"I said step away—"
I shoot him in the shoulder.
The suppressor on my Glock makes it almost quiet, just a muffled cough. He goes down screaming, and his partner freezes for half a second, long enough for me to put a round through his kneecap. He drops like a stone.
The whole thing takes three seconds.
Ava gasps, stumbling back against the wall, her face bone-white.
This is what I do. I solve problems. I remove obstacles. I've killed men for far less than interrupting me. But watching thefear bloom in her eyes makes my chest constrict in a way that feels dangerously close to regret.
I can't afford regret.
"Get your things," I tell her, holstering my weapon. "You have two minutes."
She doesn't move. Just stares at the two men writhing on her floor, their blood spreading across the cheap linoleum in dark pools.
"Are they—" Her voice breaks. "Will they—"
"They'll live. This time." I step over the one with the shoulder wound, heading for her bedroom. "But if you're still standing here in ninety seconds, I'll tie you up and carry you out. Your choice."
That gets her moving. She scrambles after me, and I'm too aware of how small she is, how fragile. She looks like I could break her in half without trying.
I wait for the thought to repulse me. Instead, my cock thickens.
Wrong. This is all wrong.
Her bedroom is exactly what I expected from three weeks of surveillance, a narrow bed with threadbare sheets, a desk piled with textbooks, a closet that probably contains five outfits at most. The window looks out on the fire escape I already identified as her most likely escape route.
I should have accounted for federal surveillance. Should have known they'd be watching her too, waiting to see if the Bratva made contact. Sloppy. I'm never sloppy.
She's pulls open the closet door and yanks a large duffel out, tearing it open on her bed. It’s already filled with a change of clothes, a small toiletry pack and her passport. Interesting. Making her way to the small table she is using as a desk, shegrabs the textbooks sitting there and shoves them into the duffel with shaking hands. Her anatomy textbook. A phone charger. A framed photo of her with an older woman and a girl who must be her sister.
"Leave the phone," I say.
She freezes, clutching it like a lifeline. "I need—"
"They can track it,” I say, pointing through the door to the men who are still groaning on the floor, calling in their location. “Leave it. We have to go."
Her jaw sets in a way that would be defiant if she wasn't so obviously terrified. "My mom—"
"Will believe you're dead if you call her from a Bratva safe house." I move closer, backing her against the desk. She smells like stale coffee and fear and something sweeter underneath, something that makes my teeth ache with the need to bite. "Drop the phone, Ava. Or I'll take it from you, and you won't like how I do it."
She drops it and it clatters onto the desk.
"Good girl," I murmur, and her pupils dilate. Interesting.
I should be thinking tactically right now. Exit strategy. The two feds are already calling for backup. I have maybe five minutes before this place is swarming with law enforcement.
Instead, I'm cataloging the way her pulse flutters in her throat. The way her breathing has gone shallow and fast. The way she's pressed back against that desk like she's not sure whether to fight or flee.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask.
"The Devil." She whispers it.
"Renat Korolyov," I correct. Names have power, and I prefer to be nameless. But I want her to say it. Need her to. "Say it."
"Renat." It comes out breathy, uncertain. “Renat Korolyov.” Perfect.
