I flip the lighter open again, watching flame catch and hold. Small and defiant against the darkness pressing in.
“It will all be over soon,” I whisper, staring into the fire.
Sergei’s arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. “Say the word and I’ll get it done.”
We sit like that in the darkness, his heartbeat steady against my spine, the lighter flame dancing between us. The footage loops silently on the screen.
“We end this,” I say quietly, closing the lighter with a soft click. The office plunges into darkness, broken only by the laptop’s glow.
Sergei’s lips brush my temple. “Then we end this,kotyonok. And when we’re done, there won’t be anything left of him to mourn.”
The lighter sits warm in my palm. Gold and scorched and the last piece of Richard Davenport—the man who believed in grace, in second chances, in the inherent goodness of people.
I loved him for that. Still do.
But I’m my mother’s daughter, too, even if I hate admitting it. And she taught me something Dad never could—that sometimesthe only way to survive is to burn everything down and build something new from the ashes.
“Then we end this,” I echo.
23
Izzy
“Again.”
Sergei’s voice cuts through the basement gym, all steel and patience. I’m on the mat, sweating through his old t-shirt, every muscle screaming. My lungs burn. My arms shake. But I get up anyway.
“You’re pulling your punches.” He circles me like a predator assessing prey. His black tank shows off those tattooed forearms, the play of muscle as he moves. Distracting doesn’t begin to cover it. “If someone comes at you, don’t hesitate. You hit to kill or you die.”
“Easy for you to say.” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “You’ve been doing this your whole life.”
“And you’ve been doing it for three days. Stop whining and hit me.”
I throw a punch. He deflects it easily, pivoting to get behind me. His arm snakes around my throat—not choking, just demonstrating control—and his body presses against my back. Heat floods through me despite the exhaustion.
“Dead,” he murmurs against my ear. “What do you do?”
My brain short-circuits. What I want to do involves turning around and kissing him until we both forget why we’re down here. But that’s not what he’s teaching.
I stomp his instep. Slam my elbow back into his ribs. When his grip loosens, I twist free and drive my knee up toward his groin. He blocks it, but I’m already pivoting, using his momentum against him. We both go down hard, and I end up straddling his chest with my forearm across his throat.
“Dead,” I pant. “How’d I do?”
His eyes darken, gaze dropping to where my thighs bracket his torso. “Better. But you telegraphed the knee strike.” His hands find my hips, fingers digging in through sweat-damp fabric. “And now you’re in a compromising position.”
“Am I?” I press my forearm harder against his throat, watching his pulse jump. “From where I’m sitting, you’re the one who’s compromised.”
“You think?” In one fluid motion, he flips us. Suddenly I’m on my back with two hundred pounds of dangerous man pinning me to the mat, his hips settled between my thighs. “This is why you don’t celebrate early,kotyonok.”
The position is obscene. His body against mine, both of us breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin. I should push him off.
Instead, I arch up into him. “Maybe I wanted to be here.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Good thing I like getting burned.”
For three heartbeats, we stay frozen—his eyes boring into mine, his weight delicious and maddening, the space between us charged with everything we’re not acknowledging. Then he rolls off me in one smooth motion and stands, offering his hand.
