.”
Her eyes flashed wide, then narrowed. She twisted fast, water sloshing, until she was straddling me. “You what?”
“After Stas,” I said, hands gripping her wet hips. “I told myself it was protection. Truth is I was already fucking obsessed. Needed to know where you were… needed to know I could reach you before anyone else touched you.”
She stared, then shook her head with a short laugh. “Honestly?” she said. “I’m not even surprised.”
I huffed a laugh.
“So that’s how you were always there,” she said, brows lifting. “Some psycho guardian angel.”
“Pretty much,” I murmured. “Every time you were in deep shit, I was already moving.”
Her fingers slid down my arm; she lifted my hand and kissed the palm, slow and deliberate. “You’re insane,” she whispered. Then, softer, lips brushing skin: “But you saved me. Every damn time.”
I swallowed.
“I have something else,” I said, voice dropping.
She caught the shift instantly. Her playful look vanished; eyes sharpened. “What?”
I tucked wet hair behind her ear. “I found your mother.”
She froze. Then her eyes blew wide—raw, sudden light. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“I’m not,” I said quietly. “She’s alive. Recovering. I will take you to her. I swear. Just… not yet. She needs stability first.”
Her hands flew to my face, holding it tight, thumbs pressing my cheeks as she searched my eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” I said.
Her face shattered.
She kissed me once—hard, needy—then again, then scattered frantic kisses over my face, laughing and crying together beforecrashing against me, arms locked around my neck. “Thank you,” she choked into my skin. “Thank you.”
This was the only version of the world that made sense—her alive in my arms.
She whispered thank you, but I was the grateful one. For her pulse under my hand. For not turning away from what I am.
34
The Last Supper
—Maksym—
Three weeks later
It was just another one of those dinners. Pakhan at the head of the table, drunk on power and vodka. Kira was across the table, looking devastating. She wore a black satin slip dress, barely-there straps sliding off one shoulder, the neckline plunging low enough to stir heat in my blood every time she leaned forward. Her hair was pinned up in that messy, elegant way that made me want to ruin it with my hands. Legs crossed, eyes bored, face impassive—like a painting with a hidden weapon beneath the frame. Just looking at her made my cocktwitch with the urge to drag her to bed and fuck her senseless until morning. But I had other plans tonight.
