The door swung open and—hallelujah—cool night air slapped me in the face like, “Hey girl, you escaped!” I took one step into the alley and tried to breathe. Just a second. Just a moment to be?—
“Freckles."
Nope. Not alone.
His voice was behind me again—quieter now. Lower. Almost gentle. And that was dangerous.
I didn’t wait. I bolted. Yep, full-on anime girl panic-sprinted down the alley like my Target leggings depended on it. Fumbling for my phone in my purse, I thumbed open the Uber app with sweaty, trembling hands.
“Wait!”
No thanks!
Then—bam. A hand around my arm. Not hard, but firm. And definitely attached to six feet and change of Russian hockey menace.
“Let go,” I snapped, spinning to face him. My voice came out breathless and a little squeaky, which annoyed me because I wanted to sound like a badass femme fatale—not a panicked woodland creature.
He didn’t let go. Not right away.
Instead, he stared at me with those stupidly intense green eyes that looked like they belonged in a cursed fairytale. Tousled dark hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut my last shred of patience, and that body? Yeah, well. Rude.
“You’re upset,” he said.
Oh. Wow. Thank you, Dr. Volkov.
“No kidding,” I snapped, throwing him a look that could curdle milk. “You don’t get to pretend you care.”
Something in his expression shifted—like concern? Or guilt? Or maybe just really good lighting. Whatever it was, it made my heart do this weird fluttery thing that I immediately shoved back down where it belonged.
“I’m not pretending,” he said softly.
And okay, his grip did loosen a little, but I was still frozen there, caught somewhere between rage, exhaustion, and the inconvenient fact that his hand on my arm wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
But I was too mad to care about chemistry. Too mad to melt.
So I did what I always do when I’m spiraling: I smiled too brightly and lied through my teeth.
“Well, good for you,” I said cheerily, voice two octaves too high. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with an Uber, a bath bomb, and absolutely no hockey players.”
“Where is Petrov?” he asked, his voice all serious and Russian like we were in a Cold War spy movie.
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. “He left.”
He tilted his head. “He left you?”
Ugh. “Well, I sent him away,” I clarified, crossing my arms and trying not to fidget under his intense stare.
He raised an eyebrow like I’d just told him I’d gifted my ex-boyfriend a pet scorpion. “And he just left you?”
“I told him to!” I snapped, heat blooming in my cheeks. Not from shame—from sheer exasperation.
He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice how ridiculously tall he was, how his scent was a mix of cologne, leather, and dangerous decisions.
“You know,” he said, that low voice curling around my spine like velvet, “if you were my woman, I would not leave you at a bar by yourself.”
Oh. Oh, excuse me.
I blinked, then laughed—a little too loud, a little too high. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I want a guy who treats me like a decorative paperweight.”
