A tremor goes down my spine. Not fear—something darker. Something I refuse to name.
I try to yank my hand back, but he doesn’t loosen his hold.
“Let me go,” I whisper.
“No.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts to my eyes with lethal intent. “You need to understand something, Vivian.”
He steps even closer, my back pressing lightly against the cool wall behind me.
“You weren’t chosen.” His lips curl in a cold, quiet smile. “You were claimed. By a Rusnak. By me.”
My pulse detonates.
My breath stutters.
My knees threaten to give out.
And all I can think—horrifyingly—is that this man is going to destroy my life….
“Let me go,” I hiss, my voice trembling with anger I can’t fully contain.
“Of course, my lady,” he says, mockingly polite, and finally releases my wrist.
I stumble back a step, catching myself against the garage wall, chest heaving. My fingers curl around the car door handle, knuckles white, heart hammering.
I slide into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me, and grip the steering wheel like it could anchor me. I start the engine, tires squealing lightly as I pull off into the night, the city lights blurring past.
I’m furious. Furious at him, at my father, at myself. Furious at the world that treats women like property.
But beneath that anger, there’s something far worse. Something that churns low in my belly and curls like smoke around my spine. That burn. That want. That awful, inescapable memory from the stable. The same fire that burned in Monaco. That same ache that shouldn’t exist, yet refuses to die.
It’s alive.
And it’s waiting.
It’s always waiting.
Even now, as I drive into the night, trying to get my pulse to calm, I know one terrifying truth: I’m already inside the storm, and there’s no escaping Dimitri Rusnak.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t put up a fight.
As soon as I arrive home, I burst into the foyer and sweep up the stairs, not stopping until I slam open my parents’ bedroom door.
My mom is at the vanity, her fingers brushing through her silver-blonde hair, which she rarely lets down. She wears a silk skirt and blouse, scarf tied just so, designer slides on her feet. My dad sits on the bed, flipping through a magazine with casual disinterest, the kind that drives me insane when I want him to see me.
They both look up.
“Vivian Laurent!” Mom snaps, the words clipped and sharp. “You don’t burst into people’s rooms without knocking!”
I don’t flinch. I stand there, chest heaving, hands gripping the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me from lunging across the room.
“Don’t,” I warn, my voice low, dangerous. “I’m not in the mood for any of that. You’ve ruined my life! You’ve sold me to the devil!”
Mom freezes, her fingers still mid-air above her hair. Dad blinks, setting the magazine down like I’ve just dropped a bomb on the bed between us.
