But now I know that neutralizing her means protecting her rather than ending her. Keeping her at arm’s length and shielding her from myself. Cutting her free before I ruin what makes her special.
She’s all hard choices, each one her own. I’m just a receptacle for orders that I execute without thought or mercy.
The two can’t coexist.
I slide my palms down her arms and absorb her heat. “We get in and out. As smoothly as possible.”
She almost manages a smile. “Right.”
I brush my thumb over the back of her hand. Strange how that small act is more intimate than everything that happened in this room yesterday.
Jordan leans into me, her lashes kissing her cheeks. She trusts me with her safety, her escape, her future.
I memorize every detail of her face. Last night, I held her, marked her, and claimed what I wanted. But this moment—the silent trust and open vulnerability—is sharper, reaching deeper than any physical claim.
“Go on. Get ready. Let’s end this.”
In response, she disappears into the bathroom.
The second the door shuts, my phone’s in my hand.
My jaw tightens, but I shove away any doubts. None of this is about how or what I feel.
This is all about survival.
Chapter 30
Jordan
The car devours the night, a silent predator with prey already in its grasp.
Beside me, Kirill sits behind the wheel, his profile carved from some dark, shatterproof material.
In my desperation to hide their trembling, I knot my hands in my lap. Ahead, my mother’s estate, the place I once clawed my way free from and swore never to return to again, rises.
Now I’m about to barrel right into one of my worst nightmares with a killer by my side. The two of us are bound together by nothing more than necessity.
His hands flex on the wheel, his knuckles blanching. After the tenth time, he breaks the silence like a gunshot. “What’s my name again?”
“Ken Barlow. You sell commodities. You find everything everyone says utterly fascinating.”
I rest my gaze on his profile and take in the sharpened angles of his cheek and jaw and the relentless motion of his eyes as they scour for trouble.
He snorts. “Right. Fascinating.” The word is an insult, a bitter pill he won’t bother to sugarcoat.
Once we give the guards my name, we pass right through the motorized gates.
Trust my mother to always leave the door open, knowing she can lock it from the inside.
The estate sprawls ahead, every window lit, the whole place glowing like fool’s gold in the darkness. The first floor features fogged glass that I know can become clear or opaque at the flick of a switch. The well-lit windows on the second floor pour useless illumination from unoccupied rooms. A basic, wasteful show of wealth.
My chest tightens. This was home, then prison. The structure represents anguish and ruin, yet here I am. Bringing the past I’d rather forget into my present.
Pointing, I direct Kirill to the “guest door” closest to the great room that spills out onto the back lawn via sliding glass wall panels.
As if he couldn’t find it with the line of cars and valets racing back and forth. Servants to take care of everything so no one has to do the tedious work. Like parking, walking, or thinking.
Kirill’s out before I even reach for my clutch. With a quick toss, he passes a valet key to the attendant who’s jogging over.
