Page 117

“What the fuck is this?” I coughed, shoving the mug away. “Battery acid?”

A quiet snort escaped him. “This isn’t for you.”

Of course it isn’t. Mine always comes loaded with sugar or honey because apparently he’s accepted that my taste buds are weak and pathetic.

His hot chocolate, though, is criminally good. Rich, warm, unfairly perfect. I begged him to teach me once, half-joking and half genuinely desperate.

He didn’t even pause. “Then you won’t need me.”

I blinked at him. “That’s not—”

“Whenever you want it,” he cut in, voice calm but absolute, “you ask me.”

It’s almost jarring, how much he respects my boundaries despite acting like a complete caveman all the time. He never barges in when I’m in the shower, even though I know he wants to.

After sex, he always cleans me, changes the sheets, without turning the lights on. His gentle acts of love making up for the rough sex, and it is so rough, I fucking live for that shit.

He’s ruthless with his pounding, and careful with his kisses, he’s a fucking conundrum. He loves to comb my hair for me, braiding it before going to bed, and untying the makeshift bun during the day.

His place used to be immaculate. Now, after a month of me, it’s barely holding onto that order.

He never says a word about it and simply fixes everything quietly. He folds the blankets I abandon on the couch, lines up the shoes I kick off wherever I feel like, gathers the clothes I leave scattered like I own the place.

And the whole time, he talks to me like it’s nothing. Spouting random facts while I make an even bigger mess of whatever he just cleaned.

Apparently octopuses have three hearts. Honey never expires. There’s a town somewhere that banned dying because the cemetery ran out of space.

Half the things he says sound made up. The other half somehow stick in my brain because it’s him saying them.

The doorbell rings causing me to jump, already sensing it was too good to be true.

It had to be a dream. I was too happy when I don’t deserve to be.

The dream shatters when Sergei gets up from the couch to open the door and a high-pitched voice creates an unnerving turmoil within me.

“Elara, why aren’t you at your place?” There stands my sister, Amara. Furious as ever.

Her eyes widen the moment they land on Sergei, mirroring my own surprise. For the briefest second, she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

She smooths the fear from her face and turns to me instead, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, the familiar scowl settling back into place.

“What are you doing here?” She chastises. “Is that why you wanted to leave London? To live as someone’s whore?”

My eyes widen, impossibly so. For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, the hurt settling deep beneath my ribs.

“Do not.” Sergei growls in a low and lethal voice, “call my woman a whore while you’re standing in my house, breathing my air.”

The room falls silent.

Amara doesn’t take her eyes off him as she stumbles back a step. “Come, Elara. Let’s go home.”

Sergei’s hand finds mine before I can move, gently pulling me behind him.

“She’s not going anywhere.” His voice is steady, but I catch the slight hitch in his breath, the barely concealed grunt of pain.

“And who are you?” Amara demands, the fear draining from her face as anger rushes back in to fill the space.

“He’s my boyfriend.” I mumble, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of Sergei’s T-shirt.