"Where were you?!" Slap. "How dare you?!" Slap. "Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!" Slap. Slap. Slap.
Until my hand is raw and shaking and I can't lift it anymore. Until the rage turns to sobs caught in my throat. Until I'm gasping for air and he still hasn't moved.
I shove him. Both hands flat against his chest. Hard. He steps back immediately. Gives me space.
I jump off the table. Legs shaking. Naked. Burning with rage and shock and something else I can't name—something that feels dangerously close to relief.
No. No. The gun. I need the gun.
I rush to the kitchen. To the drawer where I keep it—new addition to the house, Lucy's insistence after the crash. "You live alone now, babe. Just in case." I yank it open. Empty.
"Other drawer, babe."
My eyes snap to him. He's tucking himself back into his jeans. Casual. Unhurried. Like we're discussing the weather. Like he didn't just break into my house and fuck me while I was blindfolded waiting for another man.
"How do you—" My voice cracks. "You messed with my gun?"
"No." He smiles. Runs his fingers through his hair in that gesture I used to love. Fuck I still do. Even more now. "All there. Bullets and all."
And I see him. Really see him for the first time since the shock. He looks… better. Impossibly, devastatingly, unfairly better. Black hair longer now, falling occasionally into those sharp blue eyes. A silver ring on his index finger I don't recognize. A chain bracelet on his wrist giving him an edge that makes my stomach flip. His shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing tattoos beneath—more than before. New ink I've never seen. Stars on his collarbones that look brutal.
He's massive. Six-five. How did I forget? Broad shoulders. Wall of muscle. Danger wrapped in expensive clothes and that smile that used to make me forget my own name.
Right. Other drawer. I open it with shaking hands. Grab the Glock. Check the magazine—full. Rack the slide. Aim at his chest.
The shooting classes paid off.
He doesn't move. Just that half-smile. Watching me like I'm entertaining him. The fucking audacity.
I adjust my aim. Pull the trigger. The shot cracks through the kitchen. Plaster explodes from the wall right next to his head, so close I see dust settle in his hair.
He doesn't even flinch. Just smiles wider. "You haven't changed."
My hands shake so badly the gun wavers. "Where is Oliver?!"
His eyebrows rise. Head tilts down. Expression darkening into something that makes my blood run cold. "That's not your problem anymore."
"What?"
"You want me to tell you again in a different language?" He steps closer. Steady. Slow. Confident. Like the gun pointed at his chest means nothing. "Pick one."
I keep the Glock trained on him even as he advances. "Drogo, what do you mean?"
"Okay. I'll pick."
He starts speaking in Russian. Fluid. Natural. Words I don't understand but the tone is unmistakable—possessive, final, dangerous. Then he switches to German. Harshconsonants. Same deadly certainty. Then Romanian. That I understand.
"El nu va mai fi niciodata în via?a ta. Nu-l vei mai vedea niciodata. Ai fost ?i înca e?ti a mea. Pentru totdeauna. Nimeni nu te atinge. Ai în?eles?"
He will never be in your life again. You will never see him again. You were and still are mine. Forever. No one touches you. Understood?
He's standing over me now. Right above me. The gun is pressed directly under his chin and he doesn't even seem to notice. He smiles down at me. Slowly, deliberately, covers the gun with his hand. Not taking it. Just… covering it. Claiming it the way he's claiming everything else.
"Go take a shower," he says quietly. "Wash him off. Now."
My heart slams against my ribs. "What did you do? Why are you here?"
"I was always here, babe." His voice drops lower. Softer. More devastating than any scream. "Always looking. I never left you."
