Chapter Eight – A Blade Between Us
Anna
She didn't know what woke her at first.
Silence, maybe.
A kind of silence that didn't belong here.
It was past midnight, the air cold through the windowpanes. She sat up slowly in the massive bed, every muscle tensed. Something was wrong. The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Even the ever-present hum of the cameras, the guards' muffled movements—gone.
She moved to the door, pressed her ear against it.
Nothing.
Her fingers itched for the hairpin still hidden in the drawer, but instinct told her this wasn't the time to run. This was something else.
A shadow crossed under the door.
She stumbled back just as the lock clicked.
Not the usual sharp, precise snap from Ivan's key. This was slower. Hesitant. The door creaked open.
Anna froze.
It wasn't Ivan.
The man who stepped in wore black—military black—but there was no Astra insignia on his shoulder. No earpiece. His eyes swept the room coldly, landing on her like she was merchandise.
"What—who are you?" she demanded.
He didn't answer.
She backed away, calculating distance, breath caught in her throat. She had no weapon. No plan. Just a locked drawer and the wrong kind of fear rising like bile.
"I wouldn't do that," a voice snapped behind him.
Ivan.
Sharp. Dangerous. Alive with fury.
The intruder turned, but it was too late.
Ivan was a blur of movement—no longer the cold, untouchable man who watched from a distance, but something lethal and fast. He struck hard, a knife in his hand so quickly Anna didn't even register where it came from.
The man dropped before he could cry out.
Anna stared, frozen in place.
Ivan stood over the body, breathing hard, blade dripping red.
Not a monster. Not a man.
Something in between.
---
Ivan
He hadn't expected the breach.
Not here. Not yet.
The fact that someone made it past his security meant one thing: the cracks were wider than he thought.
And someone wanted Anna dead.
Not stolen. Not ransomed.
Dead.
His rage was silent, controlled—but it burned deep. He hadn't realized until tonight just how personal this had become. Seeing her face when that bastard entered her room—seeing the fear, the helplessness he swore would never touch her again—it twisted something inside him.
He turned toward her now, still gripping the blade.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She shook her head, mute.
"Anna. Are you hurt?"
"No," she whispered. "But you… you killed him."
"I saved your life."
She looked down at the body. Blood was starting to pool into the carpet.
Her voice shook. "Who was he?"
"Someone who shouldn't have gotten in."
"That's not an answer."
He didn't have one.
He moved to her slowly, knife still in hand. She flinched—but didn't back away.
"I didn't want you to see this part," he murmured.
"Why? It's part of who you are, isn't it?"
He didn't deny it.
Her eyes lifted to his, searching. "Was this about me? Or was it a message to you?"
Ivan considered that. The breach, the timing, the target—it was personal.
But it wasn't aimed at Anna.
It was aimed at him.
And that changed everything.
---
Anna
She sat in Ivan's office now, wrapped in a long sweater one of the housekeepers had brought. The blood had been cleaned. The body removed. Everything in the hall was immaculate again, as if death hadn't visited hours ago.
But Anna could still feel it.
It lived under her skin now.
Ivan stood near the window, phone in hand, barking low orders in Russian she couldn't decipher. His posture was tight, controlled, but she saw the tremor in his hand when he ended the call.
"Who was he?" she asked again. "I deserve to know."
Ivan turned to her. "A contract killer. Hired. Well-trained. He knew where your room was. He knew how to bypass one of my outer systems."
"Which means someone betrayed you."
He nodded once. "Yes."
"And they wanted me dead."
Another nod.
She swallowed. "Why?"
"I'm not sure yet. But it won't happen again."
He crossed to her then and knelt in front of the chair, suddenly not the man who haunted her dreams—but the one who had shielded her with his own body.
"I'm moving you to the upper floors," he said. "Guards I handpick. No one gets near you without my word."
"Is this protection, or imprisonment?" she asked, softly.
His jaw tensed. "Both."
Her voice trembled despite herself. "You can't just protect me with violence and call it love."
He stilled.
"I didn't say I loved you," he said.
"You didn't have to."
Her hand reached out, resting lightly against his. Not gripping. Just touching.
"I'm not asking for your soul, Ivan. I'm asking for truth."
His fingers closed around hers slowly, deliberately.
"I don't have much left to give."
"Then give me what's left."
---
Ivan
Her touch undid him more than her words.
All his life, he had built a kingdom of control. Men feared him. Women obeyed. But Anna saw him—and still reached out.
Even now. Even after blood and death.
He wanted to keep her safe. Not just alive. Safe in a way he didn't even understand fully. He didn't know what to call it yet—this heat in his chest, this drive to protect her, even from himself.
She had become a mirror he couldn't look away from.
"I don't want to be the man who locks you in a tower," he said.
"Then don't be."
"It's not that simple."
Her eyes didn't flinch. "Yes, it is."
He stood and pulled her to her feet, hands on her arms—not restraining, just grounding himself. "You make me forget what I am."
"No," she said. "I remind you of who you could be."
He kissed her then.
Not hard. Not possessive.
Just… real.
It was brief. Soft. But it broke something open between them.
When he pulled back, her eyes were shining.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For saving me."
"You're not just something I saved," he said. "You're someone I want."
And for the first time, she didn't resist.