Tears burn hot behind my eyes. I willnotcry.
"You don't know anything about me," I force out.
"I know everything about you," he counters. "Except one thing."
I don't want to ask. Don't want to engage. But the question slips out anyway. "What?"
He pulls the car into a covered parking structure attached to one of the massive hotels. The Korolyov, I realize, as the automated gate opens for him. One of the most expensive hotels on the Strip.
"I don't know why you got in the car," he says, killing the engine in a spot on the top level where there are no other vehicles nearby. He turns to face me fully, and in the dim overhead lighting, his face looks carved from marble. Beautiful and cold and inhuman. "You had a chance to run. To scream. To fight. You chose none of those things."
Because I'm tired. So goddamn tired of being afraid.
"Maybe I'm just smart enough to know when I'm beaten," I say.
"No." He reaches out and I flinch, but all he does is tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle it makes my heart stutter. "I think it might be because you're smart enough to know when someone is offering you protection, even if it comes with a price."
"You shot two federal agents."
"Who would have arrested you as an accessory to your father's crimes." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I hate that my body responds to it, hate the way heat pools low in my belly. "They would have used you, Ava. Thrown you in a cell, offered you deals you couldn't take because you genuinely don't know where your father is. You would have rotted in prison while they waited for him to surface."
I want to tell him he's wrong, that the FBI doesn't work that way. But I can't. Because deep down, I know he's right.
"So instead, I rot in your prison," I say.
Something flickers across his face. Not quite emotion, but close. "You'll be kept in luxury. Fed. Protected. Given everything you need to continue your studies."
"Except my freedom."
"Freedom is overrated in today’s world." He withdraws his hand and opens his door.
I don't move. Can't make myself get out of this car, because once I do, it's real. Once I walk into that hotel with him, I'm not Ava Torres anymore. I'm the Devil's captive.
Renat comes around to my side and opens my door. He doesn't grab me, doesn't force me. Just stands there, hand extended, waiting.
"I could scream," I say. "Right now. I could scream and run, and someone would help me."
"You could," he agrees. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
He leans down, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne mixed with gunpowder. "Because you're already mine, Ava. You knew it the moment you saw me in your apartment. Your body knew it. Your instincts knew it. That's why you're crying. Your mind is catching up and realizing that your wants don’t align with the expectations placed on you."
I reach up and touch my cheek, shocked to find it wet. I didn't even realize I was crying.
"Come on," he says, softer now. "I won't hurt you. I swear it on my family's name."
I take his hand.
He helps me out of the car, keeping my hand in his as he grabs my duffel from the trunk with his other hand. We walk to the elevator in silence, and I'm hyper-aware of how warm his palm is, how his fingers completely engulf mine.
The elevator dings open and we step inside. Renat presses the button for the top floor and as the doors slide shut, I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the polished metal.
He looks exactly like what he is: dangerous and untouchable.
Renat
The penthouse suite is exactly as I left it this morning. Pristine. Sterile. A monument to money and power that means absolutely nothing.
