Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

I heard him before I saw him.

The footsteps in the corridor—heavy, purposeful, the specific rhythm I’d learned to recognize in the last few weeks. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just—his.

Sofia heard it too. She sat up from where she’d been half-dozing in the chair by the window, smoothing down her hair automatically.

"That’s him," she said. Unnecessary. We both knew.

The door opened.

Nicolas stepped through.

He looked—tired. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the exhausted kind of tired that came from not sleeping. The deeper kind. The kind that lived in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the specific heaviness in his eyes that said he’d spent the last week doing things he didn’t particularly want to do and was only now allowing himself to stop.

But when he saw me, something shifted.

The heaviness lifted. Just slightly. Just enough that I could see the thing underneath—relief, maybe. Or something close to it.

"You’re up," he said.

I was standing by the bed. I’d gotten dressed an hour ago—real clothes, not the hospital gown. Sofia had brought me things from the suite. A soft sweater, loose pants, nothing restrictive. I still felt unsteady on my feet if I stood too long, but right now I was okay.

"I’m up," I confirmed.

He crossed the room. Stopped in front of me. His hand came up—hesitated for half a second—then settled on my shoulder. Gentle. Checking.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." I looked at his face. At the green eyes scanning mine, the way he was cataloging every detail like he was looking for proof that I was actually okay and not just saying it. "Really. I’m better."

His hand moved to my face. Cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed just under my eye.

"You look better," he said quietly. "More color."

Something warm moved through my chest.

"You look tired," I said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "I am tired."

"Did it go okay? The Iron Thorn thing?"

"It went." He dropped his hand. Stepped back. Looked at Sofia. "Thank you for staying with her."

Sofia stood up. Smoothed her skirt. "Of course, sir. She’s been very good. Ate everything. Rested. Didn’t try to escape once."

"I’ll give you two some privacy," she said. She headed for the door, paused, looked back at me. "I’ll be back later to check on you. "

She smiled. Left.

The door closed.

The room went quiet.

Nicolas was still looking at me with that expression—the one I was starting to recognize. Careful. Assessing. Like he was trying to figure out if I was actually as okay as I claimed or if I was just performing okay because I thought that’s what he wanted to see.

"I really am better," I said.

"I know." He moved to the chair Sofia had vacated. Sat down heavily. Like his body had been waiting for permission to stop holding itself up. "But you’re also very good at hiding when you’re not okay. So forgive me if I’m going to keep checking."

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He leaned back. Closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were on me.

"Come here," he said.

It wasn’t a command. Not quite. But it also wasn’t really a request.

I crossed to him. Slowly. My legs were steadier than they’d been yesterday, but I still had to be careful. He watched me the whole way—ready to move if I stumbled, I could tell. But I made it.

He reached out. Took my hand. Pulled me gently down onto his lap.

I went stiff.

Not from fear. From—surprise. From the sudden proximity, the warmth of him, the solid weight of his chest against my side. His arm came around my waist. Loose. Not trapping. Just—holding.

"Relax," he said quietly.

I tried. It was harder than it should have been. My body didn’t know how to do this yet—how to be touched without bracing for what came after.

But his hand on my waist didn’t move. Didn’t tighten. Didn’t slide anywhere it wasn’t supposed to. It just—stayed.

I let myself breathe.

"Tell me about Iron Thorn," I said. Partly because I wanted to know. Partly because I needed something to focus on that wasn’t the fact that I was sitting in the lap of the most dangerous alpha on the continent and my body was slowly, cautiously deciding that maybe this was okay.

He was quiet for a moment.

"It’s under control," he said. "For now."

"What does that mean?"

"It means they’ve accepted me as their alpha. Temporarily. Until we can establish proper leadership." His hand moved slightly on my waist—just his thumb, brushing back and forth in a small arc. Unconscious. "The territory was falling apart. Maxim’s father is dead. His mother fled. Half the pack scattered. The ones who stayed were terrified."

I turned my head. Looked at his face. "What did you do?"

"I told them the truth." His eyes met mine. "That Maxim was a coward who abandoned them. That they weren’t responsible for his choices. That I wasn’t there to punish them."

Something in my chest tightened.

"You didn’t—" I stopped. Started again. "You didn’t use force?"

His brow furrowed. "No. Why would I?"

"Because that’s—" I gestured vaguely. "That’s what alphas do. When they take over a territory. They—they make examples. They show strength."

"I showed strength by not slaughtering a bunch of terrified civilians," he said dryly. "Irina, what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"I don’t think you’re a monster." The words came out fast. Automatic. "I just—I thought—"

"You thought I’d go in and start killing people to prove a point."

I looked down at my hands. "Maybe."

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then his hand moved from my waist to my chin. Tilted my face up. Gently. Until I had to look at him.

"I told you there wouldn’t be a war," he said. Quiet. Steady. "I meant it. I’m not going to start one just to feed my own ego." His thumb brushed across my jaw. "And I’m certainly not going to butcher a pack of civilians who had the misfortune of being ruled by an incompetent sadist."

My throat felt tight.

"You’re a good alpha," I said quietly.

Something shifted in his expression. Softened.

"I’m trying to be," he said. "For you. For them. For—" His gaze dropped to my stomach. Back to my face. "For all of it."

The warmth in my chest spread.

His hand was still on my face. His thumb still moving in those small, gentle strokes. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of my jaw through touch alone.

"I missed you," he said.

Three words.

They shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did.

His eyes did something I couldn’t read. Then he leaned forward—slowly, carefully, giving me time to pull back if I wanted—and pressed his forehead to mine.

We stayed like that.

"I need to go deal with some pack business," he said eventually. Reluctant. "Roman’s been holding off the worst of it until I got back, but there are things that can’t wait."

"Okay."

"You should rest. Properly. Nadia said—"

"I know what Nadia said." I pulled back. Looked at him. "I’ll rest. I promise."

He studied my face. Looking for the lie. Not finding one.

"Good," he said.

He helped me stand. Steadied me when I swayed slightly. Then he stood too, and for a second we were just—standing there. Close. His hand still on my arm. Mine on his chest for balance.

"I’ll be back later," he said. "To check on you."

The door closed behind him.

I stood there for a moment. Just—breathing. Processing. Feeling the ghost of his touch on my face, my waist, everywhere he’d been careful with me.

*He’s a good alpha.*

The thought settled in my chest. Warm. True.

I turned.

My bag was on the dresser. And the vial.

It was still there. Tucked into the inner pocket where I’d hidden it. Small. Innocuous. The clear liquid inside catching the light.

The poison.

I’d carried it for weeks. A backup plan. An escape route. The thing I’d reach for if everything went wrong, if he turned on me, if the fear became too much and I needed—

I didn’t need it anymore.

The realization hit me sudden and complete.

I didn’t need it.

I didn’t want it.

I crossed to the dresser. Pulled the vial out. Held it up to the light.

Such a small thing. This tiny bottle of liquid that I’d clutched like a lifeline. The promise of control when everything else was chaos.

But I had control now. Real control. Not the kind that came from ending things before they could hurt me. The kind that came from choosing to stay. Choosing to try. Choosing to believe that maybe—maybe—this could actually work.

I looked at the vial for a long moment.

Then I walked to the bathroom. Found the trash bin.

I bit my lip.

And I let go.

The vial dropped. Hit the bottom of the bin with a soft clink. Rolled slightly. Settled.

I stared at it for a few seconds.

Then I turned around and walked away.