One blow.
That was all it took to knock the idiot to the ground.
His biggest mistake was falling flat on his back, giving me the opening to straddle him in the worst possible way. I recalled how his eyes widened in terror when he realized just how fucked he was. The man’s body jerked beneath me as I drilled skull-crushing blows into his face. His nose broke on the very first punch, and the more I slammed my fists into his battered face, the more his blood splashed on the snow.
“How dare you touch her?! How dare you!”
Those had been my words, laced with venom as I beat the man to death with my bare hands.
By the time I was satisfied and rose to my feet, the chaos around me had settled. The enemy had been neutralized, and my men remained on high alert. However, that wasn’t my concern—I was more focused on Eva and what might be going through her mind.
She stood frozen beside the car, its surface pockmarked with bullet holes and shattered glass. Her eyes were wide with terror, her lips quivering as if she were staring into the face of a monster.
I’d never been one to worry or give a shit about what people thought of me. But that look she had broke something in me, and for the first time, I felt hurt.
I brushed off the silly emotion and asked if she was okay, watching with a soft expression as she nodded and then shook her head. Clearly, her mind was still a tangled mess at the time.
Before I could say another word, Eva did the unexpected; she ran into my arms. Shocked, I let my hands hover around her for a moment, just to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. When she held on to me tightly, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me.
The hug was wonderful, but it was nothing compared to the kiss she planted on my lips.
Even now, the taste of her lingered on my tongue, a reminder of our brief moment of intimacy. I would cherish this memory for a long time, especially because it had been unexpected.
Despite how good the kiss and the hug felt, the cynical part of me wouldn’t stop whispering doubts. Perhaps all of that was born out of instant gratification. Perhaps, she only acted in the heat of the moment, and maybe it didn’t mean anything to her.
All dressed up in my impeccably tailored black suit, I walked over to her room, where I found the door open. I stood by the entrance with a hand in my pocket as I watched her pack her things into a suitcase. The new clothes I had gotten her were stashed on the bed, with the suitcase beside them.
We were to return to Chicago this morning, and I’d just dropped by to check on her.
She was dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized cotton sweater with sleeves that swallowed her hands. Her eyes were fixed on the clothes she was folding neatly. Even though she was physically present in the room, her mind was somewhere else.
“Hey,” I called softly.
She flinched, as if startled by the sound of my voice.
“Relax, you’re safe,” I teased.
Her lips curled into something that looked like a forced smile. “Is the car ready yet?” she asked, her eyes dropping back to the clothes she was folding.
I hesitated, sensing the change in her mood. “Itwillbe in five minutes.”
“Okay,” she answered without lifting her head to look at me.
I wasn’t sure why she was moody this morning, as if she hadn’t kissed me passionately last night.
Was she like this because of the near-death experience or because of the kiss? It was unclear to me what the case here was, and that uncertainty disturbed me more than I cared to admit.
I was tempted to ask what was up with her, and my lips had even parted, ready to speak. However, at the last second, I just turned around and left without a word.
By the time we reached the airfield, not long after, we sat across from each other, the awkward silence threatening tosuffocate us both. To avoid my gaze, she pretended to read a magazine, her face hidden behind the pages.
A thought then crossed my mind: What if she was moody and distant because she was embarrassed about the kiss? She’d always claimed to hate me, but last night, she came at me and locked lips with mine.
Surely her womanly pride must’ve been pricked by that move. Perhaps this was the reason for the attitude—nothing more, nothing less.
I relaxed in my seat and crossed my legs, deciding to give her some time to get her act together.
Sophie, the French air hostess, appeared beside me, a bottle of brandy in her hand. “Bonjour, Monsieur Tarasov,” she greeted me, wearing a coy smile.
