“Because you are,” she says quietly. “To me.”
Three simple words that strike deeper than any weapon. The implication hangs between us, charged with everything unspoken, everything we’ve been circling for weeks.
“Mila,” I begin, her name a warning and a prayer in my mouth.
“I know what I’m saying,” she interrupts, that stubborn determination flashing in her eyes. “I know the cost. I’ve analyzed it from every angle because that’s what I do.”
“And?” I press, needing to hear her speak the truth we’ve both been avoiding.
“And despite everything logical and rational,” she continues, her thumb tracing fire across my knuckles, “despite your past and my professional ethics and all the reasons this shouldn’thappen…I choose you,” she repeats, unflinching. “All of you, Yakov. Even the parts that aren’t easy to love.”
The confession steals my breath. I should discourage her. Should remind her of the danger, the impossibility, the thousand reasons why linking herself to me can only end in pain.
Instead, I find myself rising, moving around the table without releasing her hand, drawn by something stronger than logic. I pull her to her feet, eliminating the last barrier between us.
“Say it again,” I demand, voice dropping to a whisper as I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against the warmth of her skin.
“I choose you,” she says, unflinching as always, her body swaying slightly toward mine as if drawn by the same force.
Heat floods through me, desire and something far more dangerous tangling together until I can’t separate them.
“I don’t deserve this,” I tell her, even as my hands move to frame her face, thumbs tracing the delicate line of her jaw. “Don’t deserve you.”
“It’s not about deserving,” she says, her hands sliding up my chest to rest over my heart, which beats too fast, too hard beneath her touch. “It’s about choice. And I’ve made mine.”
Her lips part, an invitation I can’t refuse. I claim her mouth with mine, tasting coffee and desire and possibility on her tongue. She responds immediately, arms winding around my neck, body pressing against me with an urgency that matches my own.
The kiss deepens, growing desperate as months of restraint and carefully maintained boundaries dissolve into need. My hands slide down her back, pulling her hips in. Her soft gasp vibrates against my lips, sending a surge of heat through me.
“We’re outside,” she whispers, even as her fingers thread through my hair, keeping me close. “The guards?—”
“Let them watch,” I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. “Let everyone see that you’re mine.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, her eyes dark with desire but clear with purpose. “And you’re mine,” she says, not a question but a claim. “Remember that, Yakov. This goes both ways.”
The declaration—so simple, so profound in its implications—steals what little restraint I have left. I want to take her here, now, claim her in ways that leave no doubt about what burns between us.
“Tonight,” I promise against her lips. “My room.”
Her smile against my mouth is answer enough. When we finally separate, both breathing harder, her hair slightly mussed from my hands, cheeks flushed with desire, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“We should finish our coffee,” she says, practicality reasserting itself though her eyes still burn with promises of what will come later. “Before it gets cold.”
I follow her back to our chairs, though I position mine closer to hers, unwilling to surrender the connection between us. As we resume our conversation, discussing lighter topics with the ease of those who understand each other deeply, I find myself experiencing something I’d thought lost forever.
Hope. Not just for freedom or redemption or survival. But for a future worth building. A life worth living. A love worth every risk it entails.
And for the first time since I held Ana as she died, I allow myself to believe that such a future might be possible, not despite who I am, but because of who I’m becoming with Mila beside me.
One choice at a time.
32
AFTER THE CAGE
YAKOV
Heavy footsteps approach—four, maybe five men. The sharp click on marble is too precise for soldiers.
