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A long, painful silence followed. Sergei slowly lowered his phone and stared at him like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.

“Roman.” He said flatly. “I would pay real money for you to shut up.”

Roman grinned and took a smug sip of his pale beige excuse for coffee. “You’re just threatened by my intelligence.”

Sergei muttered something in Russian that definitely wasn’t affectionate.

Their dynamic was bizarre, but beneath the constant bickering, it was painfully obvious that they cared about each other.

When Aleksandr and Roman first visited, they didn’t even raise a single brow at me. As if expecting me to be there, almost sighing with relief like the chase was finally over.

And although Roman remained a menace, he never loomed over me again. Never cornered me. Never touched me.

The reason could have been the near panic attack I had when he suddenly stood behind me. The plate slipped from my hands, shattering the fragile bubble I’d been living in.

I wasn’t immune to people.

I never could be.

I couldn’t breathe.

My heart slammed against my ribs, my vision narrowing as the apartment dissolved into nothing but ringing ears and trembling hands.

Then Sergei was there. His scent wrapped around me, warm and achingly familiar. One hand found mine while the other cupped my face, gently forcing my eyes to his.

“Stay with me, baby.” His voice cut through the panic. “Tell me five things you can see.”

I shook my head.

“You can do it.” He waited through every shaky breath, every failed attempt, never rushing me, never letting go of my hand.

Five things I could see.

Four I could touch.

Three I could hear.

Little by little, the penthouse came back into focus and I never looked away from him as he carried me to his room. And in moments like these, it became impossible not to feel. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

I was falling for Sergei Zaytsev.

In such instances when he’s touching me, whispering all the right things I needed to hear all my life.

But how do I tell him, he’s late?

Way too many years late.

Because I don’t let him see my scars, they are faint but wouldn’t remain unnoticed under Sergei’s scrutinising gaze.

The past month, the only time I’d touched a razor was because Sergei wanted to shave his beard but was too engrossed in rereading Metamorphosis to do it himself.

So he stood between my legs as I sat on the counter, a book in one hand while I carefully dragged the razor across his jaw.

I butchered it, I knew I had the second he snorted at his reflection.

“It’s terrible.” I admitted.

“Mm.”