I gape. “But?—”
“Now.”
He guides me toward the exit with a hand on my lower back, past my father, who still won’t look at me. We move past Uncle Marcus, who’s arguing loudly with Konstantin about security measures.
At the door, Dimitri pauses. He turns back to address both families, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“Here's what’s going to happen,” he announces. “Vera and I are leaving. And until we figure out who just tried to kill us all, she doesn’t leave my sight. Not for a second.”
His hand moves from my back to my arm, fingers wrapping around my elbow possessively.
“She’s my wife,” he continues, staring directly at my father. “My responsibility. And I protect what’s mine. So if anyone has a problem with that, you can take it up with me personally.”
The threat in his voice is unmistakable.
Then we’re out the door and into the SUV. Guards swarm around us with their weapons drawn. The driver peels out before the door is even fully closed.
I sit in the back seat, still trembling, trying to process everything that just happened. The gunfire. The chaos. My father running away. Dimitri covering my body with his.
“You saved me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t look at me, staring out the window, his nostrils flaring. “Someone has to. Clearly your own family won’t.”
“You could have been killed,” I point out.
He scoffs. “I wasn’t.”
“You were shot!” I protest.
“It’s a graze.” He finally turns to look at me, and I can’t read the look in his eyes, but it’s intense and conflicted and almost... vulnerable. “You’re not safe. Neither of us are. Which means you don’t leave my sight. Understand?”
I nod slowly. “Is that protection or another prison?”
His hand is still on my arm. As we sit there in the back of the SUV, speeding away from the attempted massacre, his fingers tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but just enough that I can feel the warmth of his palm through my sleeve.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he sounds uncertain. “I honestly don’t know.”
His hand lingers on my arm for a moment longer. Then he pulls away, turning back to the window, and the walls come up again.
But I felt it. That moment of uncertainty. That brief crack in his armor.
The man who hates me just saved my life.
And neither of us knows what the hell that means.
8
DIMITRI
Three am finds me exactly where I’ve been for the past seven hours—sitting in my office, staring at security footage until my eyes burn.
I’ve watched the attack forty-three times now (yes, I’ve counted). Frame by frame. Angle by angle. The conference room had eight cameras. All of them captured the chaos from different perspectives. And none of them tell me what I need to know.
I pause the footage again. Rewind. Watch the window explode inward for the forty-fourth time. Glass shattering in slow motion, each shard catching the light. Then the first muzzle flash from outside. Then chaos.
My eyes track across the screen, taking in every detail. The way my men moved, diving for cover in the right directions. The way the Ashford guards reacted (slightly slower, less coordinated, but still professional). The civilians, Konstantin, Vincent Ashford, the various advisors and seconds-in-command, all of them scrambling.
And Vera. Frozen in her seat for three full seconds before I grabbed her. Her face was blank with shock, her body rigid, like her brain couldn’t understand what was happening fast enough to react.
