My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me. “You’re playing dirty.”
“I learned from the best.” She bites my earlobe gently, and I feel the reaction all the way to my cock. “Now let me go get ready. The sooner we handle Matthew, the sooner we get to the good part.”
She’s gone before I can respond, disappearing into the house, leaving me standing in the garage with an inconvenient problem and three hours to get my head right.
Focus. Tonight’s about ending Matthew. Protecting Izzy. Surviving long enough to have a future.
But when I walk inside and see Mila’s school artwork covering the fridge, when I smell vanilla candles and home and family—I know exactly what I’m fighting for.
Not survival.
This.
This exact life we’ve built from fake marriage and real bullets.
And I’ll burn down anyone who tries to take it from us.
38
Izzy
“Can I do your makeup?”
Mila’s voice pulls me from staring at the red dress hanging on the closet door, like a death sentence wrapped in silk. I turn to find her standing in the bathroom doorway, eyes bright with excitement that makes my chest ache.
“You want to help me get ready?” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“Mama never let me.” She moves closer, bare feet silent on marble. “Said I’d mess it up. But you’re different.”
A few months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas and avoiding my mother’s criticism. Now I’m preparing for war with an eight-year-old, who just called me different like it’s the highest compliment.
“I’d love your help, sweetheart.” I gesture toward the vanity, where my makeup is laid out like surgical instruments. “Butfirst, I need to shower. Think you can pick out which eyeshadow would look good with the red dress?”
Her grin is pure sunshine. “The gold one. It’ll make your eyes look like jewels.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right—she’s Sergei’s daughter, which means she notices everything.
The shower’s scalding, turning my skin pink, but I can’t make myself adjust the temperature. Steam fills the glass enclosure, and I press my palms against the tile, breathing through the knot in my chest. Tonight we walk into The Plaza surrounded by people who want us dead. Matthew’s hired Chicago professionals. Mother’s warned me off. Cal Reznick will be circling like a shark.
And I’m bringing Sergei—the most dangerous man in the room—as my date.
My hand finds the razor. I shave my legs, then move to other areas, making sure everything’s smooth. Not for the gala. For after. For when we survive and come home, and I can finally stop thinking past the next breath.
If we survive.
No. Not if. When. We’ve planned for every contingency. Andrei has men positioned. Wesley’s monitoring security feeds. Sergei will be glued to my side.
We’re going to win.
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. In the mirror, steam-fogged and distorted, I barely recognize myself. Black hair hangs wet down my back. Blue eyes look too bright,too wide. I’m twenty-nine years old and planning to destroy my family at a charity event.
Dad would hate this.
But Dad’s dead. And the people who killed him are about to learn what happens when you underestimate a Davenport.
“Izzy? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
