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“I’ll never force you, Sofia. Never. What we just did only happens when you want it to.”

She nods, pressing her face against my chest. “I know.”

I hold her, running my fingers through her hair. I have kept my promise to her mother for eight years. What I didn't account for is that somewhere along the way, keeping her safe stopped being the promise and started being the only thing I wanted for myself.

“I’ve got you. Sleep.”

“You said that. That night. You said you got me.”

“I do. I will always take care of you. Now sleep.”

I continue to stroke her hair until I feel her breathing even out.

Only then do I let myself think about what just happened.

Would Elena approve? Would she be disappointed in me for having sex with her daughter? I promised to protect Sofia, but I have a feeling Elena didn’t mean this.

Having her in my arms, in my bed, is both everything I wanted and nothing like I imagined.

This is dangerous territory I swore I’d never enter.

I can protect her from Yuri.

I’m not sure I can protect her from me.

21

Sofia

I wake up knowing exactly where I am.

That's the strange part. No disorientation. No panicked second where I have to inventory my surroundings and figure out if I'm safe. I just know. The sheets smell like him. A delicious spicy aroma with a hint of cedar that I snuggled up against all night. For so long, that scent has taken me back to that night, but it never brought terror. I never understood why until last night.

That was the scent of salvation.

I'm in Sergei Sokolov's brownstone, and I slept eight uninterrupted hours for the first time in weeks. In. His. Arms.

I lie still for a moment and let myself be annoyed about that.

I feel the tenderness between my legs. Feel the whisker burns against my chin. I feel him all over me.

And I don’t hate it.

I stare at the high ceiling from my position in the massive bed. There's a painting on the wall I didn't notice last night. Abstract.Dark blues and greens, expensive-looking but not showy. I think about what it means that a man like him chose that painting. The first thing he sees every morning.

It must have meaning.

Then I tell myself I'm not doing that. I'm not reading into his art choices and trying to make him something he’s not.

He’s still a dangerous rival.

And my husband.

Oh, and the man that saved me three years ago.

It’s hard to put all of that together.

I decide not to try before I’ve had some serious caffeine.