Chapter 154
Evelyn's POV
Three days before the wedding, Julian and I drove out to the Hamptons house to oversee the final setup. The property had been transformed. White chairs arranged in rows on the beach, facing a simple arch draped with white fabric and flowers. Hurricane lamps and candles everywhere, ready to be lit at sunset. The great room set up for the reception, with round tables covered in white linens and gold-trimmed china.
It was beautiful. Elegant and romantic and exactly what I'd imagined.
"What do you think?" Julian asked, his arm around my waist as we surveyed the scene.
"I think," I said slowly, "that in three days I'm going to marry you. And that everything else—all the flowers and the music and the perfect details—that's all just window dressing. The important part is us."
Julian turned me to face him. "I love you, Evelyn Valentine. Soon to be Evelyn Russell."
"I love you too," I whispered. "Thank you for giving me this. For insisting we do it right instead of letting me hide."
"Always," Julian said. "For the rest of our lives—I'm always going to push you to take up space, to demand what you deserve, to stop hiding in shadows."
He kissed me softly. "Everything's ready. Christine and her team will be back the morning of the wedding for final touches. We should head back to the city."
"Already?"
"We both have things to handle before the big day." His mouth curved. "And I'm told the bride is supposed to get some rest before her wedding. Can't have you exhausted when you walk down the aisle."
"Three more days," I said, looking out at the beach where we'd say our vows. "It feels real now."
"It is real," Julian said firmly. "In three days, you're going to be my wife. Nothing's going to stop that."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let myself sink into the certainty in his voice. But some part of me—the part trained in Vorkuta, the part that had learned to always watch for threats—couldn't quite silence the whisper of unease.
"Come on," Julian said, taking my hand. "Let's go home."
Two days before the wedding, I woke to an empty bed.
Julian had left a note on his pillow: Emergency meeting at Titan. Should be back by noon. Love you.
I smiled at the note, tucked it into the drawer of my nightstand with the others he'd left over the past few weeks, and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. The morning sun streamed through the windows, warm and golden. Ghost wound around my ankles, demanding breakfast with plaintive meows.
Everything felt normal. Peaceful.
I was grinding beans when the feeling hit.
Not a sound. Not movement. Just that infinitesimal shift in the air that my body recognized before my conscious mind caught up. The particular quality of attention that meant someone was watching. Hunting.
My hand stilled on the coffee grinder.
Every instinct from Vorkuta came roaring back in an instant. The penthouse suddenly felt different—the shadows deeper, the silence more profound. I set down the grinder with careful precision, my mind already cataloging exits and weapons and cover positions.
Ghost had stopped meowing. She'd gone completely still, ears flattened, green eyes fixed on something behind me.
I didn't turn around immediately. Instead, I let my hand drift casually toward the knife block, keeping my movements natural, unhurried. Like I hadn't noticed anything wrong.
But I had.
Someone was in the penthouse.
The operative came through the balcony door in a fluid rush of motion. Male, early thirties, compact and lean like a whip. I recognized the matte black tactical gear, the specific configuration of weapons strapped to his body. Another Kholod operative.
He didn't waste a single second on words or warnings. His suppressed pistol came up in one smooth, practiced arc.
I was already moving.
I threw myself sideways just as the muted cough of the suppressor split the air. The bullet punched through the space where my head had been a heartbeat before, embedding itself in the cabinet behind me with a sharp crack of splintering wood.
My hand closed around the chef's knife. Eight inches of German steel, perfectly weighted.
The operative was already adjusting, his body flowing into a flanking position with the kind of tactical awareness that screamed professional training. He moved like water, like shadow, the way we'd all been taught in Vorkuta.
But this was my territory. I knew every corner, every sightline, every angle of approach.
I came up fast from behind the kitchen island, knife leading in a reverse grip. The blade sang through the air in a tight arc aimed at his gun hand.
He twisted away with impressive speed, but I'd already committed to the follow-through. My free hand shot out and locked around his wrist like a vise, using his own momentum to pull him off balance. My knee drove up hard toward his solar plexus.
He got his forearm down just in time to block, the impact jarring up through my leg. Then suddenly we were inside each other's guard, too close for guns or knives, and it became pure hand-to-hand combat.
The brutal, efficient violence that Vorkuta had beaten into our bones.
His elbow came around in a vicious strike aimed at my temple. I ducked under it, felt the displacement of air as it whistled past my ear. The knife was useless at this range—I let it go, heard it clatter across the floor.
My hands went for his throat but he was already moving, his palm strike catching me square in the sternum. The air exploded from my lungs. Pain bloomed across my ribs.
I didn't let it stop me. Couldn't afford to.
I drove my thumbs into the pressure points just above his collarbones, digging in with all my strength. His eyes widened fractionally—the first real reaction I'd gotten from him. His grip loosened just enough.
I hooked my leg behind his knee and threw my weight forward.
We went down together in a controlled fall that would have been almost graceful if it wasn't a fight to the death. I managed to land on top, my hands already moving to lock in a blood choke that would have him unconscious in seconds.
His hand scrabbled across the floor, fingers closing around something.
The gun.