Page 23 of Bound Wings
I take it, considering. This has dragged on too long already, and we've extended more patience than they fucking deserve. One last civil conversation for them to walk this back before I stop being reasonable about it doesn’t sound too bad.
"Schedule it," I order, finishing the whiskey in one go.
"On it." Ilya stands to leave, then pauses at the door. "Can I borrow your binoculars?"
I try to hold it in. I fail completely. I laugh until my ribs ache, and by the time I look up, he's standing there with his arms crossed, waiting me out.
I cross to my desk, yank open the second drawer, and toss them to him.
"I'd tell you to have fun, but it sounds like you already are." He flips me off on his way out.
Finally. Alone.
What's my girl doing right now? Still up in the apartment? Exploring some floor of this building?
I go looking, floor by floor, and find her in the central kitchen, sleeves shoved up, flour dusted halfway up one forearm, helping the kitchen staff prep for the dinner rush. Feeding this many mouths three times a day is hard work, and they need any help they can get. They're still visibly careful around her—my warning about what happens to anyone who upsets her hasn'texactly faded from memory—but somehow, my little social butterfly made herself worth the risk anyway. They're drawn to her even knowing one wrong word could cost them their lives.
I clear my throat.
"Nora. Come here."
She turns, and the second she sees me, her whole face lights up. I still don't understand how she ever convinced herself we were finished. She might not love what I do, or what I am, but we belong to each other, full stop, and she's already flourishing here exactly the way I knew she would.
"I can't right now, I'm covered in dough, my hands are sti—"
"Come. Here."
A few of the women go still, and the one nearest Nora elbows her gently, glancing at me like she's worried I'll put hands on my own woman if she defies me. I might get commanding. I might get possessive to the point of madness. I would never once raise a hand to her.
But I notice that they've grown protective of her. Which means, whether she believes it yet or not, my Bratva already loves her.
Nora rolls her eyes, but she washes her hands. Ada taps Nora's cheek and murmurs something close to her ear before she goes.
What was that?
I don't like a single word passing between anyone and my girl that I don't get to hear.
She dries her hands and crosses to me, and the moment she's close enough, I pull her in and kiss her. She melts against me the exact same way she always does, every single time.
"Missed you," I murmur into her brown hair.
"Missed you too. Still mad at you, though," she says into my chest.
"Why are you still so set on going back to that job? Everything I have is already yours. There isn't a single thing in this world you could want that you wouldn't already have."
"I like having something that's mine, Slava. Something that isn't just—this. You." She gestures vaguely at the room.
My brows pull together. "I don't function independently of you either. My own breathing depends on you being in the room. If I wake up and don’t find you in bed next to me, the whole day starts wrong. I need a fix of you all day long or I lose my mind by noon. Tell me you don't feel even a fraction of that."
Her eyes soften, and the kiss she presses to my mouth answers me. Then, against my lips: "Fine. You talked your way into PTO. But once it's done, I go back on my own. I mean it, Slava. Please."
I hate that idea. But she said please, and there is genuinely nothing I wouldn't hand her when she asks like that.
"Fine," I say through my teeth, catching the women in my periphery pretending very hard not to watch this entire exchange.
"You need to go back to work," she tells me, patting my chest.
"Or," I raise a brow, "we go back to bed."
