“This wasn’t random,” he mutters, voice low, almost to himself, yet I feel the words vibrate through me. “Someone wanted a message delivered.”
I want to speak. I want to ask why, who, what now? But my throat feels tight, my voice stuck somewhere between fear and disbelief. I just nod, letting the silence stretch between us.
When we arrive at the penthouse, Dimitri steps out first. He doesn’t glance at me as he hands me over to Kyle with a deadly glare. “Protect her with your life, or I’ll take it from you,” he says, voice sharp, low, leaving no room for argument.
Then, without another word, he steps into the elevator, and the doors close between us.
Kyle clears his throat, shifting nervously as he follows me down the hall. “Are…are you okay? Should I—”
I shake my head, cutting him off with a flat, exhausted, “I’m fine.” My legs feel weak, trembling under the weight of adrenaline and relief. I don’t speak again, don’t even look at him as I lock myself in my bedroom, shutting out the world.
That night, sleep doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—Dimitri—looming over me, body coiled around mine, shielding me, alive, lethal, impossibly close. I can feel the press of his chest, the hard strength of his arms, even though he isn’t here.
I can’t stop thinking about how terrifying it was, and how…safe it also made me feel. And that thought makes me shiver.
Chapter 13 – Dimitri
Last night, I did something I’ve never done. I left the penthouse. Not to chase the shooters—that would have been pointless. By the time I could react, they were long gone, shadows swallowed by the city. I just…needed to be alone. Somewhere private to curse myself, to scream at the walls without anyone hearing.
If Vivian had been hurt…if she’d gotten even a scratch…I don’t know how I’d have survived. My hands shake just thinking about it. I’d put her in danger. I forced her into a situation she shouldn’t have been in. The press, the cameras, the performance—it wasn’t enough to test her patience; it was life or death. And I…I didn’t think far enough. I failed her.
I beat myself up for hours, pacing the room, every muscle taut with guilt and anger. The vodka I reach for only burns my throat, doing nothing to dull the memory of her face pressed against the cold floor, my body over hers, shielding her like a warrior should.
Lev, who’s been shadowing me the whole time, finally suggests, calmly but with that stubborn insistence I’ve learned to respect, “Call Seb.”
Sebastian Rusnak.
The Forger Prince.
He’s a ghost in our world, a master of everything subtle, hidden, untouchable. An artist in the underworld, painting with forgeries, shifting identities, and whispers of information. Everyone else in the Rusnak network is under scrutiny now—the press, the public, the investors—but Seb? He’s untouchable. He can move unseen. He can find leads that the rest of us miss.
I call him immediately. My voice is tight, clipped, but I can hear the amusement in his tone the moment he answers.
“You’ve got a problem, Dimitri,” he says. “You haven’t called me in like five years.”
“Shut up, Seb. I need your help.”
There’s a pause on the line, the faint hum of a piano in the background, probably one of his neighbors or just Seb’s way of enjoying his chaos. “Your timing is atrocious,” he finally says. “And I don’t work for Rusnaks. You know that.”
“You’re a Rusnak, idiot. You’ll help me,” I reply, my patience fraying. “Find me the men who tried to touch my wife. And find me whoever leaked the scandal. I know you’ve been following up with the news. I don’t care what it takes.”
Hours pass. Seb dodges, teases, and refuses with every ounce of flair only Sebastian possesses. I grit my teeth and make threats—threats of ruin, threats of violence, threats that I’ll personally ruin his favorite toys if he doesn’t comply.
Finally, after Lukin’s interference and his usual stubborn brilliance, he relents. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll help. But you’re still an insufferable bastard.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I have to rely on him. I hate that this whole mess exists because I let the world see Vivian. And worst of all—I can’t stop thinking about the way she froze when the bullets came, the way her body pressed into mine. I should be furious with her for being in danger. But all I feel is…possessive.
And I can’t let anyone else touch her. Not now. Not ever.
Now it’s morning.
Vivian is still locked in her room. Kyle said she’s been in there since last night. Good. At least I know she’s safe. She can’t be anywhere else, not after last night.
Sebastian texted a few hours ago that he found something—and that he’s on his way. Typical of him, though. Won’t give me details over the phone. No hint. Just a smug little promise that I’ll see soon enough. The idiot thrives on tension.
For now, the penthouse has become a war room.
Rusnak security sweeps through every floor, scanning every corner, testing alarms, recalibrating cameras. Niko and Lev are on the line, coordinating protection, asking the right questions I can’t focus on. Sylvester is hunched over surveillance footage, rewinding, zooming, pausing, replaying every moment of the chaos from the night before. Every frame. Every shadow. Every movement.
