By noon, I’m grinding my teeth.
I overhear two servants whispering near the back staircase. Something about threats. The Italian faction—the one the Bratva crushed months ago—has apparently started breathing fire again. Retaliation, they called it. Payback.
And Lukin? He’s responded by doubling security. Which, apparently, means sticking Ronan to my side like glue.
It’s infuriating.
I get that outside the estate might be dangerous, but inside? This house is a fortress. Steel gates. Cameras. Guards posted like statues at every corner. I’m not naive—I know Lukin’s world is brutal. But I also know fear when it’s overcompensating.
So when I tell Ronan I’m going to the garden to sketch, I don’t expect an argument.
He doesn’t give one—but he follows anyway.
I step onto the garden path, sketchbook in hand, and feel the sun hit my skin. Finally, something real. Something soft. I walk toward the bench beneath the rose arbor and sit, pretending he isn’t there.
But I feel his eyes, always.
“Do you have to hover?” I mutter under my breath as I flip to a clean page.
Ronan doesn’t respond. Of course not. He just shifts slightly, arms folded, scanning the garden like someone’s about to leap out from behind the hydrangeas with a knife.
I exhale sharply and put pencil to paper, trying to forget that every line I draw is being watched.
“I need to patrol the perimeter. I’ll be back in a few,” Ronan says and I can’t hide my breath of relief as he walks briskly away. Finally, space. Fresh air.
But it’s short-lived.
The quiet wraps around me for maybe three minutes before I hear fast, heavy footsteps pounding against the garden path. I look up just as Ronan charges back around the hedge. He’s pale, chest heaving, eyes wide.
“Get up,” he snaps, grabbing my arm. “The guards at the gate—they’re not ours. I think the Italians are inside. I’ve called Lukin, but we have to move. Now.”
The world shifts under me. He starts pulling me toward the house, and my feet barely keep up. But then, I hear footsteps that aren’t ours.
“Shit,” Ronan mutters, and before I can react, he shoves me hard into the hedges. “Stay down. Don’t move.”
I crouch low, thorns pricking my skin. My heart slams against my ribs so loud it drowns out the storm in my ears. I lay a hand on my stomach, praying my baby and I are safe.
A tall man in black steps into the garden, boots heavy against the ground, a snake tattoo curling up the side of his neck. His voice is thick with accent and menace.
“Where is she?” he asks Ronan. “Hand her over, and maybe you’ll live.”
Ronan doesn’t flinch. “Fuck off,” he growls. “Go to hell.”
It happens fast.
They clash, all fists and blood and snarling fury. I can’t tear my eyes away. Ronan fights hard—gosh, he fights—but the man is stronger. A flash of steel. A wet sound. Ronan stumbles. A knife deep in his stomach.
“No,” I gasp, covering my mouth. The stab is followed by a loud gunshot.
Ronan drops like a rag doll. Lifeless. Gone. My body shakes. The man wipes his knife clean, eyes scanning the garden like a wolf sniffing out prey.
“Little rabbit?” he calls, slow and mocking. “Come out, come out. Or I start with the maids.”
I gasp and this time it’s a little loud. He starts toward me. I try to scoot back, but the hedge presses in. Nowhere to go. He reaches for me, and I brace for pain, but bang! The sound cracks through the garden like lightning.
The man jerks once—then falls. A perfect hole between his eyes. I stare in shock as the body hits the ground, blood splashing all around me.
That’s when I see him. Lukin.
