1
Izzy
Four margaritas deep,and my bikini is doing God's work.
Then the devil shows up to collect.
He's standing at the edge of my infinity pool like he owns it—tall, broad, dressed in all black despite the Mexican heat, like he's personally offended by the concept of vacation. Silver threads through dark hair swept back from a face that belongs on a wanted poster or a billboard, depending on your survival instincts.
Mine have always been shit.
I lower my sunglasses. Let my eyes drag down his body slow enough to be insulting.
Shoulders that could pin me to a wall and make me thank him for it. Forearms roped with muscle and ink; sleeves rolled to the elbow, like he's about to fix something or break someone. Jaw carved from granite and bad decisions. And those eyes—slate-grey, winter-cold—taking me apart piece by piece, like he's deciding which parts to keep.
"You lost, sweetheart?" I ask. "Or just looking for trouble?"
Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a smile. Not even the decency to look at my tits, which are doing fantastic work in this bikini.
He just stands there. Dissects me, exhibiting the kind of stillness that comes from being very comfortable with violence.
"Miss Davenport. We need to speak. Privately."
That voice.
Low. Russian. The kind of voice that could talk you out of your clothes and into trouble without raising a single decibel.
Wait. I know that voice.
My heart slams to a stop. I look again—past the silver that used to be darker, past the clean-shaven jaw that used to hide behind a beard. Past two years of pretending I didn't trace his face in my sleep.
Sergei.
The Wolf.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, some stupid instinct making me straighten my spine, push my shoulders back. Three triangles of fabric barely containing what's underneath. I know exactly what I look like standing here, dripping wet in the afternoon sun.
His eyes don't drop.
Not once.
Not even a flicker below my chin.
It's infuriating. It's also the hottest thing that's happened to me in months.
The man who killed someone in my hallway with his bare hands and then vanished like smoke through a keyhole, leaving me with nothing but a corpse-shaped hole in my fantasies and absolutely no closure.
My father hired him when a stalker got too close. Sergei ended the problem in under thirty seconds and then stood over the body, like he was waiting for a Yelp review.Efficient. Would recommend. Five stars.
That was the night I realized two things: I was safe. And I was in deep, dangerous trouble.
"You look different," I manage.
"So do you." His gaze still hasn't moved from my face. "Your father sent me."
Three words.
The wrong three.
