Chapter 151

My boots leave bloody prints on the concrete. Each shot I fire is precise, economical.

Another Serbian breaks cover, screaming as he charges me with a knife. Poor bastard must have run out of ammo. I sidestep his wild swing and put him down with a double tap to the chest. Textbook.

In the warehouse beyond me, the gunfire is already starting to die down. It’s been less than fifteen minutes since we breached, but the warehouse floor is littered with Serbian corpses. A few survivors have thrown down their weapons, hands raised in surrender. They won’t last long.

I key my radio. “Building secure. Phase one complete.”

Feliks’s voice returns: “All the rest of the secondary targets all went down simultaneously. They never knew what hit them, Sasha. Clean fuckin’ sweep.”

I allow myself a small smile as I reload. Dragan’s empire is crumbling, and he doesn’t even know it yet.

But he will.

Very, very soon.

I kick open the door at the end of the hall down which the Serbian lieutenant pointed. It’s an empty office, unremarkable. But the leather of Dragan’s office chair still holds his body heat.

I run my fingers over the mahogany desk, imagining him sitting here not ten minutes ago, thinking he was untouchable. I wonder what he’s thinking now.

The wall safe hangs open, its contents scattered. I’m sure they’re nothing important—Dragan is an arrogant motherfucker, but not a stupid one. Sure enough, all I find are useless passports, ledgers, a Glock 19 with serial numbers acid-scorched.

I’m slamming the drawer shut when tires crunch outside.

I stride to the window and look out. Three stories below, a black Mercedes pulls up at the curb, its armored bulk gleaming under sodium lights.

And there he is.

Dragan emerges from a side door, flanked by what’s left of his security detail. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head whips back and forth as he surveys the street. He knows he’s fucked. The silence from his outposts must be deafening. As deafening as this C4 is about to be when it blows this warehouse to the fucking sky.

Just before he ducks into the car, some instinct makes him look up.

Our eyes lock through the glass.

His face goes slack with shock as recognition hits. The great Dragan Vukovic, seeing a ghost. Seeing the man he thought he’d killed, standing in his office like Death himself has come calling.

I bare my teeth in what might charitably be called a smile. I want him to see me. I hope he understands exactly what’s coming for him.

His bodyguard yanks the car door open, breaking the spell. Dragan practically dives inside.

I watch the Mercedes peel away, leaving rubber on asphalt.

“Run, run, little rabbit,” I murmur, tapping the tip of my gun on the window glass. “It won’t be much longer now.”

45

ARIEL

I’m hovering in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where everything feels soft and uncertain. The twins are tumbling and kicking like they sense my unease. I shift position for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. It doesn’t happen.

Four days since he left. Four very long days. Still, there’s cedar and mint clinging to the sheets if I look hard enough, the ghost of him haunting our bed. I press my face into his pillow and inhale deeply. I’m only torturing myself, but how can I stop?

Just as I’m finally starting to drift off again, something changes in the air.

A presence.

A weight.

My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness. Moonlight spills through the shutters in silver ribbons, and there—outlined in that ethereal glow—stands Sasha.

I must be dreaming. “You’re supposed to be in New York,” I croak, still wondering how much of this is real.

“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

He’s watching me with those intense eyes, still dressed in black tactical gear, looking deadly and beautiful. My breath catches in my throat as our gazes lock across the moonlit room.

He crosses.

Three steps. Two. One.

Then he’s on me—no, actually, he’s kneeling next to me, cupping my hand between his.

“I have something for you.”

From his pocket, he produces a small, wooden box, patinated green with age. The hinges creak as he opens it, revealing a delicate gold ring nestled in faded velvet.

“This was my mother’s,” he says quietly. “The only thing of hers I managed to save. After… after what Yakov did to her, I buried it with her. Couldn’t stand the thought of wearing it or selling it. But I couldn’t let myself melt it, either.” His throat works. “But today, after everything was finished with Dragan, I went to her grave. Dug it up myself.”

“Sasha…”

“She would have loved you,” he whispers, turning the ring so it catches the moonlight. “She would have loved what you’ve done to me. Who you’ve made me.” His eyes meet mine. “Will you wear it? Not because some arrangement demands it, but because you choose to be mine?”

“Say it properly,” I rasp.

He stills. “Marry me, Ariel Ward.” Not a question—a raw-throated plea. “Not for politics. Not for peace. Not for profit.” His thumb swipes my tears, smearing salt and iron. “But only because I’m yours. Always was. Always will be.”

I close my eyes. It’s not because I need this time to think it over; truth be told, I’ve known my answer for many, many weeks now. But it’s just because everything with us has always happened so fast, such a blur of moments and places and two truths and many more lies woven in between. So when it comes to this moment, this perfect moment, I want it to last just a bit longer than the others.

Just one extra breath, to seal it in amber. I’ll want to come back to it, I think. I’ll want to hold this moment in my hands again and feel exactly what I’m feeling right now.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, Sasha Ozerov, I’ll marry you.”