Bound by the Blood

STAY

POV: Sasha

---

His apartment was nothing like I'd imagined.

I'd spent months building a profile of Marco Ricci. I knew his routines, his habits, the restaurants he frequented, the gun he carried, the way he took his coffee. But I'd never imagined his home.

It was warm.

That was the first word that came to mind. Warm. Soft lamps, leather couches, shelves of books. A fire burning in the fireplace. Photographs on the walls – not of his family, those were hidden away – but of landscapes. Mountains. Oceans. Places he'd never been but wanted to go.

"I expected something different," I said.

"Cold? Empty?" He hung his coat by the door. "Antonio says the same thing."

"Antonio's been here?"

"He's my best friend. He's been everywhere." Marco gestured to the couch. "Sit. I'll get you a drink."

I sat. The couch was deep, comfortable. I could smell him on it – leather and something darker, something that made my chest ache.

He came back with two glasses of whiskey, handed me one, sat beside me. Not close. Close enough.

"I don't usually bring people here," he said.

"I don't usually go home with men I just met."

"You've been watching me for weeks. I'd say we've met."

I almost smiled. "Fair point."

We drank in silence. The fire crackled. Outside, the city hummed.

"Why me?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You could have any woman. Why did you bring me here?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "Because you're the first person in eighteen years who looked at me like I wasn't a monster."

"I looked at you like a man."

"Exactly."

He shifted closer. His hand found mine on the couch – not grabbing, just resting. His thumb traced circles on my palm.

I should have stopped this. I should have made an excuse, left, kept my distance. He was a target. He was the enemy. He was the man my uncle wanted dead.

But his hand was warm. And I was so tired of being cold.

"Marco—"

"I know." He met my eyes. "I know you're lying to me. I don't know about what yet. But I know."

My heart stopped. "Then why—"

"Because when you look at me, I feel like I'm not lying to myself." He touched my face. "Because I've spent eighteen years alone, and I'm tired of it. Because you're beautiful and dangerous and I can't stay away from you."

"You don't even know me."

"Then let me."

He kissed me.

It wasn't gentle – not demanding either. Somewhere in between. A question, asked with his lips. A question I shouldn't answer.

I answered anyway.

I kissed him back, and the world fell away. His hands in my hair. My hands on his chest. The taste of whiskey and him and something I'd never let myself want.

He pulled back, breathing hard. "Sasha."

"Don't think," I whispered. "Just be here. With me."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he stood, pulled me up, led me to his bedroom.

---

The sheets were cool against my skin. His hands were warm.

I'd been with men before – targets, distractions, men I used to get what I needed. But this was different. He was different.

He touched me like I was precious. Like I was something worth protecting. Like he'd been waiting for me his whole life without knowing it.

And for a few hours, I forgot who I was.

I forgot the mission. I forgot Dmitri. I forgot the lies I'd told and the ones I was still hiding.

There was only Marco. His voice, rough in my ear. His hands, learning my body. His eyes, dark with something that looked like love.

I knew it wasn't love. It couldn't be.

But lying there afterward, tangled in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear – I let myself pretend.

Just for a little while.

---

I woke before dawn.

Old habits. I never slept through the night. Too many years of training, of waiting for someone to come for me.

Marco was still asleep, his face peaceful in a way I'd never seen. The hard lines were softer. The shadows were gone.

He looked like the man he might have been, if the Russians hadn't taken everything from him.

I watched him for a long time.

Then I slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and stood at the bedroom door.

I should leave. I should disappear, change my name, run before I did something unforgivable.

But my feet wouldn't move.

"What are you thinking?" His voice was rough with sleep.

I turned. He was propped on one elbow, watching me.

"That you should let me go."

"I should." He didn't move. "I'm not going to."

"Marco—"

"Stay." He held out his hand. "Just for today. Just for a few more hours. Stay."

I looked at his hand. At his face. At the man who had every reason to hate me and didn't even know it.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I took his hand.

He pulled me back into bed, wrapped his arms around me, pressed his lips to my hair.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For not running."

I closed my eyes.

I didn't sleep.

But I stayed.