"You married The Wolf,kotyonok. Comfort's off the table."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.Little kitten. She blinks, color rising in her cheeks, and I regret it immediately. This is supposed to be professional. Clean. Except nothing about Izzy feels clean. She's all sharp edges and desperate need wrapped in designer silk.
We reach her building. Marco pulls the town car into the garage entrance while I keep driving, circling the block. The sedan's gone, lost somewhere in the theater district, but that doesn't mean we're clear.
"Stay here," I tell her, pulling into a loading zone half a block down. Rain starts pattering against the windshield, soft at first, then harder. "I'll get your things."
"I can pack my own?—"
"You can stay in this car, where it's safe." My hand finds her knee, fingers tightening through silk. The touch is meant to be reassuring but lands somewhere closer to possessive. "Five minutes. Don't move."
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work, remembering how it tasted. "Sergei?—"
"Five minutes, Isabelle."
I'm out of the car before she can argue, rain soaking through my jacket as I jog back to her building. The doorman lets me in, eyebrows raising at my appearance, but he’s too well trained to comment. I take the private elevator to 38, already cataloguing what she'll need. Clothes, toiletries, whatever sentimental shit she can't live without.
Her penthouse feels different in the daylight. Less seductive, more exposed. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the rain-darkened park, and I can see exactly how vulnerable she is up here. Glass and marble, and nowhere to hide if someone comes through that door with bad intentions.
She needs me. The thought shouldn't satisfy me as much as it does.
I pack efficiently. Suitcase from her closet, armfuls of dresses and jeans, and impractical shoes. Her bathroom yields enough product to stock a salon, and I grab what looks essential. In her nightstand, I find a framed photo of her and her father, both laughing at something outside the frame.
I pack that, too.
Four minutes. I'm scanning for anything else when my phone buzzes. Message from Izzy.
Black sedan's back. Different position.
Ice floods my veins.
I'm moving before conscious thought, suitcase abandoned, hand going to the Glock tucked against my spine. Out the door, down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because elevators are death traps. My phone buzzes again.
Two men getting out. Not cops.
Fuck.
I hit the lobby at a dead run, the doorman shouting behind me, but I'm already through the service exit into the rain. The SUV's where I left it, engine running. Izzy's pressed against the passenger door, face white, and the sedan's parked across the street. Two men in dark suits approach with purpose.
They see me. One reaches inside his jacket.
I'm in the driver's seat before he clears leather, throwing the SUV into gear, tires screaming as we lurch forward. Izzy slams back in her seat, gasping, and I floor it through a red light, weaving between cars with the precision of someone who's run from worse.
"Seatbelt," I bark.
She clicks it with shaking hands. "Who were they?"
"Don't know. Don't care." Another turn, hard enough to make the tires hydroplane. The sedan's trying to follow, but traffic's thick, choking. "You hurt?"
"No. Terrified, but no."
"Good. Stay terrified. Keeps you sharp."
We blast through another intersection, and I check the mirrors. The sedan's three blocks back now, struggling. I take two more turns, double back, lose them completely in the tangle of one-way streets around Columbus Circle.
Only when I'm sure we're clear do I slow down, merging into normal traffic, like we didn't just run from armed men in broad daylight. Rain drums against the roof, steady and relentless. Izzy's breathing too fast, her hand white-knuckled around the door handle.
"We're okay," I tell her.
