Page 54 of Crystal Wrath
My heart skips a beat. There is a crack in the fortress he wears like armor and a glimpse of the man beneath thepakhan.
He reaches up and brushes a damp strand of my dark hair away from my forehead, his fingers lingering against my skin. The touch is feather-light and reverent.
“You matter more than you should,” he confesses quietly.
Tears prick my eyes from the intensity in his tone. I'm at a loss for words. I'm afraid to voice anything, afraid to believe it because if I do, I might fall harder than I already have. And falling for Renat Rostov means entering a world where love and violence dance together in a deadly waltz.
He finishes with my hands and leans back, studying my face. His gaze travels over the bruise on my cheek, the split in my lower lip, the exhaustion that must be written in every line of my body. But there's no pity in his expression, only a fierce protectiveness that makes me feel safer than I have in days.
“Do you want to lie down?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I nod, suddenly overcome by the pull of exhaustion, settling over me like a heavy blanket. He helps me into the bed, his touch careful as he arranges the pillows behind me and pulls the silk coverlet up to my chest. The sheets are cool against my skin, smooth and luxurious in a way that reminds me how different our worlds are.
Once I'm settled, he returns to the elegant armchair positioned beside the bed and sits down heavily. I can see the pain in his movements now, the way he favors his injured side, the tension lines around his eyes that betray exhaustion and blood loss. He should be tending to his own wounds, should be resting, but instead, he's here with me, standing guard even in the safety of his own home.
For a while, we don't speak. The silence stretches comfortably between us now, no longer suffocating but filled with everything we can't yet put into words. The only sounds are the soft whisper of the air conditioning and the distant hum of traffic from the city beyond the estate's walls. It's peaceful in a way I didn't expect, given everything we've been through.
I study him in the soft light, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead and the elegant line of his throat. Even disheveled and bloodied, he's devastatingly handsome, carrying himself with an innate authority that reflects generations of power and privilege. But more than that, there's something magnetic about him that draws me in despite every rational voice in my head telling me to run.
Finally, curiosity gets the better of me, and I break the comfortable silence. “Were you always like this?”
His dark brows lift slightly. “Like what?”
“Protective. Loyal. Dangerous.”
I'm asking about the man beneath the reputation. The boy grew into this complex, contradictory figure who can be tender and terrifying in the span of a heartbeat.
Renat lets out a long breath, his gaze drifting to the window where moonlight filters through the curtains. For a moment, I think he won't answer, that he'll retreat behind the walls he's so carefully constructed. But then he begins to speak, his voice low and reflective.
“I was a quiet child. Observant. My father didn't have the patience for softness, so I learned to bury it early. I learned quickly that love made you a target. And trust got you killed.”
There's a distance in his voice as if he's speaking about someone else entirely rather than his own childhood. But I hear the pain beneath the detachment, the wounds that never properly healed.
He pauses, his jaw clenching before he continues, and I see the internal struggle playing out across his face. These are memories he doesn't share, and secrets he's kept locked away for decades.
“My mother was a mistress. Beautiful, gentle. She made my father feel something he wasn't used to feeling. Guilt, maybe. Or vulnerability. Irina, his wife, despised her for it. She had my mother killed when I was barely a year old. No investigation. No justice. Just silence. My father buried her quickly and warned everyone to forget. I didn't know what happened to my mother until after Irina's death.”
Each revelation is more devastating than the last. I can picture him as a baby, innocent and unaware that his world was built on a foundation of violence and betrayal. The casual way he speaks about his mother's murder as if it's just another fact to be acknowledged breaks my heart.
He shakes his head, a bitter note rising in his voice that makes my chest ache. “Irina was a cold woman. Sharp-tongued and calculating. She saw me as nothing but a stain, a living reminder of her husband's betrayal. I was raised among guards and lieutenants, not in a family. Irina made sure I knew my place, and it was always beneath hers.”
I can see it now, the lonely child growing up in a palace that was more prison than home. Surrounded by wealth and luxury but starved of the love and affection every child deserves. No wonder he learned to guard his heart so carefully, and to trust so reluctantly.
“When I turned twenty-five, my father died. I stepped into his world before I was ready. Built this empire with men who doubted me. Fought every day to prove I wasn't a mistake.”
The enormity of that responsibility, thrust upon him at such a young age, is staggering. To inherit not just wealth and power but also enemies and blood feuds, and to be responsible for the lives and livelihoods of dozens of people who looked to him for leadership and protection.
“You're not,” I whisper, the words fierce with conviction.
His eyes lift to mine, a quiet intensity blooming behind them, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His carefully constructed mask slips entirely, and for a heartbeat I see the man beneath. Vulnerable, uncertain, and still carrying the wounds of that abandoned child.
“Sometimes I believe that,” he admits quietly. “Other times...not so much.”
The honesty in his admission completely undoes me. Here is this powerful, dangerous man, feared throughout Miami's underworld, and he's sharing his deepest insecurities with me. The trust implicit in his confession is overwhelming.
“You saved me,” I remind him, my voice soft but sure.
He reaches for my hand, his fingers brushing over mine with a tenderness that makes my heart race. The contact is tentative at first as if he's afraid I might pull away, but when I don't, his touch becomes more confident.
