“I didn’t know you were back in the city!” she says, pulling me into a tight hug. Her perfume smells the same as always—vanilla and citrus. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
I hug her back, more grateful for the familiar comfort than I expected. “I’ve been… busy.”
“That’s an understatement.” She pulls back and squints at me. “Are you okay? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’m fine,” I lie for the second time today.
She follows me inside when I open my door. The apartment isn’t much, just a small studio meant for students, but Suzy plops onto the couch like she’s been here a hundred times.
“I was talking to Clara last month,” she says, dropping the tote at her feet. “Or, well, I tried to. Her number was disconnected.”
I pause mid-step. “Disconnected, why?”
“That’s the thing. Nobody knows.” She sighs and pulls her legs up. “You know her. She went digging into things she shouldn’t have. That article she wrote about Lukyan Sharov? It blew up for a week and then… nothing. Silence.”
A cold ripple moves through me at the familiar name. Sharov. The kind of name whispered in crime documentaries and off-the-record conversations.
Suzy lowers her voice. “I swear the Sharovs got to her. They’re serious people, Eden. Not the kind you piss off and walk away from.”
I swallow, my pulse uneven again.
Simon Sharov. It’s a massive leap, I know, but there’s a knot in my stomach I can’t seem to get rid of.
“I hope she’s okay,” Suzy murmurs. “Wherever she is.”
I nod, even as my mind drifts back to the alley, to the way Simon looked at me, to the easy control in his voice.
There’s a Simon in the Sharov family, isn’t there? I’ve seen the name in the news. He fits the bill—wealthy, composed, secretive. I know his family have Russian roots from the hint of an accent on his syllables. It’s too much of a coincidence.
Dangerous people.
She has no idea how close I already came to one.
Chapter Four - Simon
I keep my distance for the next three days. Not out of restraint—if I wanted her, I’d have her—but because watching her without being seen tells me more than any confrontation ever could.
My men stay two blocks behind her at all times, rotating shifts so she never notices the same face twice. I check in on the updates every few hours, and when the footage streams in, I watch that instead of sleeping.
Patterns always reveal the truth. People lie with words, not with habits.
Eden walks the same three routes. Her apartment to campus. Campus to a tiny bookstore on Twelfth. Bookstore to a café where she sits by the window, always choosing the seat that gives her a view of the door.
She drinks tea, not coffee. She writes more than she reads. When someone passes too close to her table, her shoulders pull tight before she forces them down.
Eden is hyperaware but not in the way of someone trained. More in the way of someone who learned to pay attention because the world didn’t give her the privilege of safety.
When she texts, her face softens. When she speaks to anyone, she smiles politely even if her eyes say she wants to be left alone. She isn’t naïve, but she trusts the world far more than she should. It’s a contradiction that shouldn’t exist. Softness balanced against sharp instinct. Warmth balanced against caution. Innocence threaded with something that isn’t innocence at all.
I watch her on one of the cameras near her bookstore—the security feed is grainy, but clear enough. She pauses at the display window, staring at a psychology text before deciding against it.
A woman bumps her shoulder, and Eden murmurs an apology, even though she wasn’t at fault. She keeps walking, notebook hugged to her chest.
She’s careful, but not careful enough.
My second-in-command, Viktor, stands beside me in the surveillance room. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable.
“You’re spending a lot of time on this girl,” he says lightly.
