I don't know what this is—attraction, convenience, two broken people reaching for warmth in the dark, or something else entirely. I don't know whether the kiss meant something or it was just adrenaline and proximity and need.
I don't know anything except that when he moves around this space, making room for me like I might actually belong here?—
I want to find out.
Whatever this is.
Whatever it becomes.
8
Sergei
"You're staring again."
Izzy's voice cuts through my thoughts. We're in Prospect Park, four days into this arrangement, and she's walking ahead of me on the path near the lake. Black jeans that hug curves I've memorized, leather jacket over silk, hair catching the fading afternoon light like it's weaponized.
She glances back over her shoulder, those blue eyes knowing. "See something you like?"
"I'm scanning for threats."
"Sure you are." Her smile is dangerous, teasing. "That's why you're looking at my ass."
"Your ass is in my line of sight. Not my fault."
She laughs, and the sound makes something in my chest tighten.
Four days of living together. Four nights of lying beside her in the dark, trying not to touch. I'm losing my mind. The scent of vanilla and flowers on my sheets. Her humming in the shower. The way she steals my coffee every morning because hers is never hot enough.
Movement catches my eye. Wrong rhythm, wrong posture. A man in dark clothes moving through the sparse crowd with purpose, hand inside his jacket.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
"Izzy, come here."
She hears the shift in my voice. Stops mid-step. Turns. "What's wrong?"
"Now." I'm already moving, closing the distance, but he's faster. He's drawn the gun, raising it, and there's no time for subtlety. I shove Izzy behind me as the first shot cracks through the air.
A woman screams somewhere. People scatter. I've got my Glock out, returning fire, driving him back toward the tree line. He's good. Trained. But I'm better.
"Stay down!" I bark at Izzy without looking back.
He empties his magazine. I don't.
My bullet catches him center mass. He staggers, goes down hard on the dirt path. I'm on him before he can recover, kicking the gun away, pressing my knee into his chest. His face is pale, blood spreading across his shirt, and I catch the tattoo on his neck as he gasps for air.
Bratva.
"Who sent you?" My voice is cold. Clinical.
He spits blood. Smiles. "The Wolf thinks he can retire? They all pay, eventually."
I press harder. Ribs crack under my weight. "Who. Sent. You."
"Doesn't matter." His breathing's labored, wet. "You're marked. Her, too."
He's dying. I can see it in his eyes, the way the light's already fading. I could call an ambulance. Let the system handle this.
