"Gabrielle." He said my name like he'd been practicing it. Like he already owned it. "I need you to calm down."
"Get away from me!" My voice came out high and thin, nothing like the scream I'd intended. "Help! Someone help me!"
"No one's coming." He was close now, close enough that I could smell his cologne—the same expensive scent I'd noticed in the coffee shop, before he'd vanished and I'd told myself I was imagining things. "And I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" A hysterical laugh clawed its way up my throat. "You broke into my apartment! You've been following me—stalking me—" The realization crashed over me in a wave of horror. "The SUV. Outside my building. That was you."
"Yes."
He didn't deny it. Didn't even try to explain or apologize. Just that single word, delivered with perfect calm, as if admitting to weeks of surveillance was the most natural thing in the world.
"Why?" The word came out as a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
"I want to keep you alive." He took another step closer, and I flinched backward into something solid—one of his men, I realized, who'd moved to block me from behind. "There are people who would hurt you to get to me. I can't allow that."
"I don't even know you!"
"No," he agreed. "But they don't know that. And by the time they realized you were worthless as leverage, you'd already be dead."
The words hit me like ice water. Dead. He was talking about my death as casually as someone might discuss the weather.
"You're insane," I said. "You're completely insane. Let me go right now, or I'll scream until—"
He moved faster than I would have thought possible. One moment he was standing a few feet away; the next, his hand was clamped over my mouth and his other arm was banding around my waist, pulling me back against a body that felt like a wall of solid muscle.
I thrashed against him, kicking backward, clawing at his arm. He didn't even flinch. His grip was iron, immovable, and his voice was terrifyingly calm when he spoke again, his lips close to my ear.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Gabrielle. But I can't let you scream. Not until we're somewhere safe." His breath was warm against my skin, raising goosebumps along my neck. "I need you to trust me."
I bit down on his hand as hard as I could.
He grunted in pain but didn't release me. If anything, his grip tightened, pressing me more firmly against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat against my back—steady, controlled, nothing like the frantic pounding of my own.
"Kirill," he said, and one of the shadows detached itself from the darkness. "The sedative."
No. No, no, no—
I fought harder, twisting and kicking, but the man holding me was too strong. I felt a sharp sting in my arm—a needle, sliding into my vein—and then a cool rush spreading through my body.
"Shh." His voice was almost gentle now, his hand shifting from my mouth to cradle the back of my head. "Just sleep, little dove. When you wake up, you'll be safe."
I tried to scream, but my throat wasn't working. My legs gave out, and he caught me easily, lifting me against his chest like I weighed nothing. The world was going soft at the edges, the darkness of the alley bleeding into a deeper darkness that had nothing to do with night.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he actually sounded like he meant it. "But this is the only way."
The last thing I saw before unconsciousness claimed me was his face—those green eyes watching me with an intensity that felt like possession. Like hunger.
Like I was already his.
***
I woke to the hum of jet engines.
For a long, disoriented moment, I couldn't understand where I was. The surface beneath me was soft leather, not my cotton sheets. The light was wrong—muted, artificial, nothing like the morning sun that usually filtered through my bedroom curtains.
Then memory crashed back, and I bolted upright with a gasp.
I was on a plane. A private jet, judging by the cream leather seats and polished wood accents. Through the window beside me, I could see nothing but darkness and the occasional blink of lights on the wing.
