Chapter 38

“And if your father objects?”

My hand tightens around the phone. “Then he’ll have to go through me.”

Arkady whistles low. “You really are in deep.”

“I’m not—” I stop. What’s the use in denying it? “Just make sure the security details know their orders. No one touches her. No one approaches her without my direct authorization.”

“Understood, pakhan.”

The title is only half-joking.

I hang up and move to the bar, pouring myself a generous measure of vodka. The familiar burn does nothing to quiet the storm inside me.

I pull up the security feed on my phone, checking the cameras outside my penthouse, in the elevator, in the lobby. All clear. No suspicious activity.

Next, I access the feed from Rowan’s apartment building. My men are in place—one in the lobby, one across the street, two more in a parked car with a clear view of all entrances.

I tap another icon, bringing up the hospital feed. Her mother’s room is secure, the hallway empty except for the occasional nurse.

It’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

I down the rest of my drink and step to the window, staring out at the city without really seeing it. My reflection stares back at me—disheveled, bloodstained, eyes darker than usual. I almost don’t recognize myself.

That’s the effect she has on me. Turning me inside out. Making me reckless. Making me weak.

I should send her away as soon as she wakes up. Put her on a plane to somewhere far from New York.

Far from the Bratva.

Far from me.

It would be the smart move. The safe move.

But the thought of her gone—of never seeing those green eyes flash with defiance or watching her teeth worry at her lower lip when she’s nervous—makes something in my chest constrict painfully.

I’ve taken lives without hesitation. I’ve ordered executions with a nod. I’ve walked away from burning buildings without looking back.

Yet somehow, the thought of walking away from her is un-fucking-thinkable.

27

ROWAN

I wake up disoriented, momentarily panicking at the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed is too soft, the room too large, the silence too complete.

Then it all comes rushing back.

I sit up slowly, my body protesting with aches in places I didn’t know could hurt. The shirt I’m wearing—Vince’s shirt—smells like him.

I hate how much I love that.

The clock on the bedside table reads 2:17 P.M. I’ve slept for almost eight hours, but it feels like minutes. I need to get out of here. I need space to think, to process everything that’s happened.

While we’re on the topic, I also need my own clothes, my own apartment, and my own life back.

I throw off the blanket and pad to the door, opening it cautiously. The penthouse is silent. If Vince is here, he’s making no sound.

I find the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, carefully avoiding the cut on my cheek. The mirror shows me a stranger—pale, wild-eyed, wearing an oversized men’s shirt, with bare legs and tangled hair. I look like the “after” photo in some cautionary tale about sleeping with your boss.

“You’re a disaster,” I tell my reflection.

She doesn’t disagree.

I locate my phone on the counter—brand new, as Arkady promised—and check for messages. Nothing. The world has continued turning while mine exploded into chaos.

After using the toothbrush I find there (desperate times, desperate measures), I venture out into the main living area.

Vince sits at the kitchen island, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking rapid Russian. He’s changed clothes, now wearing simple black pants and a gray henley that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.

His eyes lock onto mine the moment I appear. “I’ll call you back,” he mutters into the phone. He sets it down and gives me his full attention. “You should have slept longer.”

“I need to go home,” I announce without preamble.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s not wise.”

“I don’t care if it’s wise. I need clothes. I need to check on my apartment. I need something normal after…” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass everything that’s happened, like a hand wave could sum up a car crash and public murder.

“I can have clothes brought to you,” he counters. “Whatever you need.”

“That’s not—” I stop, take a breath. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t just hide in your penthouse forever.”

“Not forever,” he says reasonably. “Just until I’ve handled the situation.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “And how long will that take?”

“A few days. A week at most.”

I shake my head. “No chance. I’m going home today. Now.”

We stare at each other across the kitchen island, neither willing to back down. I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look—barefoot, wearing only his shirt, trying to stand my ground against a man who could probably snap me in half like a fucking glowstick without breaking a sweat.

A man who killed someone to protect me less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Fine,” he relents finally. “But not alone.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need security.” His tone brooks no argument. “I’ll take you myself.” Before I can object, he’s closing his laptop and standing. “There are clothes in the guest bathroom. Nothing fancy, but they should fit.”

I want to argue further, but I’m suddenly exhausted again, despite the hours of sleep. “Fine,” I mutter. “But just to get some things. I’m not staying there with you hovering over me.”

His lips quirk into a smirk. “We’ll see.”

The clothes—black leggings and a soft gray sweater—fit perfectly, almost as if he had them bought specifically for me. The thought is both unsettling and strangely touching.

Thirty minutes later, we’re in another one of his cars, winding through Manhattan traffic. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say after everything that’s happened?

The silence grows thick. Weirdly, it’s not even the violence that’s top of mind right now.

It’s how Vince’s fingers felt shoving aside my panties and giving me the tiniest taste of what I’ve spent five years dreaming of.

My cheeks heat at the memory, and I turn my face toward the window so he can’t see.

When we pull up to my building, I immediately notice something off. A black sedan parked across the street. A man in the lobby who wasn’t there before, reading a newspaper but not really reading it.

“What is this?” I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.

Vince follows my gaze. “Security,” he says simply.

Anger flares inside me, hot and sharp. “You had no right.”

His eyes harden. “I had every right. You’re under my protection now.”

“I never asked for your protection!” I snap, my voice rising. “I never asked for any of this!”

“Nevertheless, you have it.” His calm only infuriates me more. “Shall we go up?”

I yank at the door handle, shoving it open before the driver can come around. I storm toward my building, aware of Vince following close behind, his presence a shadow I can’t shake.

The man in the lobby straightens when he sees us, nodding subtly to Vince. I ignore him as I march to the elevator and jabbing the button repeatedly.

“They’re just doing their job,” Vince says quietly as we step into the elevator.

“Their job is to spy on me?”