He has. Just not the choice he thinks he cornered me into.
When we start to leave, several men make a point of wishing me a good night. Their eyes flick to Alina and away as if I’ve trained them with a shock collar. Good. A threatened knife to the eye and a man praying through dessert tends to make an impression.
Outside, the night has cooled. A summer storm hangs heavy overhead, streetlights casting halos on the damp pavement. I hold the car door as Alina slides in. The hem of her dress climbs her thighs, making me want things I know I can never have.
Renat pulls into traffic. Alina sits with her back straight, hands laced in her lap like a well-behaved girl at Sunday school. I let the quiet sit between us until it weighs more than words.
“You made a scene,” she says at last, still refusing to look at me. “Back there.”
“I made a point.” I keep my voice level. “There’s a difference.”
She turns toward me now, anger bright and clear in her eyes. “I’m not something you get to claim.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not an object. You’re a line.”
Her confusion flickers. “A what?”
“A line men won’t cross if they want to keep their eyes or their hands. Better to be mine than someone else’s.”
She exhales a humorless sound. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”
“It isn’t meant to be a comfort.” I hold her gaze. “It’s meant to be true.”
She looks away toward the glass, the city, and some version of herself that isn’t trapped between two men’s definitions.
A long block later, she says quietly, “You didn’t have to threaten to cut that man’s eye out.”
“I did,” I say. “He wasn’t paying attention.”
“And you would enjoy teaching him a lesson,” she says.
“Sometimes.” The corner of my mouth moves. “Tonight, I would have enjoyed it more than most.”
She falls silent. Renat turns onto the avenue that takes us home. Or what will be her home for one more night.
Oddly enough, I can already feel the emptiness my place will have without her in it.
Maybe tomorrow doesn’t have to be the end for us. Just the end of this nightmare Archer caused for Alina before we get a chance at something else.
11
Dominik
When we stepinto the penthouse, I dismiss Viktor with a nod and send Petrov to make a fifteen-minute sweep. “Roof rotation holds. No interruptions unless someone stops breathing.”
They both leave silently, soldiers who know my expectations without needing any clarification.
Alina moves toward the wall of windows as if compelled. Her hands rest on the back of the sofa, eyes on the city, so damn beautiful. I’m already addicted to the stubborn tilt of her jaw.
“You handled yourself well tonight,” I tell her.
She lets out a soft laugh. “By not making a scene like you did?”
“By understanding when scenes get people killed,” I reply. “Don’t challenge Gavriil again. Insulting him is an invitation to die slowly.”
“He would really get angry enough to kill me just for insulting him?” she questions me.
“Worse. He’ll want to make you his toy,” I say, tension building in my chest.
