Harris shifted beside him, adjusting his tailored jacket like this confrontation was beneath him.
“Fine,” Harris said smoothly. “You want war, Baranov? You’ll have it.”
He gave a cold laugh.
“We tried subtlety. We tried diplomacy. You think you’re untouchable.”
His gaze flicked toward me. “That illusion ends now.”
He stepped toward the doors.
“In a week — maybe two — you’ll see how untouchable you really are.”
His smirk widened. “This is our backyard. You’ll come crawling.”
Vasquez remained behind for a moment longer.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Not regret. Hatred.
Raw.
“We’ll see each other again soon, Elena.”
His voice dropped lower. “Very soon.”
The threat lingered in the air like poison.
Then he turned — walking out behind Harris.
The heavy double doors shut with a deafening finality.
Silence slammed into the room.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Ruslan exhaled slowly.
His shoulders — tense and rigid moments ago — dropped a fraction.
He turned slightly toward me.
Pain crossed his face again as he shifted his weight.
He was trying to hide how much his leg hurt.
It wasn’t working.
“Can I hold her?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated.
My instincts screamed at me to protect.
To keep distance.
But I saw it.
