I don’t stop until we reach the waiting armored car. I shove her into the passenger seat, buckling her in, then jump into the driver’s side.
I slam the car into gear, the tires squealing as we leave the premises. The sound of fighting fades behind us, replaced by the heavy silence of the closed, tinted car. We’re the only two here.
I glance over at her. Her body is rigid, her face pale, the bruise on her cheek standing out against her skin, but she's not crying anymore. She’s staring straight ahead, the horror of the ballroom etched into her eyes.
I reach across the center console and cup her head, turning her face into my side so I can see her. I feel her finally relax against my touch, burying herself in my shirt. I stroke her hair, whispering sweet words—words I rarely use, words that feel rough and unfamiliar on my tongue, but which she needs to hear.
“I’m so sorry,printsessa,” I whisper, the self-hatred sharp. “I should have come sooner. Forgive me for letting them touch you.”
I beg her forgiveness—not for the violence I just committed, but for the violence she endured. I continue to hold her, driving through the quiet city streets, speaking softly in protective Russian until the sight of the estate’s high stone walls comes into view. She doesn’t understand a word I said, but she doesn’t ask questions. She just lets me care for her.
I have her back. And now, David Chang will pay.
I hold her like she’s the most fragile thing in the world, and—for the first time since this nightmare began—I let myself believe that she’s safe.
When we arrive at the estate, I don’t waste any time taking her up to the suite. I carry her through the bathroom doorway without thinking, set her down on the edge of the tub, and drop to my knees so I’m at her level. Her eyes are glazed, small breaths catching. When she looks at me, I don’t see the defiant woman from a week ago; I see someone hollowed out by fear and outrage. I hate whoever did this with a heat that numbs my palms.
“Hold still,” I tell her, voice low. “I’m going to get you clean.”
She doesn’t say anything—can’t, maybe—but she lets me. She lets me peel off the silk gown that smells like other men and other rooms. There’s no prurience in what I do, only methodical tenderness: I unlace the knots, peel the heels from her feet, andlay a robe across her shoulders so the cold doesn’t bite what’s left of her.
The tub water is warm, not hot—just enough to soothe. I cup my hands and bring the water up to her face first, because I know she needs her face washed of the dust and blood and the last traces of that awful room. She blinks into the water, shivers, and for a moment her lips part as if she might say something. I press a fingertip to her jaw and tilt her chin gently.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, and I mean it with a conviction that surprises me. “I’ve got you.”
I wash her hair carefully, fingers working at the tangles, rinsing until the salon scent is gone and there’s only her. I find bruises—small, ugly maps on pale skin—and I wash around them, but never too roughly. When I come to the dark smear along her forearm, I press the washcloth, and the cloth comes away red; my stomach twists, but my hands don’t stop. I rinse until the water runs clear.
She lets out a sound—half sob, half relief—when I lift her chin and wipe her face. Her lashes are wet; when she opens her eyes, they’re smaller but sharper, like steel that’s been bent and tempered.
I rinse her off in silence, careful not to hurt her where the bruises bloom dark against her skin. When I’m done, I grab a towel and dry her slowly, methodically—like she might shatter if I rush.
Then I wrap her in one of my robes, the thick black one that swallows her whole, and lift her into my arms. She doesn’t resist. Her head rests against my chest, and the steady rhythm of her breathing is the only thing holding me together.
Back in the room, I lay her gently on the bed. The sheets are clean, the lights low, the chaos of the world locked outside for one fragile moment.
“How do you feel?” I ask, my voice quieter than I expect.
For a second, I think she won’t answer. Then—she smiles. Small, trembling, but real. Before I can move, she reaches for me, arms slipping around my neck as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I knew you’d come. I just…I was starting to lose hope.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in like oxygen after drowning.
“I told you I’d find you,” I say against her skin. “No matter what.”
She nods, her fingers gripping my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to the promise.
“Sweetheart, I have to go find David.” I kiss her forehead as she lies back, smooth and spent. “I have to make sure he never lifts his head again.”
She blinks up at me, exhausted, and for the first time, there’s no fight in her eyes—only something like trust. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Her words boost my morale, and as I step out of the suite, I’m hyperfocused. I have one purpose: to kill David Chang. I’m heading down the steps when my phone rings. Lev’s name flashes on the screen.
He doesn’t waste words. “David’s in custody. We’ve got him. I’ve sent you a location .”
It’s the best news I’ve heard all week. I don’t think—I move. The Jeep eats the road; the city becomes a smear of headlights and cold. Every red light is an insult. I drive like a man on fire.
The warehouse reeks of oil, concrete, and old fear. They’ve got him slumped in the center, ropes biting into his wrists. His suit is a ruin; he looks small, like a paper king caughtin a storm. Lev, Adrian, Niko, Dimitri, Luka—my men—stand around him, slow and steady as predators.
