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I feel his chest expand with a massive breath, holding it before letting it out in a long, slow exhale.

“Viktoriya,” he murmurs.

He’s not angry. He sounds almost…pained.

I brace myself to be shoved away, waiting for him to tell me to get on my feet and finish cleaning up the glass.

Instead, his massive arms slowly fold around me. He doesn’t just hold me. He pulls me entirely onto his lap, maneuvering my fragile body against his solid chest until my head is tucked securely under his jaw. I can feel the rough rasp of his stubble against my hair, the thunderous, steady beat of his heart right against my cheek.

No. No, no, no.

This man is cold and dangerous, and I don’t want anything from him.

Yet I feel myself sinking into his warmth, completely unable to stop it.

Tears spill out of me. Not choked, terrified gasps, but real tears of release. All the agony—the bone-deep coldness, and the loneliness—I’ve locked away for months spill out, soaking straight into the front of his shirt.

One of his large, tattooed hands begins a slow, soothing stroke up and down my back. His thumb rubs comforting circles over my spine, holding me tight against him like I’m someone he’s protecting.

“Shh,” he rumbles softly against my hair, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. “Quiet now, printsessa. I’ve got you.”

My body shudders, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I am crying, and I am not alone.

5

Zevran

Ihold the slight woman in my arms as she sobs her heart out on my chest. Her whole body is curled against me, her face pressed into my shirt, her fingers twisted in the fabric. I feel the damp strands of her hair between my fingers and the warmth of her beneath my palm as I hold her close. I don’t think about what I’m doing, because if I allow myself even a second of clarity, I’ll remember that I have to stop.

I don’t want to stop. That’s the terrifying part.

I am sinking into her as completely as she is collapsing into me, my body molding around hers as if I was built specifically to shield her.

I have a rule about this.

It’s not written down anywhere, and it’s not something I’ve ever had to say out loud, because it’s never been tested. The rule is simple: no touching that isn’t operationally necessary. No holding. No comforting. No letting assets get close enough to start needing me, because being needed is a weight I don’t carry for anyone.

I have kept this rule unbroken for years without difficulty.

The sixth time Artem overdosed, it was Mom who found him. I’d been outside kicking a football around while my brother was unconscious on his bedroom floor. I remember her on her knees, tears dripping down her face.

Zevran, what if I’m too late?

Her hands shaking as she frantically pumped Artem’s chest. My brother lying there, gray and still, as her tears dampened his shirt. He made promises, but he always started using again and again. Killing us like he was killing himself.

I watched Mom pour everything she had into him. We’d been here before. We all had. We’d saved him, but our tears and terror were never enough for him to stop using. Decades later, I know that addiction is a disease, but it hurt so fucking much caring about someone you couldn’t fix.

Now here I am, sitting on the floor of a dirty motel room with a woman I’ve known for barely six hours. She’s in my lap, my arms locked around her like she’s mine, and I couldn’t push her away if my life depended on it. This woman kept me awake by stifling her tears for hours on end. She’s making my job impossible with her uncooperativeness, and on top of it all, she bit me.

I ease my long legs out in front of me and prop my back against the wall. I keep holding her, my cheek pressed against the top of her head as I murmur softly in Russian. Words of comfort I haven’t spoken in my life, slipping out of me without my consent.

I’ll hold her for as long as she needs.

I can’t force myself to make a practical decision when it comes to Viktoriya.

She smells of the basement still, unwashed and stale, but it’s not off-putting to me. It’s not her fault. She’s shaking in my arms, a continuous tremor that I can feel deep in my own chest, and she is small in a way that has my heart swelling to protect her.

I keep my arms around her while I watch the sky outside brighten toward midmorning. We should be well on our way by now, but instead I breathe slowly, hoping that the slow rhythm and the sound of my heartbeat is soothing her.