Luka needed to come back to me. Finally, after all these years in captivity, he needed to be freed. He needed to know he was loved.

“Raze, please look at me,” I ordered in a gentle voice, fighting back tears, and Raze slowly lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red and he had the most haunting, devastating expression on his face. My heart lurched at the sight. I reached out and laid my hand on his cheek.

“Lyubov moya, what’s all this? Was it the fight tonight? Was it because you were hurt? Because it was a close match?”

I caught Raze’s hand lift from his side, and the razor blade fell to the floor. His rough, bloodied palm laid on the back of mine still on his cheek, and I froze.

“I killed my only friend,” Raze rasped out, and his fingers wrapped around mine. His grip was so tight… so telling of his internal emotional turmoil.

My breathing caught in my throat and my thoughts immediately went to Rodion. Did he remember? Did he remember that night? Was he talking of my brother? Had he remembered his past?

My hand began to shake with the gravity of what this could mean.

“What friend? What are you talking about, lyubov moya?” I asked, trying to keep the quivering nerves from my voice.

Raze’s gaze took on a blank stare, and he replied, “362.”

I blinked at his answer and immediately thought back to our conversation last night. “362? From the Gulag?”

Raze nodded slowly and his hold on my hand tightened. “Goliath…”

Suddenly, everything made sense. It wasn’t Rodion’s death he was remembering; it was the man tonight, the Georgian Goliath. “The man you killed tonight was—”

“My friend.”

My bottom lip trembled upon seeing this strong, untamed, and harsh man reduced to a hulking body of muscle filled with nothing but guilt and remorse.

“Raze… I’m so sorry,” I soothed.

“He was recaptured when we escaped, by the Georgian mob. He told me if he’d won tonight, they were granting him his freedom. And once free, he could get his revenge on the people that sent him to the Gulag. After all those years surviving, teaching me how to survive… He was innocent. He deserved that revenge, but…”

Raze’s eyelids fluttered, and I leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, and to the back of his hand fixed upon mine. “But what?”

“But so am I…” he whispered, and my blood cooled to ice in my veins.

“You are what?” I pushed.

His eyes widened as something in his mind clearly hit home and his torso tensed as though in shock. “I’m innocent,” he whispered, clearly unable to speak louder. “Kisa… I’m innocent. I didn’t do what I was imprisoned for. I didn’t do what I was accused of.” Raze’s hand now fully encompassed mine, and he looked down at our clasped fingers. “You’re shaking, Kisa-Anna. Why are you shaking?”

A sob escaped my throat and I released my hold on the towel to plant it over my mouth. The tears of relief poured from my eyes. He hadn’t done it. Luka hadn’t killed my brother. He was innocent. I always knew he was innocent.

“Kisa? I don’t understand why you’re crying.” Raze’s head tilted to the side and I dived to his chest, breathing in the heady scent that was all him, not caring if my clothes became soiled by blood and ink.

Raze’s strong and comforting arms wrapped around my back and he kept me close. “Shh, solnyshko,” he whispered, and my crying stopped and I lifted my head and stared into his eyes.

“Solnyshko?” I questioned, and Raze looked up in thought before glancing back down at me.

“It means ‘little sun,’” Raze said matter-of-fact. “In Russian, I think.” Then his forehead creased and his eyebrows pulled down as if he didn’t understand why he knew that piece of information.

“You called me ‘my love,” he suddenly said, watching me, studying me like I was a problem he was trying to solve. I nodded and fought to keep my bottom lip from quivering. “Lyubov moya,” he said, repeating the words slowly, sounding out each syllable before his eyes widened. “It means ‘my love’ in Russian. You called me ‘your love.’”

“I did… lyubov moya” I replied and pulled out of his embrace, I caught his stuttered, shocked inhale, but just let him sit thinking of my old term of endearment for him.

Quickly wiping my eyes, I then ran my finger around his new tattoo. “Why is this so much longer than the rest? So much more pronounced than the others? You’ve really damaged your skin.”