Page 37 of Salvation

“She really did know you’d come,” Clover said, her fingers tightening around my arm. “She told them you would. That you’d make them sorry.”

“I’ll always find you,” I promised, the words a vow that went beyond this moment, beyond even the kidnapping.

Gradually, Clover’s breathing slowed, her body relaxing by increments as sleep reclaimed her. But this time, her dreams seemed peaceful, her face smoothing out as she nestled between us, secure in the knowledge that she was protected.

Over her head, my eyes met Yulia’s in the dim light. Her hand still rested on Clover’s arm, inches from where my own fingers curled around our daughter’s shoulder.

My thumb moved of its own accord, tracing a small circle on Yulia’s shoulder where my hand still rested. Her eyes widened slightly at the touch, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned almost imperceptibly into the contact, a silent acknowledgment of something new taking shape between us.

We waited until Clover’s breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of dreamless sleep before carefully extricating ourselves from the tangled sheets. I eased my arm from beneath her head while Yulia gently tucked the blanket around her shoulders. We moved like thieves in reverse, leaving something precious behind rather than taking it away. At the doorway, we both paused, looking back at the sleeping form of our daughter. She seemed younger in sleep, the stress of the past days temporarily erased from her features. I left the door cracked open just enough that we’d hear if she called out again, then followed Yulia into the dimly lit hallway.

Neither of us spoke as we made our way to my bedroom, our footsteps hushed against the worn carpet. The compound was quiet around us, the usual sounds of brotherhood -- laughter, arguing, music -- absent in deference to what we’d all been through. My door stood partially open, just as Yulia had left it when Clover’s cries had pulled us away. I pushed it wider, allowing Yulia to enter first.

A single lamp burned on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the sparse furnishings. Nothing personal on the walls, no photographs, no mementos. Nothing that made it uniquely mine.

Yulia stood in the center of the room, looking smaller than usual, her arms wrapped around herself as if for protection. The lamp’s glow caught the damp ends of her hair, turning the blonde strands a light copper. Even bruised and exhausted, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I closed the door with a soft click, and we stood facing each other, three feet of charged space between us. All the easy comfort we’d found in Clover’s room seemed to have evaporated, replaced by an awkward tension. This was new territory. Dangerous ground.

I ran a hand through my hair, a nervous gesture I couldn’t suppress. My gaze traced the visible bruises on Yulia’s arms, dark smudges against her pale skin that made my stomach clench with renewed guilt. The bandages around her wrists were a stark reminder of what she’d endured.

“I should have gotten to you sooner,” I said, unable to keep the words inside any longer. My voice came out rough, scraped raw by emotion. “If I’d been faster, if I’d figured it out earlier --”

Yulia stepped closer, shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “You came. That’s what matters.”

The certainty in her voice staggered me. After everything -- the kidnapping, the fear, the pain -- she still had this boundless faith in me. A faith I hadn’t earned, hadn’t deserved.

“You don’t understand,” I persisted, needing her to see the weight of my failure. “They hurt you. They threatened Clover. While I was running around the city like a fucking idiot, you were --”

“Salvation.” She moved closer still, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in her irises, could smell the clean scent of soap on her skin. “Listen to me. I knew you would find us. I never doubted it, not for a second.”

Our eyes locked in the dim light, a current passing between us that had nothing to do with the kidnapping and everything to do with eleven years of careful distance, of unspoken feelings, of a marriage that existed on paper but had somehow become real in ways neither of us had acknowledged.

“Why?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “Why did you have so much faith in me?”

Something softened in her expression, a vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to see. “Because I know you,” she said simply. “I’ve known you since I was sixteen years old. I’ve watched you raise Clover, protect the club, build this life for us. I know what kind of man you are.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, breaking something loose inside my chest that had been caged for too long. Hesitantly, I raised my hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering against her cheek. Her skin was warm, soft, alive beneath my touch.

Yulia leaned into my hand, her eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment, her breath catching audibly. When she looked at me again, there was no mistaking what I saw in her gaze -- the same longing that had been building in me for years, the same need for connection that went beyond our arrangement, beyond friendship, beyond the careful boundaries we’d maintained.

Time seemed to stretch between us, seconds extending into small eternities as we stood on the precipice of something that would change everything. I traced the curve of her cheekbone with my thumb, memorizing the feel of her, anchoring myself in this moment that suddenly felt both inevitable and terrifyingly new.

“Yulia,” I whispered, my voice breaking on her name.

She said nothing, but her hand came up to cover mine where it rested against her face, her fingers curling around my wrist with gentle pressure. Permission. Invitation.

I lowered my head slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to reconsider. But she remained steady, her eyes never leaving mine until the last moment when they closed in anticipation. Our lips met in a kiss that was barely more than a whisper -- soft, tentative, questioning. A beginning rather than a culmination.

I pulled back slightly, searching her face for any sign of doubt or regret. Instead, I found only clear certainty in her eyes, a sureness that steadied my racing heart. This time when our lips met, there was nothing hesitant about it. The kiss deepened, eleven years of wanting pouring into a connection that felt like coming home after a long, lonely journey.

Her hands slid up to my shoulders, mine settling at her waist, careful of her bruised ribs. We fit together perfectly, as if our bodies had always known what our minds had been slow to accept. The kiss was both tender and urgent, gentle but with an undercurrent of need that threatened to sweep us both away.

When we finally parted, both slightly breathless, neither of us spoke. Words seemed inadequate, unnecessary in the face of what had just passed between us. Instead, Yulia’s fingers found mine, intertwining with quiet certainty as we moved toward the bed. Something fundamental had shifted between us -- a truth finally acknowledged.

She winced slightly as she sat on the edge of the mattress, her hand automatically going to her bandaged ribs. I knelt before her, looking up into her face with concern.

“We don’t have to --”

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