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Her name, a soft, ragged whisper, teeters on the edge of my lips, my voice hoarse. “Ana...”
I carry her through the dim tunnels, away from the violence and vengeance, my heart swathed in rage and unspoken anguish. Her safety and recovery is the only thing that matters amidst the sweeping gale of emotions that threaten to dismantle me.
Chapter 6
Anastasia
“What the hell happened?” My throat feels like it’s made of sandpaper.
Consciousness grates against my eyelids, rough and disorienting. As I struggle to wake up, it feels like I'm clawing my way out from under a pile of rubble. A distant ache pulses through my skull, my brain insistent that I remember the cause of it.
I peel my eyes open, the world swaying slightly in an uneasy dance. This isn’t my bed, these aren’t my sheets, and the scent is all wrong, or rather, all too familiar. Cedar and something distinctly... Samuil. It fills my senses, comforting and disconcerting all at once.
I lie there for a moment, soaking in the quiet calm before my memory, fractured and jagged, begins to reassemble itself. The ring. The fight. The surging crowd. The anger etched in every hard line of Samuil's face as he dove headfirst into violence for me.
My heart lurches in my chest, wild and erratic, as my feet touch the cold floor, a startling confirmation that I’m alive, that I survived.
My ankle protests, but it's not the unbearable scream of something broken. More the dull, insistent throbbing of a sprain. Ignoring it, I edge myself upright, my hand instinctively sliding to my tender jaw. There's no mirror, but I can imagine the mosaic of bruises painting my skin.
The distant murmur of a TV, dialogue low and indistinct, sparks my attention, and I hobble toward it, the scent of Samuil growing stronger with each step.
The sight that greets me in the faint glow of the living space sends a shiver—unexpected and complex—through me.
Samuil is sprawled on the couch, unconscious in a way that only total exhaustion allows, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. He’s half-naked, sweatpants slung low on his hips, every hard, muscular line of him on display. And there, amidst the raw, unguarded vulnerability of his rest, I see the aftermath of battle—his knuckles, a brutal display of purples and reds, and the darkening bruise that swells near his eye.
He's beautiful and dangerous, a lethal combination that I've always been drawn to, even as I recognize the danger it presents.
My breath catches, lodged somewhere between relief and an emotion too terrifying to name. He's okay. No, not okay, far from it, but alive. We're both alive, and that fact looms large, filling every corner of the room.
My limbs pull me forward, a gravitation that’s more emotional than physical, until I'm hovering over him, my fingers twitching with the urge to soothe, to caress, to confirm the reality of his presence.
My heart's a traitor, rebelling with a flutter that feels entirely out of place. There's a tornado of butterflies, churning, wild and untamed, in my stomach as my eyes trace the contours of Samuil's peaceful face.
I’ve known this man for what feels like a lifetime, his presence a constant, unyielding fixture in a world that hasalways seemed to be swaying on the edge of chaos. I feel something shift as I gaze down upon him, something undefinable yet impossibly profound.
Surveying his sleeping form, I note the scars littering his skin. Each one speaks of a fight, a story of survival. Tattoos cover some, making a statement of their own. I feel the need to touch them, to understand what's behind each mark.
His face, usually so hard and stoic, appears younger as he sleeps. Those lips, often set in a grim line, seem softer now, inviting. Why am I seeing him so differently? He's always been my protector, my guardian, in this dangerous world we live in. But the fierce way he defended me against Breaker has thrown me off, changed something in the way I see him.
I find myself sitting next to him, battling with these new emotions. My hand moves on its own, getting closer to his face, wanting to touch, to feel. His steady breathing is the only sound in the room, and I feel drawn to him, wanting more. I'm close enough to feel the warmth from his skin, my heart racing as I fight the urge to lean in.
His eyes slowly open, revealing that familiar intense gaze of his. My heart is practically jumping out of my chest, and the room suddenly feels small.
"Ana," he says, a hint of roughness to his voice that makes me shiver. It's just my name, but coming from his lips, it feels different, intimate. "What are you doing?"
I struggle to find the right words, his penetrating stare pinning me in place.
I manage a quiet, "I don't know, Samuil."
His hand moves, brushing my forehead with a gentleness I'm not used to seeing from him.
"You feel warm. Everything okay?"
His concern is evident, and I’m overwhelmed by the affection, the mix of his scent and the undeniable pull betweenus. Every part of me is acutely aware of him and the carnal energy that surrounds us.
"No… I mean, yeah," I stumble over my words, my breathing uneven. "I'm fine."
What I'm feeling isn't sickness. The weight of what's hanging between us is heavy, and it's threatening to suffocate me. He searches my face, looking for something, and I feel exposed under his scrutiny.
