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Zasha bent, bracing his hands on his knees. “Fuck. I haven’t done that in years.”

“You did good.” I slapped him between the shoulders, then concealed my gun.

He exhaled hard. “What you said to those assholes—do you know who they are?”

“I have my theory.”

He straightened up fast, a flash of panic across his face. “Yuriy, what the fuck did you get into?”

“Hey, those fuckers started it. They tried to rob Stas, and we kicked their asses.”

“Fuck.” Zasha took a step back. “What about the murder last week that everyone’s been talking about?”

I fell silent. How much did he want to know?

“It’s best for you not to know the details. Then you can’t be an accomplice to anything.”

“Dammit, Yuriy.” My brother grabbed the front of my shirt. “I can’t afford for Yelena and me to be mixed up in this. We have a baby on the way.”

I clasped the back of his neck and squeezed. “Nothing’s going to happen to your family. I promise. Stas and I will figure things out, even if it means leaving an army behind to protect you.”

Zasha let out a long breath and nodded. “I trust you, Yuriy.”

“Good. Let’s get home, and you can tell me how you managed to stay so sharp. I thought this life would have softened you, but it clearly hasn’t.”

21

YURIY

Something warm pressed against my back. That was the first thing I felt as I came to. The second was a huff—irritated, unmistakably Stas—followed by the mattress dipping under the weight of a man who clearly thought he owned my bed and me. It was my fault for sharing his for the past three nights.

I blinked awake in the dark, disoriented. My brain fumbled through the last hours: a night out with Zasha, too much laughter, both of us returning to my bedroom to catch up. I must have fallen asleep. Or passed out.

A hand slid over my waist from behind and snagged my shirt, tugging me backward. I went along without fuss. Stas’s love language was manhandling me, and luckily, I wasn’t sensitive enough to mind. In fact, I loved this side of him, how he had to touch me all the time.

“You didn’t come to my bed,” Stas muttered, voice low, rough, and annoyed.

My mouth curled into a grin.

“Well, hello to you too,” I murmured, still half-asleep but shuffling closer. He made an amazing big spoon, though we alternated. “Didn’t know we were keeping attendance sheets.”

His fingers tightened on my waist. “You’ve slept in my bed for the past three nights. I’ve gotten accustomed to a Yuriy-shaped dent in my mattress. I waited.”

Stanislav Zhukovsky.

Waiting for me.

God, if I’d known that the same man who once tried to slit my throat would be sulking in my bed because I didn’t come cuddle him, I might’ve planned my whole damn night differently. But we’d spent so much time together, the four of us, that I’d given in when Zasha asked for some time for just the two of us to catch up.

“Oh, you’re serious.” A slow laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “You’re actually mad.”

“Not mad.” He shoved his forehead between my shoulder blades like he was trying to burrow into me. “Just… go to sleep. I’m tired of waiting up for you.”

“You’re so needy, old timer,” I teased, still smiling. “I love a needy Stas.”

The words were out before I heard myself. Love. My eyes shot open in the dark. My heart thumped so hard the mattress trembled.

Stas’s fingers paused on my waist, as if he’d heard the same absurdity I did. The silence stretched between us, thick, questioning, dangerous.