I can’t keep pretending I’m made of stone, like her distance doesn’t drive me insane, like I don’t lie awake at night recalling what her skin tastes like. I want her. I want every damn inch of her—her body, her heart, her fire. But she’s not ready.
Not yet.
And if I touch her before she is, I’ll snap whatever thin thread we’re hanging by.
I get up, throw on a shirt, and head out. It’s past three, but I can’t sit still anymore.
If I can’t have her, I need a fucking distraction.
I head to the office, hoping the cold and the work will help clear my head. Hoping numbers and deals will be enough to silence her voice in my mind.
But I already know—there’s no escaping her.
Not even in my dreams.
I work all day until evening, struggling to keep my head straight and thoughts of her at bay. There’s too much on my mind. Too much of her under my skin. I avoid going outside the office, having the cook bring me breakfast and lunch here.
By 8:00 p.m. my phone buzzes on my table. It’s from my secure line and I peek at it to see Arseny’s name on the screen.
I pick it up. “Talk.”
“There’s been a breach,” he says, voice clipped, breathless. “Southside warehouse. Fire is ongoing as I speak. Looks professional. Coordinated. I’ve called backup.”
I go still. That particular warehouse isn’t just bricks and boxes—it’s sensitive. Hidden inventory. Quiet shipments. The kind that don’t officially exist.
“How many on-site?”
“Four. Two down. Backup’s five minutes out.”
“On my way.” I hang up.
I don’t hesitate. I open the drawer, grab my gun, check the mag, lock it in with a satisfying click. No wasted movements.No questions. My mind shifts instantly, from desire to war. From Zoe to blood.
I stride toward the door. The hallway is quiet, my footsteps muffled against the runner as I approach the stairs.
Then Zoe appears. Fresh from her room, dressed in soft cotton, barefoot, her hair a mess of curls she hasn’t bothered to tame yet. But her eyes—they’re alert. Frowning.
She sees me, and it’s like she senses it. The change in the air. The weight in my hands. The tension in my jaw.
We stop a few feet apart.
She doesn’t ask. I don’t explain.
But the moment stretches between us like wire drawn tight, humming with everything we don’t say.
Her mouth opens like she might speak, but she doesn’t. I just hold her gaze for a heartbeat longer than I should, then turn and disappear down the stairs, the only sound following me the soft whisper of her breath in the silence
The warehouse is chaos. Smoke. Gunfire. Shouting.
I step out of the car and into the storm like I was born in it. My boots hit the ground, and I move fast—no hesitation, no wasted breath. The air reeks of oil and blood. One of my men shouts from behind a stack of crates, pinned down. I spot the first shooter on a raised platform. He doesn’t see me until it’s too late.
One bullet. Between the eyes.
He drops like a stone.
Another crouches behind the loading dock, rifle raised, scanning. He’s smart—using cover, watching the angles. But I’m faster. I flank him from the side, duck low and come up clean. One shot to the gut, another to the head. He twitches once and goes still.
I push deeper inside, a shadow moving through shadows.
