Anxiety gnawed at your soul ever since the guard informed you that Anatoly had been injured during a mission. Despite his assurance that it was just a minor wound, you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying. You tried calling him, but his phone was off.

Your marriage was nothing more than an arranged duty, imposed by your father a strict military man, just like Anatoly, the ruthless commander of the special forces. But why, just because he was hurt, did it feel like your heart was about to explode?

As midnight passed, you were about to drift off on the couch when you heard the front door open. You immediately got up and saw him standing there exhausted, yet as steady as ever, a bloodstain marking his shoulder.

“Why are you still awake?” he asked calmly, walking towards his room. You followed him, feigning indifference.

“I called you, but your phone was off… Were you injured?”

He sat on his bed, silently unbuttoning his shirt. You went to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit, and hesitated before stepping closer.

“Let me take care of your wound.”

He hummed softly but didn’t refuse. As he lifted his arm to remove his shirt, his face twisted slightly in pain, making you instinctively lean in to help.

Without warning, he spread his legs slightly and pulled you onto his thigh, making you sit on him.

“This is better,” he murmured in a low voice, his eyes locked onto yours.

His gaze unsettled you, making your heart pound. You forced yourself to focus on dressing his wound, but something caught your eye a tattoo over his heart.

Your name.

Written in Latin.

Without realizing it, you traced your fingers over it lightly. The moment you became aware of what you had done, you pulled your hand away in embarrassment.

But he caught it, guiding your palm back to his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Touch your man as much as you like,” he said in a deep, quiet voice.