He gets out of bed, and I catch myself watching the way his muscles move under his skin. He’s all lean power and jagged edges, a predator even when he’s just walking across a rug. He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the sound of water running.
What is he doing?
A few minutes later, he comes back with a warm, damp cloth and a small bottle of oil from the vanity. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls back the duvet. I try to grab the silk and cover myself, my stubborn pride flaring up.
"Mikhail, I can wash myself."
"I know you can," he says, his voice calm but absolute. "But I caused the mess, so I’ll fix it. Stay still, Irina."
I want to argue. I want to give him some sass about how I don't need him to play nursemaid, but as he starts to tend to me, the words die in my throat. He’s incredibly gentle. His large, scarred hands—the same hands that held pliers yesterday—are careful,almost reverent, as he works. It’s an intimate, domestic kind of care that makes me feel more vulnerable than the sex did.
"You're quiet," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the skin of my inner thigh.
"I'm just… processing," I say, looking at the ceiling. "You're a very confusing man, Mikhail Morozov. One minute you're a butcher, and the next you're doing this."
"I told you," he says, looking up, his gaze locking onto mine. "You're mine. I take care of what’s mine."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both," he says, a small, dark smile touching his mouth.
He finishes and helps me sit up, handing me a glass of water. He starts to get dressed, pulling on a clean white shirt and dark trousers. The mask is sliding back into place, his movements becoming more precise, more business-like.
"I have to go," he says, buttoning his cuffs. "Artyom has the transport ready for the women from the warehouse. I want to be there when they leave. I want to make sure the families are actually waiting on the other end."
I look at him, really look at him. He’s going to make sure they’re safe. He’s going to spend his morning being a hero for a group of strangers while his own father tries to tear the city apart.
"You're really going to see them off?" I ask.
"I don't leave jobs half-finished," he says, grabbing his jacket. "And I don't want any loose ends."
I feel a weird, warm pressure in my chest.
Stop it, Ira. He’s still a mobster.
"I know the business," I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. "I grew up in it. I know what the bad guys look like. My father is one. Your father is one. But I think… I’m glad that my husband is the best one of the bad guys."
Mikhail stops with his hand on the door handle. He turns back to me, and for a split second, the performance fully drops. He looks caught off guard, his expression softening into something so human it hurts to look at.
"The best of the bad guys," he repeats, his voice a low rasp. He walks back to the bed and leans down, his mouth brushing against mine in a kiss that isn't about possession. It’s about… something else. Something I’m too afraid to name. "Don't give me too much credit,dorogaya. I’m still a monster."
"I know," I whisper against his lips. "But one I don’t fear."
He lingers for a heartbeat, then pulls away. "Stay in the house. I’ll be back for lunch. Lev is in the hall. If you need anything, tell him."
"I'll be fine," I say, watching him go.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with the silence. I fall back into the pillows, my heart doing a frantic, confused rhythm.New Jersey. PB.The information Aris gave me is screaming in the back of my head. I have the lead. I have the initials. But after last night, the idea of lying to Mikhail feels… heavier.
Don’t get soft, Ira. Mikhail is part of the system that took him. If you tell him, he might use the information as leverage, just like Boris did.
I spend an hour in a hot bath, trying to soak away the soreness and the guilt. I dress in a simple silk slip dress and a cardigan, my hair still damp. When I finally head downstairs, the house feels quiet, the tension from the night before still hanging in the corners like cobwebs.
I’m in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when Elena, the head housekeeper, enters. She looks nervous, her eyes darting to the windows.
"Madam," she says, bowing her head. "I am sorry to disturb your morning."
"It’s fine, Elena. What is it?"
