I freeze. The drawer. I’m sure I closed it—always do, always careful, always aware of the eyes in this house.
Maybe I missed it, maybe I was in too much of a hurry. I tell myself not to be paranoid. It’s nothing. I must have left it open myself, caught up in the chaos of wanting her.
Still, my fingers linger on the handle. I scan the room and see Suzy sleeping, jacket wrapped tight around her, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She doesn’t stir, doesn’t give any sign she’s aware of my scrutiny. I close the drawer with deliberate care, the faint click echoing in the hush.
A thread of suspicion winds through my thoughts, refusing to unravel. I want to dismiss it—want to believe that after everything, after the way she looked at me tonight, she wouldn’t. That I can trust her. That this is real.
Still, the fear is there, quiet and relentless, whispering that all it takes is one secret, one betrayal, to bring down everything I’ve built.
I turn my attention back to the work, trying to steady my hands, to remind myself who I am. Ardaleon Sharov: boss, husband, survivor. I make decisions every day that cost men their lives. I can’t afford weakness. I can’t afford to be blindsided by hope.
Yet I can’t take my eyes off her. Even surrounded by the wreckage of our night, Suzy is the most dangerous thing in the room—the only one with the power to break me. I wonder, not for the first time, if I’d let her.
Minutes pass, maybe longer. My phone buzzes with a reminder, another obligation demanding my attention.
I turn away from the couch, making myself focus, making myself work. But the urge to wake her, to pull her back into my arms, to lose myself in her warmth again, is almost overwhelming.
I know this can’t last. I know trust, once broken, is hard to restore.
Chapter Twenty-One - Suzy
The drive begins before dawn, the world outside still silver and blue with mist. Leon wakes me with a hand on my shoulder—gentle, but with a command beneath it.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re leaving.”
There’s no explanation. Just silence, heavy as the winter sky. I don’t argue. I pull on jeans, an old sweater, and boots that aren’t mine.
Leon waits in the hall, keys already in hand, his eyes unreadable. I wonder if this is another test, another punishment, another of those sharp left turns he loves to take—leaving me always guessing, always wary.
We leave the city behind in his battered old Land Rover, the engine rumbling as we wind through empty roads.
I sit in the passenger seat, heart thumping, mind racing. I scan the woods for landmarks, counting every turn, trying to memorize the route—not because I think I’ll need to run, but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands, my fear, my curiosity.
Every mile marker passes like a warning. Is he taking me to a meeting? A burial ground? Another of the Bratva’s endless outposts?
As the world grows quieter, the dread fades—just a little. There are no trailing black SUVs, no gunmetal shadows darting through the trees. Just us.
Eventually, the road gives way to gravel, and then to hard-packed earth lined by old oak and beech. When we finally stop, the sun is peeking over the tree line, spilling gold across a clearing.
I stare at the cabin. Weathered wood, a sagging roof, smoke curling from a crooked chimney. Horses graze in the paddock, their coats silvered by dawn.
There’s no sign of guards or cameras, no perimeter bristling with threats. Just a big, old dog asleep on the porch, its ears twitching at the sound of tires crunching to a halt. I almost laugh. If this is a trap, it’s the gentlest one I’ve ever seen.
Leon moves like he belongs here. He pulls on a flannel shirt, laces up battered boots, brushes the dust off his hands. It’s jarring—this version of him, all sun-browned skin and blunt, capable movements, a world away from the immaculate kingpin of the city. He glances at me, almost sheepish.
“You ride?” he asks.
I shake my head, suspicious. “No. Never.”
He grins—a real grin, the kind that tugs at his eyes. “You will.”
There’s no threat in it, just certainty. He leads me to the paddock, shows me how to offer my hand to the horse, how to stroke the velvet-soft muzzle.
I watch for signs of the man I know: the one who breaks things, who makes the world bend or bleed. There’s only patience in his hands, in his voice.
He helps me mount. I nearly slip, and he catches me, laughter spilling out—unfiltered, free of cruelty. It startles me, how young he sounds.
“Lean forward,” he says, steadying me. “He won’t let you fall.” The horse shifts beneath me, warm and broad, and I cling to the mane, determined not to embarrass myself.
