Chapter 3: The Aftermath of the Gym
The heavy oak door of the Volkov estate swung inward with a groan that echoed through the cavernous foyer. Natalia stumbled across the threshold, her usually graceful posture utterly abandoned. The gym bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the polished marble floor with a soft thud, narrowly missing the paw of the massive American Akita who had padded over to investigate.
She’d showered at the gym, her long dark hair still damp and piled in a haphazard knot on top of her head. Instead of workout gear, she wore elegant lounge wear—soft, dove-gray cashmere pants and a matching sleeveless top that should have looked chic but was currently rumpled from being yanked on by trembling hands. Every movement was a study in pathetic comedy.
“Sergej is a sadist,” she announced to the empty hall, her voice carrying a dramatic whine. “A literal, muscle-bound sadist. I’m filing charges. My father will prosecute.”
The only answer was the distant hum of the enormous, somewhat gothic chandelier overhead, its light glinting off the gold-framed mirrors that lined the walls, multiplying her disheveled reflection into infinity. She let her arms hang limp at her sides. They felt like two overcooked strands of spaghetti, utterly detached from her will.
She kicked off her sneakers, each movement requiring monumental effort. “Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing. “Is there any service in this mansion? I require assistance. My limbs have been technically decommissioned.”
A low woof came from the archway that led to the main living area. Lykos, a hundred and twenty pounds of white and gray fur and intelligent dark eyes, looked at her, his head tilted.
“Don’t judge me,” she muttered, shuffling forward. “You try doing ninety minutes of brutal circuit training with that maniac.”
She followed the dog into the sprawling living room. The space was a study in dark luxury—deep charcoal walls, a ceiling of exposed, stained oak beams, plush furniture in blacks and creams. A fire crackled in the immense stone hearth, casting dancing shadows that softened the room’s inherent gloom.
On the largest sofa, sprawled with an animal grace that was entirely his own, was Raziel.
Gone was the sharp-suited Unit Chief. He was deep in the domestic territory she loved most. He wore faded black sweatpants and a soft, gray hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the powerful cords of his forearms. One hand was resting on Lykos’s back as the dog resettled himself at his feet; the other held a thick case file.
He looked up as she entered, his amber eyes taking in the damp hair, the cashmere, the pathetic drag of her feet. One dark eyebrow arched slowly, incrementally, above the frame of his glasses.
“You look,” he said, his voice a low rumble that fit perfectly with the crackle of the fire, “like you lost a fight with a very polite ghost.”
“It was Sergej,” she corrected, stopping in the middle of the room, her arms still dangling. “He used words like ‘burn’ and ‘failure’ and ‘one more set.’ It was psychological warfare disguised as sibling bonding.”
A faint smile touched his lips. He closed the file, set it on the heavy teak coffee table. “I thought the point of going with him was to have a spotter. Not a drill instructor.”
“The line is blurry! Deceptively blurry!” She tried to lift an arm to gesture, managed a weak twitch. A frustrated groan escaped her. “Raziel, I’m serious. I can’t… I can’t lift things. My biceps have filed for divorce from the rest of my body. I tried to get my water bottle out of my bag at the gym and just… stared at it. It was a standoff. The bottle won.”
The smile widened, a flash of white against his beard. He didn’t get up. He just opened his arms, a silent, beckoning invitation.
It was all the permission she needed. All the cohesion left in her body dissolved. She took two wobbly steps forward and simply let herself fold, collapsing face-first onto the long, deep sofa beside him. She didn’t land gracefully; she sort of melted, her upper body tumbling into his lap, her legs dangling off the edge. She buried her face against the soft cotton of his hoodie, breathing in his scent—clean soap, the faint, crisp aroma of his cologne, and the essential, underlying note that was just him.
“Mmfph,” she said into his stomach.
His chest vibrated with a quiet chuckle. One large hand came up and began smoothing her damp, messy hair. “That bad, hm?”
“Worse,” she mumbled, turning her head so her cheek was pillowed on his thigh. She looked up at him, his face upside down from her perspective. The firelight played over the sharp planes of his jaw, the neat trim of his beard. “He made me do negative pull-ups. Do you know what those are? It’s where you jump up and then try to lower yourself as slowly as possible, which is essentially just a controlled admission of defeat over and over again. My arms are now purely decorative.”
“A tragedy,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her temple. His tone was utterly amused. “My beautiful, decorative wife.”
She pinched his thigh, but there was no strength behind it. “Laugh. It’s fine. My suffering amuses you. I see how it is.”
“It does,” he admitted, unrepentant. “You’re very cute when you’re helpless.”
“I’m not helpless. I’m… temporarily disarmed.” She sighed, a long, exhausted exhale. “Can you believe he’s my older brother? Shouldn’t he be protective? Gentle?”
“Sergej’s idea of protection is making sure you can bench press a potential attacker.” Raziel’s hand left her hair and traveled down, his fingers beginning to knead the tightly knotted muscle of her right shoulder. Even through the cashmere, his touch was electric, knowing exactly where the deepest ache resided.
A low, involuntary moan escaped her. “Oh. Right there.”
“I know,” he said softly. He worked in silence for a moment, his fingers applying firm, deliberate pressure. “So, you’re showered and changed. You look beautiful, by the way. Even in a heap.”
“Had to,” she slurred, her eyes fluttering closed under the ministrations. “Couldn’t face the drive home all sweaty. Sergej just shrugged and did another set of deadlifts while he waited. He’s not human.”
“He’s Petrov,” Raziel said, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did. The same relentless drive that fueled her father in the courtroom, and her in her prosecution work, had manifested in Sergej as physical relentlessness. Raziel’s hands moved down to her upper arm, his palm encircling her bicep. He began to massage the swollen, fatigued muscle, starting at the top and squeezing down in a slow, torturously perfect stroke.
Another, louder moan. “That’s… that’s the spot. Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” His voice had dropped, the amusement tempering into something more focused, more intent. He switched to her other arm, repeating the process. “You’re completely seized up. What was he trying to do, build you a new set of arms in one session?”
“I think so. He said I was getting ‘soft’ from pushing paper all day.” Her words were becoming drowsy, lost in the haze of pain melting away under his skillful touch. “Said I needed to be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Raziel’s hands paused for a fraction of a second.
“I don’t know. Life? A tug-of-war contest? An arm-wrestling match with a rookie agent?” She peeked an eye open, a ghost of her former teasing spark in it.
His eyes narrowed, but his hands resumed their work, a little firmer now. “That subject,” he said mildly, “is still under disciplinary review.”
She giggled, a soft, breathy sound. “You reviewed it pretty thoroughly in the supply closet.”
“A preliminary hearing.” His fingers dug into a particularly stubborn knot, making her gasp. “The sentencing is ongoing.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “And may involve further restrictions on mobility.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with muscle fatigue went through her. Before she could form a retort, Lykos, feeling neglected, let out a conversational woof and rested his heavy chin on the couch cushion next to her head, his dark eyes staring soulfully into hers.
“See?” Natalia said, turning her face to nuzzle the dog’s forehead. “Lykos feels sorry for me. He understands weakness. He’s a compassionate soul.”
“Lykos is hoping you’ll drop a piece of steak,” Raziel corrected. He finally stopped massaging her arms and instead slid his hands underneath her, easily maneuvering her limp body until she was sitting up, cradled sideways in his lap, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his big hands splaying over her cashmere-covered stomach, holding her close. “Better?”
“Mmm. Getting there.” She sank into him, letting her head rest back on his shoulder. The fire warmed her feet. The solid, familiar strength of him surrounded her. The frantic pace of the day—the briefing, the tense hallway, the grueling workout—all of it began to dissolve, leaving only this deep, quiet safety. “I missed you today,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
He dipped his head, his beard scraping gently against her temple. “Even though I’m a harsh disciplinarian?”
“Especially because.” She tilted her head, seeking his lips. He met her halfway in a kiss that was slow and sweet, a world away from the closet’s desperate hunger. It was a kiss of homecoming, of quiet ownership, of a fire banked for the night.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers. “Sergej texted me. Said you almost puked after burpees but didn’t quit. He was proud.”
A warmth bloomed in her chest that rivaled the fire’s heat. “He didn’t say that to me. He just told me my form was ‘passable.’”
“That’s him saying he’s proud. You know that.” Raziel’s thumb stroked idle circles on her abdomen. “He loves you. In his own knuckle-dragging way.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a long while, watching the flames dance. Lykos sighed heavily and settled onto the rug, a mound of contented fur.
“The McCleary case files came in,” Raziel said eventually, his voice reverting to its work-tenor, though it was softened by the setting. “The preliminary forensics are a mess. Contaminated scene. It’s going to be a nightmare for you to prosecute.”
Natalia felt a different kind of tension enter her body, the professional kind, the one that straightened her spine and sharpened her mind. Even exhausted, the hook was set. “How contaminated?”
“Local PD trampled through before the CSU was finished. Media got a drone shot. It’s a circus.” He kissed her shoulder. “We’ll start untangling it tomorrow. You should rest that prosecutorial brain of yours tonight.”
“It doesn’t have an off switch,” she murmured.
“I know.” His arms tightened around her. “But I can be a very effective distraction.”
She smiled, closing her eyes. The ache in her arms was a dull, warm throb now, soothed by his hands and the heat of his body. The gloomy, majestic house around them felt less like a cavern and more like a fortress, silent and secure. The case awaited, with its bloody puzzles and legal landmines. The memory of a rookie’s admiring glance was a faint, inconsequential spark. Here, in his lap, she was nowhere else. She was exactly where she belonged, and the man who owned her, heart and soul, was holding her as if she were the only thing keeping the vast, dark world at bay.
Outside, a wind picked up, rattling the old windowpanes in their frames. Lykos twitched in his sleep. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
Raziel shifted slightly, reaching for the soft wool throw draped over the back of the sofa. He unfolded it and tucked it around her, cocooning her in warmth. “Sleep,” he whispered into her hair, a command as gentle as it was absolute.
And with the scent of him filling her senses and the steady, solid beat of his heart against her back, she did.