Roxy
Makari’s private suite feels too big without him. Too bright in some places, too dark in others, as if the entire floor has been holding its breath since he left hours earlier.
I showed up not long after, at the gates. Unexpected, but Lauren let me in anyway with a level gaze. Brought me right to his section of the compound, the one anyone rarely steps into.
I’ve been pacing the length of the main living area for nearly an hour. Past the wall of windows, past the hearth, past the expensive rugs he never bothers to look at. My footsteps sound restless; the rhythm uneven.
Mak is gone. Deep in the wilderness with armed men and barely any daylight, for who knows how long. Hunting a syndicate ruthless enough to kill his people and bold enough to creep onto his land.
I’m here, in a locked-down estate, with six guards stationed in a semicircle around the suite door.
Six guards who look like they were carved out of stone. Bratva. Not the outdoorsmen with quiet smiles and camouflage jackets I’d become used to. These men wear their weapons openly. Their eyes are cold. Their expressions betray nothing butvigilance. They’re polite when I glance at them, but only in the way professionals are polite. In the way trained men soften their edges for the woman they’ve been ordered to protect.
I peek my head out again just to see them. Just to confirm they’re there.
The closest one nods once. “Vse v poryadke, miss.” He sees the confusion on my face and translates without blinking: “Everything is fine.”
I thank him softly and shut the door again, leaning against it for a moment.
I should feel relieved. But relief would only come if Makari were here too—if I could anchor myself to the heat of his presence, to the steady certainty of his voice, to the way he looks at me in moments when he forgets to guard himself.
The estate is secure. The guards are heavily armed. And Dima is in Boston watching my family like some Russian sentinel who takes things personally.
But none of that makes the fear in my chest loosen.
It burns there, stubborn and aching.
The night drags its weight over the hill behind the estate, pouring darkness through the windows little by little. I try sitting. It doesn’t work. I try reading. Impossible. Every sound makes my pulse spike. Footsteps in the hall. Radios crackling. The whisper of the wind against the stone wall outside. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever sleep.
And finally, without thinking, my feet lead me down the hall and into Makari’s bedroom. His scent wraps around me the moment I cross the threshold.
His bed is neatly made. The closet doors are slightly ajar, as if he opened them in a rush earlier—as if he keeps tactical weapons in there; an idea so absurd I actually chuckle quietly. A jacket hangs on the back of a chair, abandoned but still carrying the imprint of his shape.
My throat tightens.
I know I should stay out of here, but I can’t. I need the closeness. I need something to hold on to that’s his.
I sink onto the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the comforter.
It hits me then—what Kat said. She spoke of love like it was a compass, something that points you toward the thing that matters most. She insisted that men like Makari don’t risk power for lust.
Only for love.
I swallow. Hard. Because something in my chest answers that truth, echoes it, trembles beneath it.
Even if she’s wrong about him—even if he doesn’t feel the same—Ido.
I’m in love with him.
The realization lands like a soft devastation. No panic, no bolt of terror. Just a deep, aching acknowledgement that I’ve fallen in love with the last man I ever should have. A man who holds violence in his hands as easily as breath. A man whose world could swallow me whole if I’m not careful.
A man who wants me anyway.
My eyes sweep the room, and something on his dresser catches them—a folder, thick with documents, half-tucked beneath an expensive leather-bound journal. It’s out of place. Makari is too meticulous to leave things askew.
I rise and walk to it, fingertips tracing the embossed initials—M.M. It isn’t locked, so I open it slowly. At first, it looks like financial paperwork. Contracts, legal documents, the kinds of things I help with day to day in the office. When things are running normally. And not centered around a syndicate war.
Then I see my name. And Andrea’s, printed cleanly in the middle of a trust document.
