He stirred, shifting his weight just enough to prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at me. His hair was a mess, his eyes still dark and possessive, his lips swollen from my kisses. He didn’t say ‘I love you.’ He didn’t make promises. He just looked at me,reallylooked at me, like he was seeing every broken piece.
Then he rasped two words that hit me harder than the entire war.
“You’re mine.”
And I didn’t know if it was a promise or a threat. I only knew, as my heart thudded in my chest, that he was right.
Chapter 9 – Drew
I’d watched Cassandra walk out my door three hours ago, her hair still tangled from my fingers, her lips swollen from kisses that had tasted like desperation and surrender. She’d looked back once before stepping into the elevator, and the expression on her face had gutted me. Like she was memorizing the moment. Like she thought it might be the last time we’d have anything resembling peace.
She was probably right.
Now I was sitting in my apartment, staring at my laptop screen, replaying every decision I’d made in the past twenty-four hours and trying to calculate the fallout. I’d hacked the Bratva’s most secure files. Had uncovered secrets that were meant to stay buried. Had lied directly to Rafael’s face about Cassandra’s activities.
And the worst part? I’d do it all again without hesitation.
My phone buzzed. Kirill’s name flashed across the screen, and my stomach dropped before I even answered.
“Drew.” His voice came through rough, tight with barely controlled fury. “We need to talk. Now.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone, you fucking idiot. Meet me at the club. After office hours. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
I sat there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling the weight of inevitability settle over my shoulders like a lead blanket. Kirill knew. Of course, he fucking knew. He’d designed the surveillance system himself, had built it with the kind of paranoid precision that came from years of watching enemies exploit the smallest weaknesses.
And I’d left a trace.
Not intentionally. Not carelessly. But enough of one that someone with Kirill’s skills and access could spot it if they were looking in the right place at the right time.
Which meant I had approximately eight hours to figure out how to handle this conversation before it escalated into something that could destroy everything I was trying to protect.
***
Rafael’s office was its usual controlled chaos when I arrived that afternoon. Documents spread across his desk, three different phones lined up like soldiers, the ever-present cigar burning in the crystal ashtray. He looked up when I knocked, his expression neutral but watchful.
“Drew. Come in.”
I leaned against the doorframe, keeping my posture casual. Calculated. Like I didn’t have a care in the world beyond the mundane business of running clubs and managing logistics.
“I need to make a trip to Seattle,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “Few club leads I want to check out personally. Face-to-face meetings close deals faster than phone calls.”
Rafael studied me for a moment, his gray eyes—so similar to my own—searching for something beneath the surface. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Day after at the latest. Shouldn’t take more than forty-eight hours.”
“And you need to go yourself because…?”
“Because I’m good at reading people.” I shrugged one shoulder. “And because I’m getting restless sitting behind a desk all day. You know how I am.”
That much was true. I’d never been built for office work, for the kind of sedentary existence that came with managing operations from behind a computer screen. I needed movement. Action. The kind of control that came from handling things directly.
Rafael leaned back in his chair, cigar smoke curling around his face like a dragon exhaling. “You planning to fly your own plane?”
“If that’s not a problem.”
