I let out a breath that turns into a faint laugh, and his arm tightens instantly, pulling me back harder against him as if the sound alone confirms I’m awake and therefore available for whatever brand of worship or violence he’s chosen to begin the day with.
“Good morning to you, too,” I murmur, voice wrecked from sleep and everything we did before it.
He hums against my skin, the vibration sinking all the way down my spine. “Thought I’d start with a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“That you’re real,” he says, and then bites lightly at the slope of my shoulder.
I turn my head enough to catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder. He looks half-feral and half-sleepy, which is a combination no man should be allowed to pull off, least of all him. His hair is a mess, platinum gone darker than it used to be, less gold now and more ash, still falling in disordered strands over his forehead.
His eyes are barely open, but I can already see the blue of them through the dim, cold, and bright all at once. He looks like someone carved a war god into a beautiful man and then forgot to teach him moderation.
“You’ve spent the whole night proving I’m real,” I say.
“Not enough.”
Then he kisses my neck again, like that’s the end of the discussion.
I laugh properly this time, which earns me another hard pull against him. His hand slides over my stomach, broad and possessive and shameless, splaying there as if he means to keep me in bed with sheer body weight.
The worst part is that it’s working.
I’m so disgustingly happy in this exact moment that it feels unreal. That’s the truth of it. Not content. Not merely relieved. Happy. The kind of bright, stupid happiness that makes a man suspicious of the universe, because no one like me gets this without the bill arriving later.
I know what waits outside this room. I know what I am when I put my clothes back on: king, husband on paper, son, strategist, problem solver, and professional liar when necessary.
I know what he becomes the second he steps back into his own life: Pakhan, Blade, monster, and myth. We both know this little sliver of peace exists on borrowed time.
And still, I have him wrapped around me, breathing into my skin like he can’t get enough of me, and for one ridiculous, precious stretch of morning, I’m allowed to be happier than I’ve been in eight years.
Nikolaj’s hand slides a little higher, just enough to be a threat and a promise at once. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” I say. “At least not yet.”
“Good.”
I should leave it there. Instead, I make the mistake of wriggling forward half an inch, mostly because I need to get up before I die of either dehydration or starvation and partly because I want to see what he does.
What he does is growl low in his throat and drag me right back.
“Nikolaj,” I protest, laughing again because there’s no heat behind it. “I need the bathroom.”
“No.”
I huff out a laugh. “No?”
“No.”
I turn a little more in his hold, enough to see his face properly now. He’s got his eyes fully open, and he looks entirely too pleased with himself. One corner of his mouth is threatening a smile, but he’s trying to keep it under control. It doesn’t work. On him, smugness always looked better than it should.
“I’m serious,” I tell him.
“So am I,” he says and hooks his leg over mine, trapping me more thoroughly. When I try to shift again, he only drags me closer until there’s not an inch of air left between us. The manis naked, enormous, and apparently insatiable. I knew all those things already. They still delight me more than they should.
“You are impossible.”
“Mhm.”
