The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

Sienna stood in the doorway of Viktor’s room for a long moment before going in, dressed now in soft pajama pants and a loose shirt, her hair loose and long over her shoulders, still slightly damp at the ends from the shower she’d finally allowed herself.

She watched him from the door, propped against a mountain of pillows, pale but breathing steady, dark hair mussed against white cotton, and something in her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with fear anymore.

”Here to check on me?” Viktor asked, his voice low, a faint, teasing edge threading through the exhaustion.

Sienna shook her head, though it was mostly a lie, and crossed the room without another word, climbing carefully onto the bed beside him.

”I’ll sleep here,” she said, already tucking herself under the edge of the blanket, ”in case you need anything.” She reached for the collar of his shirt before he could argue, easing the fabric aside to check the edge of the bandage taped across his shoulder and back.

”Let me see your patch.”

She worked with careful, practiced hands, checking the dressing for any sign that the day’s chaos had reopened something beneath it, her fingers gentle in a way that felt almost foreign even to her, none of the sharp, guarded edges she usually kept between herself and the rest of the world.

”I must be seeing things,” Viktor murmured, watching her with something soft and amused flickering behind his tired eyes.

”Go to sleep,” Sienna said, though there was no real heat behind it, settling back against the pillows beside him, close enough now that barely any space remained between them at all.

”I may have died for a few seconds back there,” Viktor said, voice quieter now, some of the teasing giving way to something more genuine, ”but I’m still the terrifying Viktor you know.”

”Just go to sleep,” she repeated, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself, and she let the last of the distance between them close entirely, until they were facing each other fully on the pillow, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the thin cotton of his shirt.

”Goodnight,” she whispered.

”Goodnight,” he answered.

He leaned in, slow and careful, favoring the shoulder that wasn’t wrapped in gauze, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there a beat longer than strictly necessary, his breath warm against her skin.

”Were you scared?” he asked quietly, pulling back just far enough to look at her properly.

Sienna nodded, throat tightening, unable to trust her voice with anything more than the smallest sound of agreement.

”I’m sorry,” he murmured, as gently as she had ever heard him say anything, one hand coming up to rest lightly against her shoulder, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against her collarbone. ”Sleep now. It’s all over.”

Sienna, who hadn’t slept a single uninterrupted hour since the crash beneath the underpass, felt something in her chest finally, fully unclench.

She let her eyes fall closed, the steady, living warmth of his hand anchoring her in place, and for the first time in what felt like days, allowed herself to drift, safe, into sleep.

Sleep didn’t come easily for Viktor.

It wasn’t only the dull, insistent throb of the wound across his back every time he shifted wrong, though that was part of it.

It was her the warmth of her curled so close beside him, the soft, even sound of her breathing, the faint scent of her shampoo still lingering on the pillow they now shared.

His body, apparently, had strong opinions about proximity that had nothing to do with blood loss or exhaustion, and he spent long, restless minutes simply lying still, watching her instead of sleeping.

He brushed a stray strand of hair off her face carefully, his fingers barely grazing her cheek, and let himself watch her sleep peacefully, unguarded in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when she was awake.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs, an ache that had nothing to do with the gunshot wound.

He’d joke about it if anyone dared to ask. He’d deny it outright to Marcus, to Aria, to anyone who so much as hinted at it. But lying here now, there was no room left to lie to himself.

Viktor Kessler cold, calculating, the man half the underworld referred to only in hushed, frightened tones was in love. Completely, irreversibly.

This woman sleeping beside him had somehow become the exact center of everything he wanted, everything he was willing to burn the world down to protect.

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn’t pull at the stitches along his shoulder, and the movement cost him more than he expected. A sharp bolt of pain lanced through the wound, and a low, involuntary gasp slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

Sienna’s eyes opened instantly.

”Are you okay? What happened?” She was already sitting up, alert in the particular, fully-awake way of someone whose body had learned long ago never to trust the first few seconds after waking.

”It’s nothing.” Viktor tried for casual, failed. ”Go back to sleep.”

”No.” She was reaching for the lamp now, squinting against the sudden light. ”Look at you, you’re sweating. Are you in pain? Did your wound open?” She was already leaning over him before he could answer, worry sharpening every word.

”Wait. Let me check.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to tell her it was fine, that she didn’t need to fuss over him like this, but how exactly was he supposed to explain the truth?

That the sweat beading along his hairline had far less to do with pain than it did with her, curled so close against him for hours, her thoughts alone enough to send his body into a state that had nothing to do with the gunshot wound and everything to do with wanting things he had no business wanting from an injured man in the middle of the night.

He couldn’t say any of that. Not now. Maybe not ever, if he could help it.

So he let her fuss instead, and said nothing at all.