The walls are stone and the windows are wide, but curtained for now. The bath is carved into the floor, half indoor, half open to the breeze outside, with heat that rises in visible waves. Steam curls through the room like it belongs.
Mila is two hours away, tucked into a warm house with a woman who used to be on our payroll and still remembers how to shoot. She has every emergency number, every instruction, and every check-in protocol I could think of. We didn’t leave until I saw the pantry myself, tested the alarm, and watched Mila settle in with a puzzle and a smile. She’s safe, which means I can breathe and finally spend time with Dominik without feeling like the walls are closing in.
I undress without folding anything. That still feels new. Not looking over my shoulder. Not placing clothes where I can grab them fast. I drop my top onto the bench, step out of my underwear, and slide into the water without checking the time.
The heat bites at first, but I welcome it. My body adjusts fast, my muscles unwinding without permission. The ache I’ve been carrying—deep in my back, deeper in my thighs—starts to release, inch by inch.
I lean back, eyes closed, arms resting along the rim of the stone.
I don’t hear him enter. I feel it. The pressure changes, the way the steam moves when he steps closer.
I smile before I open my eyes. “How long were you watching me?”
Dominik crouches beside the edge, one hand ghosting up my arm. His fingers are warm even through the heat.
“Long enough to remember why we fought this hard,” he says.
I look at him. His beard is shorter, his jaw still tight. But the weight behind his eyes is different now. Not gone, but moved. Managed.
“Did you check the locks?” I ask softly.
He nods once. “Just once.”
I reach for him, dragging my fingers along the waistband of his pants. “Leave them,” I murmur. “Come in like this.”
His eyes darken. He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He never does. He just strips the shirt over his head and steps into the water still half-clothed. The fabric clings immediately, heavy and soaked,outlining every inch of him in a way that’s somehow more obscene than if he were naked.
I rise to meet him, water dripping down my skin. I run my hands under the wet cotton and push it up his chest, slowly, my thumbs grazing over each scar like I’m re-learning the map of him.
“Let me,” I whisper.
He lets me.
I undress him piece by piece, underwater and unhurried, until he’s bare in front of me. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me with that look that’s still possessive, but settled. Like he knows I’m his without needing to prove it.
I slide back into the water, drawing him with me. He follows, pressing me gently into the warm stone seat, his hands braced on either side of my body.
We don’t rush.
He kisses my shoulder first. Then my collarbone. Then lower. Every kiss lingers. Every movement is soft enough to be a promise.
His lips brush the base of my throat, then the hollow between my breasts, and when he finally pulls one into his mouth, his tongue moves in slow circles that make my breath catch. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t grope, doesn’t demand. He learns the rhythm of my reactions, the way my hand tightens in his hair, the way my leg shifts around his waist, drawing him closer.
The water sloshes gently around us, warm and forgiving, wrapping us in steam and silence. He slides one hand down, palm flat against my stomach, then lower, until his fingers findthe place he’s been aiming for. A startled breath slips out of me, not because I wasn’t ready, but because I already am.
He groans softly when he feels it.
“Always so ready for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough and reverent. “Every damn time.”
I want to answer, but his fingers slip between my folds and find just the right pressure, slow and steady, and the words die in my throat.
I grab his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.
He kisses my jaw, then my cheek, then lowers to his knees in the water. I gasp when I realize what he’s about to do.
“Dominik—”
His hands push my thighs apart, not roughly, just with enough pressure to make it clear he isn’t asking.
