Chapter 34

“But you’re not simple at all, are you, Rowan St. Clair?” His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he traces the seam with deliberate slowness. “You’re a fucking complication.”

“I can stop,” I gasp, though we both know it’s a lie. “Being a complication.”

“No.” He presses against the thin fabric, finding the exact spot that makes me whimper. “I don’t think you can.”

My head falls back against the seat as pleasure spirals through me. This is insanity. We’re in the back of his car, driver separated only by a privacy partition that may or may not be soundproof.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open to find him watching me with an intensity that should terrify me. Maybe it does. Maybe terror and desire are just opposite sides of the same razor.

Maybe they both draw blood just the same.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, fingers stroking faster now, “and I will.”

The words won’t come. Can’t come. Because I’ve wanted this—wanted him—for five years. Because I’m already soaking through the silk of my underwear. Because I’m greedy and stupid and lost in the impossible reality of Vincent Akopov touching me like he’s starving for it.

“Please,” I whisper instead.

His other hand slides around my neck, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. “Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

His smile is all predator. “Good girl.”

Then he’s pushing my underwear aside, sliding a finger into me, and I’m not prepared for the shocking intimacy of it. My body clenches around him, desperate and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re tight.”

I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he adds a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way. My hips rise to meet his hand, shameless in my need.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his own breath coming faster now. “Take what you want.”

I’m so close already, embarrassingly close, when⁠—

Lights flash through the window. A horn blares. Vince’s head snaps up, his body tensing.

“What the⁠—”

The impact comes before he can finish the thought.

Metal screams against metal as our car spins wildly. My body flies forward, then slams back. Glass shatters. Vince’s arm shoots out protectively across my chest as we’re thrown sideways.

The world tilts.

Turns upside down.

Goes black.

24

ROWAN

Sharp pain rockets through my skull as consciousness creeps back in.

My cheek presses against something cold and hard—glass from the shattered window, maybe. My vision is blurry, the world tilted at a wrong angle.

What happened?

One second, Vince’s fingers were… were…

… and then…

The car. We crashed.

“Rowan.” Vince’s voice cuts through the fog. “Rowan, look at me.”

I blink slowly, trying to make sense of the chaos. The car is on its side. Vince is above me—or beside me? Geometry doesn’t make sense anymore.

“V… Vi…”

“Are you hurt?” he demands. His hands rove over my face, my neck, my waist, checking for injuries.

“I don’t—I don’t think so,” I mumble. My head throbs, but nothing feels broken. “Wh…what happened?”

“We were hit. Deliberately.” His voice is hard, focused. Different than I’ve ever heard it. “Can you move?”

Before I can answer, the night erupts with the sound of shouting. Male voices, harsh commands in a language I don’t recognize.

Vince’s expression transforms instantly. The controlled businessman vanishes, replaced by something savage.

“Stay down,” he orders, reaching inside his jacket.

That’s when I see it—the gun from his desk drawer, now gripped expertly in his hand.

“Vince, what⁠—”

“Not now.” His eyes are scanning our surroundings with lethal focus. “When I move, you follow me. Stay low. Stay close. Understand?”

I nod, terror crystallizing in my chest.

The rear door of the car is wrenched open suddenly. A masked figure looms in the opening, also holding a gun.

What happens next unfolds so quickly I can barely process it.

Vince moves like water—fluid, unstoppable. His foot connects with the attacker’s wrist, sending the gun flying. In the same motion, he launches himself through the doorway.

I hear grunts. Screams. The sickening sound of fist meeting flesh.

“Stay in the car!” Vince shouts back to me.

But the car is sideways, the door above me now hanging open. I can see everything, framed like art made of blood and bullets and badly broken bone.

I see Vince as he faces three masked men, all in black, all armed.

I see how he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t show an ounce of fear.

He fights like he was born for violence. Every movement is efficient, brutal, purposeful. He disarms one attacker, using the man’s momentum to send him crashing into another.

The third pulls a knife.

“Vince!” I scream, but he’s already seen it.

He sidesteps the thrust, grabs the attacker’s wrist, and the sound of breaking bone cracks through the night. The knife clatters to the pavement as the man howls in pain.

One of the others recovers, lunging for a gun on the ground.

Vince is faster.

The gunshot is deafening. Once, twice, three times.

The attacker drops, blood blooming across his chest. His body crumples to the street.

Lights out. Forever.

I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream.

Vince just killed someone. Right in front of me.

The remaining attackers scramble back, shouting to each other. One of them drags the wounded one away while the other provides cover, firing wildly in Vince’s direction.

Vince ducks behind the overturned car, bullets pinging off metal inches from where he crouches.

“Rowan!” he calls. “Are you okay?”