Intimacy Renewed

I pause at my door. The window is shattered, the curtain ripped. Two housekeepers move briskly around the room, stuffing fresh linens into corners still stinking of bleach.
Behind me, Tarmo says—too gruff, almost harsh:
“My room. Now.”
I don’t argue. I’m beyond protest.

His room is quiet, untouched. The lamps wash the space in dim amber. He closes the door, steers me to the edge of the bed. His hands—gentle, unhurried—work at my torn pyjamas, the fabric sliding off me piece by piece, like feathers plucked from a wounded bird.
When he reaches the sleeve thick with blood, he falters. His voice trembles.
“This part. Let me.”
He eases it down, eyes fixed on me, checking every flicker of pain across my face.

The bathroom steams. He tests the water, steady, deliberate. I feel his hands at my hips as he slips away the last of my clothes. For all his size, his movements are patient, careful, never demanding. I lean against his shoulder, skin bare now, needing the weight of his steadiness more than I want to admit.

The shower burns, then soothes. Water pounds the tiles, hissing against me. His hands guide the soap across my shoulders, rinsing away blood, dirt, fear. When he reaches my arm, he takes a cloth, circling carefully around the mark. The gold ink glitters under his touch, too vivid, too alive.
“We’ll watch it every hour,” he murmurs. “Hasna, Zürich—both are working on what’s inside it.”

My eyes shut. I let the water hide my tears, the quaking fury that sparks whenever I look down at my arm—burned but not broken, branded with a scar that already glimmers like it knows it belongs to someone else.

When he’s done, he wraps me in a towel and lifts me back to his bed. I am too tired to resist, too tired to hold myself upright, so I let him set me down. My hair bleeds onto the pillow. My breath comes slower.

He brushes a wet strand from my forehead. His voice is low, close to breaking.
“We’ll find a way to erase it. You’re not their mark. Not ever.”

I manage half a crooked smile. My fingers find the stubble along his jaw, and I hear my own voice, small but wry:
“Tell me that in the morning. I want to believe someone.”

He lies down beside me—not pressing, not taking, only a quiet arm across my waist. His eyes stay on the shimmer of gold etched in my skin, a glow that catches the last light as dusk dies into another uncertain dawn.

And tonight—
for once—
sleep is no intrusion.
It is truce.

The Message

My phone buzzes just as Elena’s breathing steadies beside me. The encrypted message appears:

MIKAEL: Package retrieved. Clients are satisfied with the response time.

ME: Interesting timing for staff rotation.

MIKAEL: Standard audit. You know how thorough headquarters can be.

ME: Of course. Always concerned about efficiency.

A pause. Then:

MIKAEL: Some inefficiencies were noted in your recent… consulting work. Clients prefer discretion.

ME: My methods remain effective.

MIKAEL: Your visibility has increased. Are they withdrawing their account?

ME: Reviewing terms. Tonight was a performance evaluation.

My jaw tightens. Elena shifts beside me.

ME: Evaluation results?

MIKAEL: Mixed. Response capability is impressive. Risk assessment questionable.

ME: Personal investments shouldn’t affect business operations.

MIKAEL: Shouldn’t. But do. Competitors are particularly concerned about your Estonian operations.

ME: Local community development. Standard corporate responsibility.

MIKAEL: They view it as market interference. Prefer status quo.

ME: And our separate joint venture?

MIKAEL: Still confidential. But increased scrutiny affects all operations.

ME: Our candidate?

MIKAEL: Still viable. But window narrowing. Months, not years.

ME: Can you manage the transition period?

MIKAEL: If operational security improves. Tonight’s complications were… educational for all parties.

ME: Message received.

MIKAEL: Good. Because the next audit may be more thorough. I may have less advance notice.

ME: Understood.

MIKAEL: Your personal portfolio – liquidating or doubling down?

I look at Elena’s sleeping face, the gold mark still visible on her arm.

ME: Diversifying. But maintaining key positions.

MIKAEL: Risky strategy in volatile markets.

ME: Some assets are worth the risk.

MIKAEL: Competitors are counting on that sentiment.

ME: Let them.

A long pause.

MIKAEL: Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. Usual location. Bring quarterly projections.

ME: Confirmed.

The conversation ends. I stare at the screen for a moment before deleting the exchange and setting the phone aside.

The message is clear: Moscow is aware of Elena’s interest in Narva and dislikes it. Mikael has given me the warning he could within the constraints of his position. The bigger game remains hidden, but the increased scrutiny makes everything more dangerous.

I watch Elena’s face in the dim light, her features soft with exhaustion. The gold mark on her arm catches the lamplight like a brand, a reminder of how exposed we both are. My hand hovers over her shoulder but doesn’t touch—afraid to wake her, afraid to acknowledge how much deeper I’ve pulled her into this than either of us planned.

Reclaiming Agency

Grey dawn slips through the curtains, grey as bruise, gold as fever. I lie behind her, counting the pattern of her breaths—each one a minor miracle after last night. Elena’s skin is mapped with the residue of violence: that gold mark catching the light, a reminder of what I almost lost. I never thought I’d grow superstitious, but here I am, half-believing that if I don’t move, the world will stay suspended a little longer.

My hand drifts over her ribs, warm beneath my palm. There’s a pulse there—hers, mine—indistinguishable. I press my nose into her hair. I’m no rescuer, never have been. Survival is angles, not altruism.
With Elena, the calculation slips. Power, mine, has always meant keeping the upper hand, jaws bared, discipline absolute.
But she’s the only appetite that costs me discipline. Twice now, I let myself breach the lines, gave in for minutes, then rebuilt the barricade.
There’s no hero here—just a mongrel haunted by want. Every time I touch her, I lose leverage. Every time I walk away, I count the loss.

She undoes me, not with weakness, but with proof that desire is chaos I can’t absorb into the plan. My body aches with everything I haven’t said, with how long I’ve tried to keep myself on the proper line. But something in me snaps the lock.

I’ve told myself not to cross again. Professional, ruthless, always in control—need is the only weakness I’ve barred behind iron routines. But the aftertaste of fear, the sight of her here—alive, unbroken—shatters what’s left of that discipline. I ache, fiercely, as if my body remembers what my mind tried to forget: she could have slipped away. I want to claim her back, make life louder than dread.

I pull her into the curve of me, chest to her back, my hand gliding over her belly before I still myself. She shifts, half-conscious. She’s warm, open. I ease inside, breath held until I bottom out, hardly believing it’s real. The heat of her pulls me in, slow at first, then faster, sharper—the need so keen it almost feels like pain.

She sighs, arching faintly in her sleep. Even half-dreaming, she meets me: wariness and longing knotted tight. I steady her in my arm, steady myself.

When she stirs awake—eyes flashing, mouth ready to wound—her first words cut like a blade.
“Can a kidnap victim not sleep undisturbed?” she mutters. “Or is this your idea of physical therapy? Next time, just wake me with coffee, not your cock.”

Something cracks in me. I laugh—short, sharp, teeth grazing her neck. “Shut up,” I rasp against her skin, her hair fire in my lungs. “You open your mouth and it’s over. Your voice—undoes me.”

My hips find their rhythm, slow enough to feel everything. One hand squeezes her breast; the other holds her hip against me, an anchor in a dissolving world. Every movement is negotiation—fear, hunger, her bravery; how much to lose, how much to dare.

She tightens around me, grinding back with her own need. A hoarse laugh slips from her—mockery beneath which there’s surrender. “You’re making a mess of my dignity,” she breathes. “Keep going.”

Everything I’ve tried to bury ignites. Inside her, the ache of the last day sharpens—fear, adrenaline, desire fused into urgency. I’m too close, stupidly close, but fight for control. I want this to last, to prove I can keep her—not only with threats and steel, but with the only human claim left.

Sweat beads down my face. I bury it against her neck, and for a moment the world collapses into warmth, into breaking and binding, her hand tightening over mine as our bodies move. When release tears through me—silent, helpless—it feels both like ruin and reprieve. I hold her as if the world could end on the next breath.

For a long while, we say nothing. The silence feels earned, fragile.

She draws my hand higher, presses a kiss into the knuckles. Her voice has the rasp of old whiskey.
“You know,” she says, smiling wryly, “you rescue me twice and think you can get away with anything.”

Her smile is defiant, exquisite. Alive.

We lie tangled in the slow hush after, reluctant to move, caught in the magnetic drag of skin against skin. I slip free, careful, then shift my weight above her, bracing my arms at either side of her shoulders—close enough to taste her breath, far enough to see her whole.

I let my eyes roam, deliberate, as though memorising her for the first time. The shock-blue of her eyes threaded with lightning-gold. Hair pale enough to blaze white in morning light, loose strands catching against freckles scattered across brow and collarbone. Sun-browned skin soft against my hands. And there—the gold tattoo at her forearm, marker of survival, warning of pursuit.

She doesn’t look away. Her gaze travels me in return: my face too long fixed in guard, eyes darker now in the dawn, hair sun-burnished at the edges, silver whispers at temples and beard. I see her clock the scars, the bulk I’ve carried through fire and years, the mouth softened now to something dangerously close to unguarded. Her fingers trail my ribs, counting breaths I didn’t know she was keeping.

Desire stirs again—hungrier, but softer for coming after release. I don’t just take this time; I hold still, let her read the question in my eyes.

Her smile cuts through me—all wicked invitation, laced with daring. “God, yes. And this time—awake. Even if your bedside manner’s still halfway to barbaric.”

I enter her slowly. Every inch asks, every shiver answers. Her hands drag me closer, her laughter breaks and reshapes into gasp. It isn’t gentler—it’s fiercer, steadied only by restraint, by the weight of how near I came to losing her.

I breathe against her ear, unsteady. “Don’t say a word. If you do, I’ll break.”
She bites my lip instead, hips lifting to demand everything. Nothing left to hide. Nothing left to bargain but rhythm, touch, and the fragile sanctuary we carve out of loss.

For an aching moment, there’s no past, no future. Just her body beneath mine, pulse against pulse, her hands knotted in my hair. Mercy dressed in nerve and ragged breath.

The knock snaps it.

A jarring sound at the door, wrong note in the hush. At first it doesn’t register—I try to push it out, pretend it’s nothing—but the rhythm falters. I freeze. Her body stiffens. Heat turns cold on my skin.

Second knock. Louder. Too deliberate. My jaw sets—security should have swept this floor.
Her eyes flick to mine, alert, more fear in them than last night because this danger is faceless.

Then the buzz—my phone vibrating sharply against the nightstand.
Her heart is thudding; I can feel it in the air as much as I hear my own.

“Is that—” she starts. The question dies in her throat.
I snatch it up now, really beyond irritation, before I can utter a word:

Hasna’s voice slices through:

“Both of you—move, now! No debate. OUT.”

Author’s Note:

If there’s one thing I’ve learned writing this saga, it’s that nothing ruins post-coital bliss quite like a screaming encrypted phone and a “move now or die” ultimatum.

Cutting the chapter right as Hasna’s voice slashed through felt a bit sadistic, but suspense loves company—especially the kind armed with burner phones and questionable clothes.

Did I toy with letting Tarmo and Elena finish their coffee first? Of course. But drama demanded the caffeine remain metaphorical.

Curious how you handle cliffhangers, dear reader: Do you curse the author or crave the chase? Drop your thoughts, or just mutter “borderless pleasure” into your own cold dawn and see what moves you next.

As usual, thank you for riding shotgun—tomorrow, chaos resumes, with extra adrenaline and, if lucky, pants.

May chaos arrive only after your first coffee.

I.Ph.