"Those men," Ivan says finally. "They work for Dmitri Volkov. He's... a competitor of mine."
"Competitor?" I laugh, but I’m not amused.
"He wants me dead. I want him dead. Tonight, I killed his second-in-command. Those men were looking for me."
My breath catches. He admitted to killing a man as if it were nothing.
"And now they know you helped me," he continues. "Which means you're a target."
"I didn't help you. I just?—"
"You lied. To them, that's the same thing." He pulls out his phone and types quickly. "Pack a bag. Essentials only. You're coming with me."
"What?" The word comes out as a squeak. "No. Absolutely not."
"It wasn't a request."
"You’re not?—"
"I’m keeping you alive." He stands, and suddenly he seems bigger, more dangerous. "Those men saw your face. They know where you work. How long do you think it'll take them to find out where you live?"
"That's not—you can't just?—"
He moves around the table, stopping just inches from me. My heart kicks into overdrive.
"Your old life ended the moment you lied for me," he says softly. "I can keep you safe. I will keep you safe."
"Why?"
"Because you saved my life tonight."
"I just told a lie?—"
"To the men who would have killed me on sight. That lie bought me time. Now let me return the favor."
He's so close I can see gold flecks in his blue eyes. Heat radiates from him. This is exactly like in my books—the dangerous man declaring his protection, the ordinary girl swept into his dark world. Except in the books, the heroine always wants it, craving the danger and excitement.
I just want my normal, boring life back.
But that's not entirely true, is it?
"I need to go to my apartment," I say, hating how breathless the statement comes out. "I need clothes, I need?—"
"Too dangerous. They’re likely watching it already."
"Then what am I supposed to wear?" I ask, gesturing at my hideous uniform. “I can’t walk around in this forever.”
"I'll take care of it."
"You'll take care of it." I scoff and shake my head. "Like I'm a pet."
"Like you're under my protection." He raises a hand, fingersghosting along my jaw, not quite touching. "I take care of what's mine."
"I'm not yours."
"No?" His thumb brushes my cheek, the lightest touch, but it burns like a brand. "Then why did you lie for me?"
I don't have an answer to that. Or I do, but I don't want to admit it.
