The trouble with a yacht is that there’s nowhere to run.


    After the way Oleg tore into me earlier, I should be plotting my escape. But unless I want to drown on my way back to drynd, on this yacht is where I’ll stay.


    I could find one of the many empty guest rooms and hide out. If I was careful, Oleg and I could coexist out here for weeks without ever crossing paths.


    That’s exactly what he wanted, after all, isn’t it?


    To push me away.


    To handle whatever is bothering him alone.


    Oleg wanted to hurt me so I’d leave the way everyone else has, and if I give him what he wants, I won’t be giving him what he needs.


    Which is why I’m scooping risotto into two bowls, trying to keep my hands from trembling. I didn’t just cook for him—definitely not because he said it was all I was good for.


    I’m doing it for us. For this fragile thing growing between us that has nothing to do with contracts or obligations.


    I find him on the bow, a dark silhouette against the star-scattered horizon. His broad shoulders are rigid with tension as I approach.


    Part of me thinks this was a stupid idea and I should scurry back below deck and eat risotto alone in the dark of my cabin, but I force myself forward.


    I extend the bowl like a peace offering and he eyes it warily, eyebrow arched.


    “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”


    His jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t me you if it was.”


    Well, that’s progress. It’s a small win, but I’m going to need more.


    “Is that supposed to be an apology? Because if it is, you need to work on your delivery.” I take a step away from him, tearing my eyes from the sharp line of his jaw. I can’t let myself soften until he makes the effort and meets me halfway.


    But that doesn’t mean I won’t nudge the door open.


    “Did your presentation this morning not go well?”


    He stiffens. “How did you?—”


    “The walls at your penthouse aren’t soundproof, Oleg. And contrary to what you might think, I’m notpletely self-absorbed. I know today was important.”


    He takes a bite of risotto, chewing slowly. The moonlight catches the scars on his face, making them look deeper, older somehow.


    “Boris sabotaged me. He hacked my servers, doctored my numbers, and made me look like a fucking amateur in front of the board.”


    The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. “And your mother?”


    “Abstained from voting. As usual.” Heughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The great Oksana Pavlov, forever refusing to choose between her son and her own neck.”


    “I’m sorry.”


    The words feel inadequate. The person who should love him more than anyone in the world won’t stand behind him. I don’t know how to apologize for that.


    “Don’t be. It’s not your fault my family’s fucked up.” He sets the bowl down, turning to face me fully. “Which is why I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. The things I said?—”


    “—were cruel,” I finish for him. “And hurtful. And unnecessary.”


    “I know.” His eyes lock with mine. “There’s so much at stake here. If I don’t secure my position, if I don’t prove I can lead both thepany and the Bratva…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “You would be— Our child would have no protection. No legacy. Nothing but enemies waiting to strike.”


    The weight of what he’s saying settles over me like a shroud.


    This isn’t just about business or pride.


    It’s about survival. About ensuring our future child has a ce in this dangerous world he inhabits.


    But understanding doesn’t equal forgiveness. Not yet.


    “I get it,” I say quietly. “But if you ever speak to me like that again, I’m gone. Contract or no contract.”


    His eyes darken, jaw working as he processes my ultimatum.


    Good. Let him stew in it.


    “I grew up with nothing,” I continue, forcing steel into my voice. “No protection. No legacy. Just me and Sydney against the world. So I understand wanting to give our child everything. But I won’t let them grow up watching their father treat their mother like she’s worthless.”


    He flinches. Actually flinches. “That’s not?—”


    “What you meant? Maybe not. But it’s what you did.” I wrap my arms around myself, shivering even though the night isn’t particrly cold. “You made me feel this small, Oleg.”


    Like I was no better than my mother, falling for the same cruel, handsome men again and again.


    “Fuck. I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” He scrubs a hand over his face. An awkward pause follows before he picks up his risotto again, takes another bite. “This is good.”


    “Don’t change the subject.”


    “I’m not. I’m acknowledging that I was wrong earlier. About your cooking. About… everything.” He sets the bowl down again, shifts closer. Not touching, but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “When Boris sabotages me, it’s not just about business. It’s personal. He’s trying to prove I’m still that scared, helpless kid who couldn’t save his sister. Who doesn’t deserve to lead.”


    My heart clenches. “Is that what you believe?”


    “Some days.” His voice drops to a whisper. “The days when everything goes wrong and I can feel control slipping through my fingers… Those are the days I be like him. When I’m the Beast everyone expects me to be.”


    I want to reach for him, to smooth away the pain etched in his features. But we’re not there yet. “You’re not a beast, Oleg. But you’re not invincible, either. None of us are.”


    He turns to me, moonlight catching the gold in his eyes. “How do you do that?”


    “Do what?”


    “See through all my bullshit. Cut straight to the heart of things.” His mouth quirks up at the corner. “That’s why I like having you around. Not for the food. Or the fucking. Though both of those things are good, to be clear. It’s because you see.”


    I’ve spent my whole life watching people hide their pain. My mother. Sydney. Even myself, more often than not.


    But I can only shrug.


    “Maybe I just pay attention.”


    His hand moves toward mine, then stops, hovering in the space between us.


    Testing.


    Waiting.


    “I don’t deserve your attention,” he says roughly. “Or your understanding.”


    “Probably not.” I fight the urge to close the distance between our hands. “But you have it anyway.”


    We eat in silence, listening to the water and the soft purr of the engine. The quiet is easy, and no words need to be exchanged when he takes my bowl from my hands, lifts me to my feet, and leads me down the stairs to his cabin.


    His room smells like him, woodsy and sharp. I fall back on the bed, leaning on my elbows as he stops in front of the mirror.


    He catches my eye in the reflection. “I know we’ve made up, but we’re not fucking again, are we?”


    I pinch my bottom lip between my teeth. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs from the first two rounds already. One more might push me over the edge.


    “I mean, we could, but…”


    “I’m tired,” he announces, letting me off the hook and reaching for a tube on the countertop. “I could just go to sleep. With you.”


    This doesn’t mean anything. It’s still just a contract.


    I shove that voice aside and smile. “Okay.”


    Oleg focuses on his own reflection, unscrewing the lid of what I realize after a few seconds is some kind of cream for his scars. I’ve never seen him apply it before—never even seen the tube.


    He squeezes some into his palm and begins massaging it onto his face. I take it as a good sign that he’s willing to do it in front of me now.


    “I’ve never seen you do that before. How often do you have to use it?”


    “Twice daily, in theory. In reality, I do it when I remember.”


    I frown. “And how often do you remember?”


    He shrugs. “Couple times a week.”


    “Oleg!”


    “They’re not going anywhere. The cream isn’t a magic potion. It just helps with mobility.”


    Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet and reaching for the bottle. “Give it to me.”


    His entire body goes rigid. “What are you doing?”


    “If you won’t take care of yourself properly, I will.” I keep my voice firm. “Consider it part of our arrangement.”


    “That’s not in the contract.”


    “Neither was you being an asshole earlier, but here we are.” I wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”


    For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. His expression darkens, that familiar wall threatening to m down between us. But then, slowly, he extends the bottle.


    My hands tremble slightly as I squeeze cream onto my palm. I’m not sure I thought this all the way through. This feels monumental somehow—more intimate than sex, more vulnerable than any conversation we’ve had.


    I reach for his face, hesitating just before contact. “Is this okay?”


    He nods once. I touch his scars with feather-light pressure, expecting him to pull away.


    Instead, he leans into my hand, eyes drifting shut.


    My throat tightens. How long has it been since someone touched him like this? With care instead of clinical detachment or pent-up revulsion?


    “Tell me about Oriana,” I whisper, keeping my strokes gentle and even. “What was she like?”


    His eyes snap open. “Why?”


    “Because she’s part of you. Because these scars are connected to her memory. Because I want to know.”


    His breath hitches. For a long while, there’s only the sound of waves and the feeling of rough scar tissue beneath my fingertips.


    “She was… fearless,” he finally says. “I was always one to look before I leapt. She just dove in headfirst. Used to drive our mother crazy. And keep me busy.”


    “You took care of her?”


    Something dark passes across his face, but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time.


    “I tried. I was only older by a few minutes, but I was still her older brother. It was my job to take care of her.”


    I smooth my hand over his cheek, trying to imagine him without the scars, but I can’t. I’m not sure I even want to.


    “And whose job was it to take care of you?” I whisper.


    His throat works up and down, swallowing. Then he tugs my wrist, drawing me closer until we’re pressed together. My heart thunders against my ribs as his other hand cups my face.


    “I’m not good at this, Sutton. At… letting people in. I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again,” he says roughly. His thumb traces my bottom lip. “But I want to try. With you.”


    “I’m not good at this, either.” I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”


    “Maybe that’s why this works.” His lips brush mine, so faint it’s almost unreal. “We recognize the damage in each other.”


    The kiss deepens, and I let myself melt into it, into him.


    For now, right here, there are no contracts or obligations. No family legacies or corporate takeovers.


    Just us.


    Two broken pieces.


    One whole thing.<hr>


    The morning sun glints off the boats in the marina and res off the pavement. After three days alone on the open water, being back on drynd almost feels ustrophobic.


    Oleg and I should’ve had more than enough of each other on the yacht, but he pulls me against his chest and my body responds instantly. I arch against him, hands fisting in the warm fabric of his t-shirt.


    “I’lle with you.” His voice is gruff, possessive.


    “You can’t leave your car here.”


    “Fine. Then youe with me.”


    Iugh and press a kiss to his jaw. “I can’t leave my car here, either. We’ll see each other in ten minutes.”


    He growls, making his displeasure known. “Too long.”


    My insides are in a twist. Every second in his arms makes it harder and harder for me to keep this rtionship in its proper ce. I want him so badly I’d let him take me right here on the asphalt…


    … which is exactly why I need ten minutes to myself. I need to breathe and get my feet back on solid ground.


    Literally.


    “I need to make a grocery run. We have nothing to eat at the penthouse.”


    “Who needs food when I have you?”


    His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my face up for a deep kiss. When he finally releases me, I’m breathless.


    “Twenty minutes, tops,” I gasp, sliding away from him.


    He looks like he might toss me over his shoulder and carry me with him. Instead, his eyes narrow as if in warning.


    “Drive safe.”


    I smile and get behind the wheel, watching him stride towards his car in the rearview mirror. My body still hums from his touch as I turn out of the lot.


    It feels good being alone. No Uri shadowing my every move. No security detail tracking my location.


    Just me, running a simple, normal errand like a simple, normal person.


    I’m driving past Pavlov Industries when a Ford Mustang peels out of the executive lot.


    I slow down just a tad as it sails past me. Enough to see…


    Oh, fuck. The sight of white-blonde hair sends tendrils of dread racing up and down my spine.


    Drew.


    I park the car and pull out my phone, hands shaking as I type.


    Did I just see you driving around town? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Vegas?


    The sea’s magic feels very far away now, reced by a familiar, creeping dread.


    Whatever peace Oleg and I found on that yacht, I have a feeling it’s about to be shattered.