Chapter 29 Chapter 29

Chapter 29 Chapter 29
MIA

Pain wakes me before anything else.It starts low in my side, a dull throb that sharpens every time I breathe too deep.
My shoulder burns under the fresh bandage. My head feels like someone took a hammer to it and forgot to stop. The morphine is wearing off, and the room is too quiet.Nikolai’s room.
I’m in his bed now, sheets dark, cool against my skin, smelling faintly of him. The lamp on the nightstand is dim, casting long shadows across the black walls. I shift to sit up and regret it instantly. A hiss slips through my teeth. The door opens before I can curse.
Nikolai steps in, still in the same black T-shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms tense. He’s carrying a tray, water, pills, a bowl of something steaming.
His eyes find me immediately, scanning like he’s checking for new blood.
“You’re awake.” His voice is low, careful.
“Barely.”
I lean back against the pillows he stacked earlier.
“How long was I out?”
“Two hours. You needed it.” He sets the tray on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed.
His thigh presses against mine, warm, solid.
“How bad is the pain?”
“Scale of one to ten?” I try for a smirk. “Eleven.”
He doesn’t smile back. Instead he reaches for the pill bottle, shakes out two, hands them to me with the water.
“Take these.”
I swallow them dry first, then chase them with water. The cool liquid helps a little.
He watches me the whole time. Not possessive. Not yet. Just… watchful. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he looks away.
“You executed them,” I say quietly. “In the yard. I heard the shots.”
His jaw tightens.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“I did.”
He exhales through his nose.
“They were traitors. Planted. Working for Dante. Or someone pulling his strings.”
I look at him. Really look. There are shadows under his eyes. A fresh cut on his knuckle. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the bullets started flying.
“You killed them in front of everyone.”
“I had to.” His voice is flat. “Fear is the only thing that keeps rot from spreading.”
I swallow. “And you think that’s enough?”
“No. But it’s a start.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Thick. He reaches out, slowly and gives me time to pull away. I don’t. His fingers brush my cheek, thumb tracing the edge of a bruise that’s turning purple.
“I should have been there,” he says again.
The words sound like they’ve been carved out of him.
“When they opened fire. When you were bleeding out on my floor.”
“You were.” My voice cracks. “You killed the ones who did it.”
“Not fast enough.”
I cover his hand with mine.
“Stop.”
He looks at our joined hands like he doesn’t know how they got there.
“I can’t.” His thumb strokes my skin. “Not when it’s you.”
My heart stutters. I lean forward, slowly, carefully, and kiss him.
It’s soft at first. Tentative. Then he makes a low sound in his throat and the kiss turns hungry. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me steady. Careful of my injuries. Always careful now.
I pull at his shirt. He lets me tug it off. Tattoos everywhere, dark, intricate, scars woven through like silver threads. My fingers trace them. He shudders.
“Careful,” he murmurs against my lips.“I’m fine.”“You’re not.”
He kisses me deeper. Slower. His hand slips under the loose shirt they gave me in medical, palm flat against my stomach. He breaks the kiss to look at me.
“Tell me to stop,” he almost begs.
“Don’t.” I reply boldly.
A flicker of something raw crosses his face. Then he moves, slow, deliberate. Lifts the shirt over my head. Kisses the bandage on my shoulder. The curve of my collarbone. The tops of my breasts. Soft. Reverent.
When his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp. Fingers knot in his hair.He moves lower. Kisses every bruise. Every mark. When he reaches the bandage on my side, he pauses and looks up.
“Still good?”
I nod.
He hooks his fingers in my underwear. Drags them down and spread my thighs with careful hands.
Then his mouth is there.I cry out. His tongue is slow and patient, circling and teasing. One hand holds my hip steady so I don’t jar my ribs. The other slides up, two fingers pushing inside, curling, stroking.
I come fast and hard, my vision blurring and his name tearing out of my throat.
He doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, boneless.
Then he rises. Strips the rest of his clothes. His body is scarred, beautiful and dangerous.
He settles between my legs. One hand braces beside my head. The other guides himself.
“Eyes on me,” he growls.
I obey and watch him push in slowly. Inch by inch. Watching my face the whole time. I gasp at the stretch. The fullness.He stills when he’s deep. Forehead pressed to mine.
“Tell me to stop, please. I can't stop myself.”
“Don’t stop.”
He moves in slow thrusts. Deep and controlled. Every stroke drags against places that make me see stars. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight. Pins it above my head, gentle but firm.
“You’re safe,” he says on a thrust. “You’re mine.” Another thrust. “No one touches you again.”
I believe him for some reason.
When he comes, it’s with my name on a broken groan, his body shuddering, his face buried in my neck. He stays inside me until the aftershocks fade.Then he rolls to the side carefully and pulls me against his chest.
We lay there in comfortable silence, hearts thumping. My body hurts everywhere, but I don't mind.
“Do you really think Dante wanted to have me assassinated?” I ask.
He pauses. “It's a theory. But we did find some men that he had planted here.”
“I don't know what to believe anymore,” my voice breaks and the little girl in me that is scared of abandonment peaks her shameful head out.
“I won't ask you to believe me Mia. You should never trust anyone, only yourself and your gut. So that's what I'll tell you to do, just follow your gut and what you see. It'll lead you to the truth eventually.”
I turn my head to look at him. He's just laying and staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Why?” He asks, looking at me now.
“For being honest.”