She fought back. She survived. She killed a man who came to hurt her.
Pride mixes with the relief, dark and possessive. This is my Mara—not some fragile thing that needs constant protection, but a woman who can be fierce and deadly when cornered. A woman who can survive in my world.
"You're magnificent," I murmur, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Her expression changes, shock giving way to something else.Anger.
She shoves at my chest, and I let her push me back a step. "This is your fault." Her voice is shaking, accusatory. "He came here because of you."
I can't deny it, and I won't insult her by trying. "Yes."
"Someone tried to kill me because of you." Her jaw is clenched now, her fear transforming into rage. "Because you've been stalking me, because you couldn't leave me alone, because you decided I was yours?—"
"You are mine."
"—and now there's a dead body in my gallery!" Her voice breaks on the last word, and I can see her starting to fracture, the shock and adrenaline wearing off as reality crashes in.
"You're right," I say, keeping my voice level. "This happened because of me. Because I've been seen with you, because I've made it clear you matter to me. That made you a target."
"A target for what? Who was he?" She gestures at the man’s body, her hand trembling.
“I don’t know who he is specifically. But I can guess who he works for—a man named Sergei Kima.” I watch her face, seeing the confusion there. She doesn't know these names, or understand what they mean. "Sergei is a rival. He controls most of the Bratva operations in New York."
"Bratva." She repeats the word like she's testing it. "Russian mafia."
"Yes."
Her eyes narrow. “Are you a part of that?”
“I am.” I hold back the bulk of the information for now: who I really am in the power structure, how deeply entrenched I am. But I won’t lie to her about it, especially not now. "He's ambitious. Ruthless. He's been looking for ways to expand his territory, to eliminate rivals who might challenge him."
Mara’s mouth trembles. "What does that have to do with me?"
"I've been spending time in New York. In his territory. That made him suspicious—is Sorokov planning something? Is he making moves I should know about?" I glance at the dead man’s body. "And then he noticed you—that I've been distracted, focused on a woman instead of business. That made you a target."
She shakes her head, backing away from me. "No. No, this is insane. I'm not—I'm just?—"
"You're the woman Ilya Sorokov is obsessed with. That makes you valuable to anyone who wants to hurt me." The words are brutal, but she needs to understand. "Sergei could use you against me. He probably wanted to use you to force me to leave.”
"Did you know?" Her voice is sharp, rising to a high pitch. "Did you know this would happen?"
The guilt is immediate and sharp, an unfamiliar sensation that I don't like. I'm not used to feeling guilty about collateral damage, about the consequences of my actions affecting others. But this is Mara, and the thought of her hurt because of me is unbearable.
"I suspected Sergei might make a move," I admit. "But I thought I had more time. I thought he'd approach me directly first, test my boundaries before going after you. I thought you would be with me, safe, before he would try anything.”
"You suspected." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You suspected someone might try to kill me, and you didn't warn me? Didn't tell me I was in danger?"
"I was wrong." My jaw clenches. "I underestimated how quickly he'd act, how bold he'd be. I should have moved you somewhere safe already. Should have taken you the moment I revealed myself. The other night, I should have?—"
"You don't get to 'take me' anywhere." Her voice is rising again, her anger clearly overriding her fear. "You don't get to make decisions about my life, about my safety. This is my life, and you've—you've destroyed it."
She stares at me, the words hanging in the air between us. "I need to call the police," she says, moving as if to walk past me. "There's a body. I killed someone. I need to?—"
"No." I reach for her, my fingers closing around her wrist, and she freezes. "You're not calling the police."
“Let go of me?—”
"The police can't protect you from the Bratva." I keep my hand on her wrist, my voice hard. "Only I can."
