“Cleared?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Standard security.”
“What, you think I’m going to smuggle a bomb in my hair dryer or something?”
He doesn’t bite. Instead, he straightens his sleeves and continues. “The west wing’s off-limits. That’s Sasha’s private space.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You make it sound like he’s Dracula or something.”
Bogdan’s expression doesn’t change. “He values privacy.”
“Sure. I’ll be sure to keep some garlic on me anyway.”
“That’s in the kitchen, too,” he says, his tone dry as a bone. He steps closer. “Sasha will be home later tonight. Until then, stay inside. No balcony. No calls from unknown numbers.”
“Right,” I say, folding my arms. “Totally normal.”
“It is in this life.” Bogdan’s tone is a little sharp, and he seems to realize in the moment that it’s not the right angle to take. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then starts again. “I know this is all strange and a little scary, but you don’t see the front lines like Sasha and I do.” He raises a finger. “Correction—you got a taste of the front lines this morning. Unless you want to deal with that again, you’ll do what Sasha asks. It’s for your own protection.”
For once, I have nothing smart to say. Any retort I could possibly come up with is immediately countered by the mental image of a black sedan nearly ending my life.
Bogdan nods, sensing he’s made his point. “Eat something, take a bath. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
With that, he leaves me alone, shutting the door with a soft click. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The room feels too perfect, too still. I cross to the window and look out over the city. The lights stretch on forever, orange and glittering, beautiful and indifferent. Somewhere down there is the person who tried to kill me today. And now I’m here, trapped in a castle of glass and steel, owned by the man who scares me almost as much as he turns me on.
“Temporary,” I whisper. “It’s only temporary.”
I decide to go for a little stroll. Might as well get a sense of my floating prison. I step out into the hallway. The penthouse is quiet. But not peaceful quiet—sterile quiet.
My footsteps echo off the marble as I wander back into the living room, every sound too crisp, like the space itself was acoustically designed not to let you relax. Everything gleams: the glass, the steel, the modern art that looks way too expensive to touch. It’s the kind of apartment that’snever known mess or warmth. It feels curated, like a museum.
I drift toward the kitchen, half expecting a fingerprint scanner to guard the room. But it’s open, and just as clinical as the rest of the apartment. Neat in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t do much cooking. I see rows of imported ingredients, artisanal oils, and bottled water lined up on the counter like soldiers. No sign of junk food or takeout. Not even a rogue coffee mug is to be found.
“This man doesn’t eat,” I say to myself. “Maybe heisDracula.”
As I make my way through the massive kitchen, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the backsplash. I’m pale, tense, my eyes rimmed with fatigue. I lean forward, gripping the counter, a little tremor of anxiety rushing through me.
However, I do have to admit to myself that I feel safer here. And I kind of hate that I do.
Even though Sasha’s not home, his presence hums in the symmetry of everything—the sharp edges, the silence, the impossible neatness.
But Iwanthim here. I want him to step through the elevator doors and take me into his arms and tell me everything’s going to be fine. And then another part of me wants to slap him, tell him it’s his fault that I’m in this stupid mess.
“Fine,” I say, trying to reassure myself. “This is all totally fine.”
My voice bounces off the walls.
Once back in my room, I drop onto the bed, grab my phone, and start scrolling through notifications. Angie’s texts light up the screen—half worry, half nosy best friend energy:You OK?Reads the most recent one.
I start to type back—I’m fine, just a little shaken up. I quickly delete it. How do I even begin to describe the rest of my day? And the fact is, I’m notfine. I’m still scared out of my mind.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. The past few hours replay in my head, like a montage from hell—the screech of tires, Bogdan pulling me off my feet, the flash of metal. The fear.
And the thought of Sasha walking through the door hits me low and hot in my stomach, equal parts dread and something else I don’t want to name. Because the truth is, as terrifying as he is, he makes me feel safe. Anchored. Like the chaos all pauses for him.
It’s totally maddening. I should hate him. But I don’t. I can’t.
I roll onto my side and get up to my feet. Bogdan’s voice won’t leave my head.You don’t see the front lines.
