"I'm going to give them exactly what they deserve."
25
Izzy
“Don’t kill him—please,don’t?—”
I jolt awake, gasping. My hands are tangled in sheets damp with sweat, heart hammering like I’ve run miles. The nightmare clings—Gerald’s eyes going dark, the gunman raising his weapon, my finger on the trigger, the recoil kicking through my arms, blood blooming across his thigh.
Except in the dream, it wasn’t his thigh. It was his chest. And he didn’t fall wounded.
He died.
“Izzy.” Sergei’s voice cuts through the panic, rough with sleep. His hand finds my shoulder. They’re warm and solid. “Breathe,kotyonok. You’re safe.”
“I shot him.” The words tumble out, jagged and raw. “I pulled the trigger and didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just—” I press mypalms against my eyes. “I hurt someone, Sergei. Put him down like you taught me. And I don’t feel guilty.”
The silence stretches. Outside, rain still patters against the windows—softer now, steady instead of violent. I expect him to tell me guilt will come later, that adrenaline masks emotion, that I’m in shock.
Instead, he pulls me against his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my cheek, his arms iron bands around my ribs.
“Good,” he says.
I lift my head, searching his face in the darkness. Grey eyes watch me, no judgment, no horror. Just understanding.
“Good?” My voice cracks.
“You defended yourself. Protected what’s yours.” His thumb traces my jaw, the touch deliberate and claiming. “That’s not something to feel guilty about. That’s survival. That’s strength.”
“I don’t feel like myself anymore.” The confession spills out before I can stop it. “A few months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas. Now I’m shooting people in alleys and planning corporate coups and—” My breath hitches. “I don’t recognize who I’m becoming.”
“I do.” His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. The intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip. “You’re becoming exactly who you were always meant to be. Not some polished doll your mother tried to shape. Not a pawn in your uncle’s games. You’re becoming dangerous. Powerful. Alive.”
“Is that what you see when you look at me?” The question comes out smaller than I intend. “Someone dangerous?”
“I see my Wolf.” His voice drops lower, rougher, sending heat spiraling down my spine. “My equal. Someone who doesn’t need saving because she’s learned to save herself.”
The words hit something deep in my chest. My Wolf. Not his responsibility, not his burden. His equal.
“Sergei—” His name catches in my throat.
“You shot a man today,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. You saw the threat and eliminated it. Do you know how rare that is? How extraordinary?”
“It doesn’t feel extraordinary. It feels—” I search for words. “Necessary. Like breathing. Like survival.”
“Because it is.” His forehead rests against mine, breath mingling with mine in the darkness. “Welcome to my world,kotyonok. This is what it means to stop being prey. To become predator.”
Something shifts between us. The air thickens. It’s charged with more than just attraction. This is recognition—two people who’ve crossed the same line, who understand what it costs and what it gives.
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. “I should be afraid of what I’m becoming, but I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t be.” His mouth hovers a breath from mine. “Fear is for people who still think they can go back. You can’t. Neither can I. So we move forward.”
“Together?”
“Together.” The word is promise and threat wrapped in one.
Then his mouth claims mine, and the world narrows to this—his hands in my hair, my fingers digging into his shoulders, the taste of him familiar and addictive. This isn’t a desperate collision from. This isn’t grief-driven need or adrenaline-fueled escape.
