He's beautiful in the way dangerous things always are. Sharp and lethal and mesmerizing. Dark hair swept back from a face all brutal angles and cold symmetry. His outfit is deceivingly casual and entirely designer, fitting his muscular body perfectly. But it's his eyes that nail me in place.
Black. Completely black, like there's nothing behind them but an empty void.
They call him the Devil.
I don't know how I know, but I do. I know it in my bones. In the animal part of my brain that recognizes apex predators. It’s my primal urge for survival pulling up threads of stray memories and locking them together in a puzzle I didn’t know needed solving.
"You've been expecting me," he says. Not a question.
I can't speak. Can't move. Can barely breathe.
He stands, and he's even bigger than I thought. Six-foot-three at least, moving with the kind of controlled grace that speaks of violence held carefully in check. He doesn't come toward me. Just studies me like I'm a specimen under glass.
"Your father made a costly mistake," he continues in that same emotionless tone. "He sold information that led to the deaths of seven people under Bratva protection. Three of them were children."
The words hit me like physical blows. I knew people died. But children?
"I don't know where he is," I whisper. My voice sounds broken, unfamiliar. "I swear to God, I don't know."
"I believe you." He tilts his head slightly, those black eyes taking in every detail of my face. "But he'll come for you. Men like him always do, when they learn their families are in danger."
The implication sinks in slowly, ice water through my veins.
"You're going to use me as bait."
"Yes."
Just that. Yes. No apology, no justification. He's going to use me to draw out my father, and then what? Kill us both? Make me watch while he—
"You're coming with me," he says, and takes a step forward.
That breaks the paralysis. I bolt for the door, but I'm not fast enough. I'm not even close. His hand closes around my upper arm like an iron cuff, spinning me back around with embarrassing ease.
"Don't," he says, and there's something in his voice now. Something that wasn't there before. His other hand comes up to my face, and I flinch, but he doesn't hit me.
He touches my cheek. Just his fingertips, so gentle it makes my breath catch.
His eyes aren't empty anymore. They're burning.
"Don't run from me, Ava," he murmurs, and the way he says my name makes something low in my belly clench with an emotion I can't name. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you."
I'm shaking, and I don't know if it's fear or something far more dangerous. But I do know it feels so good to finally not be so alone in all of this.
"Please," I whisper. "Please don't—"
The door crashes open behind us.
Renat
My gun is out before I think. Training. Instinct. The part of me that's kept me alive in this business for fifteen years.
Two men. Caucasian, late thirties, cheap suits that scream federal. Or maybe the organized crime task force that's been sniffing around Bratva operations for months. The one in front has his weapon drawn, pointed at my chest.
"Step away from the girl," he barks.
I don't move. My hand is still on Ava's face, her skin impossibly soft under my fingertips, and the thought of letting her go makes something violent twist in my chest.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
