Page 71 of The King's Pawn
I want him.
I think I might be starting to need him, and that scares me more than anything he’s ever done to me. The grief is still there, waiting in the shadows. The anger too. But right now, in this hazy afterglow, they feel distant.
Muted.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something dangerously close to peace. I don’t know how I’m ever going to reconcile that with any of this. But for now, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts before the last of my resolve completely crumbles.
14
SASHA
Ishouldn’t have touched her.
That is the first thought that greets me when my eyes drag open in the thin, colorless light just before dawn. It lands like a fist to the sternum—hard and unforgiving and absolutely deserved. I’m still lying beside her when the memory clears enough for the consequences to take shape.
Alina sleeps curled against my side, her head tucked into the hollow beneath my jaw, her cheek pressed to my shoulder as if that spot has always belonged to her. One of her legs is tangled with mine, anchoring us together. Her breath ghosts warmly and evenly against my throat, stirring the fine hairs there with each exhale. Her hair spills across the pillow behind her like a dark halo.
She looks beautiful… and peaceful.
Too peaceful for the hell I’ve dragged her into.
For a moment—a dangerous, unguarded one—a version of myself I barely recognize wants to lift my hand and trace the lineof her jaw, to commit this quiet peace to memory. To believe this calm could be permanent, that it could be something other than a lie I allowed myself to believe.
The smarter part of me, the one forged in blood and long nights of necessary cruelty, knows better. That part tells me to move and disentangle myself carefully, to put distance between us before this becomes something I cannot control. Before it costs more than I can afford to lose.
But I don’t move.
Not right away.
I can’t.
Pale light slips through the heavy curtains in narrow bands, cutting across her bare shoulder, catching on the delicate rise and fall of her chest. There’s a faint crease between her brows even in sleep, like her mind refuses to fully let go. The sight twists low and unwelcome in my chest.
Control has always been my strongest weapon. The ability to step back, to detach, to make decisions that others can’t is what I’ve built an empire on, buried rivals with and survived long enough to become a thing people fear.
Last night, I let that very piece of me slip through my fingers.
She shifts slightly in her sleep, her grip tightening around me for a heartbeat as if she senses the space between us widening even in rest. Her forehead presses more firmly into my collarbone, a soft sound escaping her lips, an echo of a dream.
I go still.
The instinct to protect is immediate and violent, flaring so hot in my chest, it almost makes me laugh at myself. As if anything could touch her here without going through me first. As if I haven’t already been the one to hurt her the most.
Weak, a voice inside me sneers.
I swallow and breathe through it, counting her breaths until my pulse slows. This… this is closeness, an illusion of safety. It is not something I can allow myself to crave or want. Not with Nikolai breathing down my neck measuring my reactions, waiting for me to slip.
If they realize she matters… they will turn her into a weapon that I will not survive unscathed facing.
Carefully, painstakingly, I begin to shift out from under her. I slide my shoulder an inch away, easing her weight off me without waking her. She murmurs, her lashes fluttering, but she doesn’t open her eyes. When I finally manage to free myself, I replace my warmth with the blanket, tucking it around her with an instinctive gentleness I don’t stop to question.
I sit for a moment on the edge of the bed and look back at her. She curls inward immediately, chasing the last of my heat without knowing why it’s gone. The sight settles into me like a bruise.
This cannot happen again.
I stand and dress quietly. I hate this. Hate the way my chest tightens at the thought of needing anything, least of all a woman who was once supposed to be a tool to use against her father and is now rapidly changing into something else.
Behind me, the sheets rustle.
