"Welcome to the family, Mrs. Orlov," he says, and darkness floods his smile, predatory and promising.
What have I done?
But I know the answer.
I've made a deal with The Wolf.
And wolves don't let go once they've tasted blood.
6
Sergei
"You're officially stuckwith me now."
Izzy's voice cuts through the City Hall corridor, echoing off marble that's seen a thousand marriages and probably twice as many regrets. She's clutching the marriage certificate like it might disintegrate, her black hair falling loose from the twist she'd attempted this morning. Those blue eyes flash with triumph and terror in equal measure.
I button my suit jacket, charcoal grey, the only concession I made to this charade, and study my new wife. She's wearing cream silk that hugs every curve I memorized four nights ago, and the sight makes my jaw lock.
"Stuck implies I had a choice," I say.
Her laugh is sharp. Nervous. "You signed the paper. That was a choice."
"Was it?" I take the certificate from her hands, folding it with deliberate care. Ten minutes ago, we stood in front of a judge, who looked bored enough to fall asleep mid-ceremony. Two signatures. One perfunctory kiss that lasted exactly three seconds and felt like touching a live wire.
Now she's Mrs. Orlov, and I'm trying not to think about what that means.
We exit into grey afternoon light, rain threatening in clouds the color of gunmetal. My car, black SUV with bulletproof windows and enough armor to survive a small war, idles at the curb. Marco's behind the wheel of Izzy's town car two spots back, waiting to follow us to her penthouse.
"I need to pack," she says, fidgeting with the diamond on her left hand. I bought it yesterday after we signed the agreement. Three carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. It cost more than my first kill contract, and watching her slide it on made something primitive twist behind my ribs.
"We'll be quick." I open the SUV door, my hand finding the small of her back. The touch sends heat through my palm, and I force myself to pull away. Business arrangement. That's what she called it.
Except business arrangements don't make your pulse kick when she bites her lip.
The drive to her penthouse takes thirty minutes through midtown traffic. She's quiet beside me, staring out the window, and I use the silence to check my mirrors. Force of habit. The black sedan three cars back has been there since we left City Hall.
Could be coincidence.
I don't believe in coincidences.
"What's wrong?" Izzy's watching me now, those sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Maybe nothing." I switch lanes abruptly, cutting off a taxi. The sedan follows. "Call Marco. Tell him to park when we get to your building. You're riding with me after."
Her face goes pale. "Someone's following us?"
"Don't look back." My voice comes out harder than I intend, but she obeys, gripping the armrest instead. "Your phone. Now."
She fumbles it out of her purse, and her dad's lighter tumbles out with it, that scorched gold thing she carries everywhere. Her hands shake as she dials Marco.
"Marco, change of plans," she says, voice steadier than I expected. "Park when we arrive. I'm leaving with Sergei." Pause. "Yes, I'm sure. I'll text you later."
She hangs up. Looks at me. "Who is it? Elena? My uncle?"
"Could be either." I take another hard turn, watching the sedan struggle to keep pace. "Could be someone new. Your family's not the only one with enemies."
"Comforting."
