Fiancée?
Oh, and the bakery is some kind of underground criminal playground, and I’ve been just happily piping frosting onto murder cupcakes for God knows who.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my damp hair curling around my face, cheeks flushed, and my eyes wide like I just saw a ghost.
No.
Worse.
I saw Ben Volkov.
And he saw me.
All of me.
And now he’s offering to protect me.
I groan and sink to the floor, the tile cold against my thighs.
This can’t be happening.
I was supposed to come home, shower, eat something sweet, and binge-watch my show. Not get cornered in my room by someone from the Russian mob in a fitted suit, a guy who just dropped “fiancée” casually into conversation after he broke into my home.
Absolutely not.
He’s not just dangerous. He’s insane.
I must be insane, too, because part of me—the deep, terrible part that keeps noticing how his voice goes gravelly when he’s serious and how his eyes darken when I challenge him—wants to open the door and go back out there.
This feels unreal.
None of this makes sense.
The door’s locked, but it doesn’t make me feel any safer.
I can feel Ben out there. Still feel the tension he brought in with him.
“Sienna, come out.”
“No.”
It’s immediate from my throat because I’m not putting my life in some weird, attractive man’s hands.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
I roll my eyes. “Breaking into my apartment and busting into my life screams otherwise.”
“I said you’re safe with me. I meant it.”
“Isn’t that what all bad men say right before they ruin your life?”
“Have you met more bad men in your life?”
No.
It doesn’t matter.
“I didn’t mean to say ‘fiancée’,” he mutters, close to the door. “That came out wrong.”
