"I don't want this." My voice is stronger now, even though I'm still shaking. "I don't want you stalking me, hurting people because of me, breaking into my apartment?—"
“I told you not to lie.” He pulls away from me, backing into the shadows. “At least part of that is a lie,kotenok. I know you liked receiving that hand. Knowing that a man thought he could touch you with impunity and being punished for it.” He pauses, those icy eyes searching mine. “You’ll see me again very soon, Mara. And we’ll pick up where we left off.”
"Stay away from me," I whisper, pleading, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
He smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've seen yet—not cruel, not mocking, but genuinely pleased, like I've just confirmed something he already knew. "I'll see you soon, Mara."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the darkness between the buildings, leaving me pressed against the gallery door with my lips still burning from his kiss and my mind screaming at me to run.
But I can’t move. I reach up, touching my lips gingerly, feeling the evidence of what just happened. They’re cold from the freezing air, but they feel as if they’re burning.
Alexander Volkov.
I.S.
The man from Boston is the man who's been stalking me. The man who cut off Richard Maxwells hand, who beat Danielbloody, who's been inside my apartment while I slept. The man who just kissed me like he owns me.
And I kissed him back.
My legs give out, and I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the cold sidewalk, my back against the glass. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering, and I can't tell if it's from fear or adrenaline or the lingering heat of his mouth on mine.
I should call someone. The police, even though they won't help. Claire, even though I can't explain this to her. My… who? Who would I call? One of the friends I rarely see? Annie? How could I ever tell her about this, about everything that’s happening, and risk stressing her out during a difficult pregnancy?
There is no one. The police should be where I turn to, but they’ve proved that they’re useless. I’m alone in this, and the truth is… part of me doesn’t want to tell anyone.
Because if someone did step in, then this would have to end. And despite the fear, this is the most alive I’ve felt in…
…maybe my whole life?
I don't call anyone. I just sit there on the sidewalk outside my gallery, shivering, trying to process what just happened, to understand what's wrong with me that I kissed him back.
He knows everything about me. My routines, my preferences, my apartment, even my pleasure He's been watching me, learning me, studying me like I'm a piece of art he's planning to acquire. The thought sends a shudder of fearful desire through me. He knows me better than anyone else… he said so himself, and he was right.
And I know nothing about him—not even his name. Just the fact that he believes I’m his, and that he's capable of extreme violence.
The imbalance is terrifying. He has all the power, all the control. I'm completely vulnerable, and he's made it clear that he has no intention of letting me go.
You're mine.
The words echo in my head, and I hate that part of me responded to them. Hate that when he said it, when he looked at me with those icy eyes and claimed me like I was something he had the right to own, something in me wanted to surrender.
I force myself to stand, my legs unsteady. I pick up my keys from where I dropped them, and my hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to get them in my pocket.
The street is still quiet. No witnesses to what just happened. No one to confirm that I'm not losing my mind, that this is really happening.
I pull out my phone and open a rideshare app, my fingers clumsy on the screen. I can't walk home. Not after that. I need an enclosed space, something safer, something to get me away from the world where he could be anywhere, watching me, waiting to appear again and remind me who I belong to now.
That fearful thrill prickles over my skin again, and despite everything, I feel a ripple of anticipation.
I know that this won’t be the last time I see Ilya Sorokov.
And I have no idea what will happen the next time I do.
14
ILYA
My penthouse is silent when I return, the only sound the whisper of the elevator doors closing behind me. I shrug off my coat and drop it on the nearest chair, my blood still burning from the kiss. My hands are steady as I pour myself vodka, but my mind is anything but calm. I hesitate before taking a sip, then set the glass back down. I don’t want to wash away the taste of her just yet.
