The phone in my pocket vibrates again—another alert from Viktor. Rafael’s men are moving faster.
My world demands attention, but my focus is here. On the girl breathing hard in front of me. On the fire in her eyes battling with fear. On the strange, dangerous weight of wanting her to understand me, even if she never should.
I pull back, forcing myself to turn.
“Take her home,” I order Lukyan. “The long way. No threats. No contact.”
Eden’s breath catches. “You’re letting me go?”
I pause at the warehouse door. “I’m choosing not to lose you.”
She flinches at the phrasing, but I’m already walking out, irritation knotting tight in my chest—not at her, but at myself, at the intensity that coils whenever she’s near, at the way her existence shifts the center of my focus.
I step into the night, pulling the warehouse door shut behind me.
Protection shouldn’t feel this personal. Control shouldn’t feel this urgent.
Yet, even as I move to confront a rival crew encroaching on my empire, my thoughts remain tethered to her—her breath, her fear, her defiance.
Eden isn’t a threat, she’s a distraction.
Still, eliminating her is impossible.
***
From the moment dawn breaks, I can’t keep my mind off her. I tell myself it’s strategy, a necessary precaution, the kind of vigilance that keeps my empire intact.
Every order I give, every report I review, every conversation with my men is hollowed out by the same distraction. Eden. Her defiance. Her fear. Her sharp, stubborncourage. She should be a loose end I’m preparing to cut. Instead, she’s a thought I can’t seem to lose.
She’s under guard in a safe location, exactly where I placed her. She isn’t hurt. She isn’t alone.
The truth settles beneath my ribs like pressure—steady, unignorable. I need to see her. I need to understand what it is about her that keeps threading itself through my control.
I go to her apartment without announcing myself. The hallway is quiet, and her door isn’t locked. She sits on the edge of her couch, tense, alert, still in yesterday’s clothes. She looks at me with a mix of frustration and fear, but there’s something else beneath it—awareness. She stands as soon as she sees me.
“What do you want?” she asks. Her voice is tight, but not broken.
Control should be automatic. It always is. Something about how she holds herself—wary, determined, refusing to cower—makes my pulse shift. I step closer, testing her the way I test anyone who challenges my boundaries. Her breath stutters. Her shoulders rise. Her eyes flicker between my face and the door, calculating escape and failing to find any opening. Still, she doesn’t back down.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers.
“I disagree.”
I move closer still, just enough that heat radiates between us. She stiffens, but she keeps her chin lifted. That spark of defiance pushes at something inside me, something I don’t want to name. Her pulse betrays her every time—quickening, fluttering, visible beneath her skin. She tries to hide it, but it only reveals how hard she’s fighting to stay composed.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
I let silence stretch, watching how it affects her. Her jaw tightens. Her breath grows shallow. She’s afraid, but she refuses to break. Finally, I answer, “You don’t understand your position.”
“Then explain it,” she snaps back.
Bold. Reckless. Too honest for her own safety. Her courage unsettles me. Her innocence complicates everything. The combination tears through my control like a blade through silk.
“You think I won’t get answers from you,” I murmur. “You think you can hide your intentions from me.”
Her hands clench. “I don’t have intentions.”
“Everyone does.”
