Page 102 of Scarlet Thorns
I’m a fucking idiot.
I can’t believe I told her about my family. About Galina. About the baby we lost before he even had a chance to breathe. I’ve barely told anything to my brothers— Melor knows the basics, Radimir suspects more than he lets on, but the details? The sight of them wheeling her cooling body away while my child died inside her?
Nyet.
Those wounds I keep buried deep, where they can’t destroy what’s left of my sanity.
But with Ilona, it’s like I wanted to tell her everything. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling her how Galina used to sing lullabies to her belly, how we’d already picked out names, how I’d started building a crib with my own hands because I wanted something pure in our child’s life.
Something untainted by blood and violence.
What the fuck did I expect?Ihired her as my housekeeper.Ilet her into my room, my space, the sanctuary where I keep my ghosts. Of course she saw the photo with a pregnant Galina. Of course she asked questions.
And now she knows. She knows I’m capable of care, of tenderness, of dreams that extend beyond the next deal or the next kill. She knows I’m not just a monster wearing a man’s face.
The thought should terrify me. In my world, vulnerability is death. Showing weakness is like painting a target on your back and handing your enemies the gun. But with Ilona…
Bozhe moy, with Ilona, I’m pulled to her so viscerally that I barely recognize myself. It’s like some strange force hasrewired my brain, overriding every survival instinct I’ve spent years honing. I look at her and logic leaves me. Reason becomes a foreign concept.
Perhaps it’s that pull that’s making me act so fucking reckless. Despite any sense or reason, I keep drawing her closer when I should be pushing her away. Keep sharing pieces of my soul when I should be keeping her at arm’s length.
And there’s something about the fact that I know she’s the girl from Boston. Igor Shiradze’s daughter. The irony of it should make me laugh— or reach for my gun. Instead, it feels like fate. Like some twisted god decided that the daughter of the man I killed should be the one to resurrect the parts of me I thought died a year ago.
She stands in front of me now, her lips red and swollen from the wild kiss we shared moments ago. My mouth can still taste her— sweet honey and desperate desire, innocence wrapped in awakening passion. Her pajamas are thin cotton that clings to every curve, and I can see her erect nipples pressing against the fabric, begging for my attention.
Fuck, she’s a goddamn vision. All golden hair and wide blue eyes, looking at me like some kind of fucking angel.
I’m done for.
Completely, utterly done for.
The battle of wills I’ve been fighting since the moment I realized she’s the Boston Scarlet Fox girl? I lost it the second she didn’t run when I told her about Galina. When she looked at my pain and offered comfort instead of judgment.
She doesn’t know the full truth and she never can— that I’m the one who made her an orphan. But right now, in this moment, she’s looking at me like I hung the fucking moon.
“Osip,” she whispers, and I feel myself weaken a little more.
I close the distance between us slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to come to her senses and run like she should have weeks ago. But she doesn’t move. If anything, she sways toward me.
“Milaya,” I murmur, framing her face with hands that have done terrible things but somehow know how to be gentle with her. “You sure about this?”
Her answer is to rise on her tiptoes and press her lips to mine, soft and seeking. It’s different from our earlier kiss— less desperate, more deliberate. Like she’s choosing me with full knowledge of what I am.
I deepen the kiss gradually, savoring the way she melts against me. Her hands fist in my shirt, holding me close as I explore her mouth with infinite care. This isn’t about conquest or possession. This is about connection— something I thought I’d lost the capacity for.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark with desire, pupils dilated with want, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
“I want you,” she says simply. No games, no coy seduction. Just honest need that matches my own.
“Then you have me,” I tell her, meaning it in ways that terrify me. “All of me,milaya.”
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bed. But instead of the rough urgency that marked our encounters before, I set her down gently, my hands skimming over her body like she’s made of spun glass.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my chest. “You won’t hurt me.” Her smile is soft, understanding.
But she’s wrong— Iwillhurt her, inevitably.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can’t say into the contact. My hands find the hem ofher shirt, lifting it slowly over her head and discarding it on the floor. She’s naked underneath, pale skin and gentle curves, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to steady myself.
