I twist, trying to pry him off. He squeezes harder. The panic comes up ugly and fast, the old kind that shuts your throat.
“Get out,” I gasp. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He leans in, breath sour under the cologne. “Don’t kid yourself.”
I whip around, fingers scrambling at the knob, desperate for the exit—
He yanks me sideways, shoving me off the door. His other hand comes up, flat against my chest, shoving me backwards. My knees clip the coffee table, and I stumble toward the sofa.
“Evan—”
“Shut up.” His voice is low now, meaner than I’ve ever heard it. His weight crowds mine, pressing me down until the back of my legs hit the cushions. He’s on me in a second, the smell of sweat filling my lungs. Fingers slip under my blouse, rough, entitled, like he’s reclaiming property.
“You think some meathead who punched me gets to keep you? You think you’rehisnow?” His laugh scrapes ugly against my ear. “You’ll always be mine. Always.”
I shove at him, panic roaring up into my throat, making me gag on air. “Don’t—”
“Stop pretending you don’t want this.” His hips grind against me, disgusting, desperate. “You never had anyone else. Who else would even look at you?”
The words slice deeper than his grip. For a second, I’m twelve again—unwanted, small, invisible. For a second, I almost believe him.
Then—
The door explodes inward.
The sound is a gunshot made of wood. The frame splits, metal screams, and the lock rips straight out of the jamb. Evan’s head whips toward it.
A man steps through the hole where the door used to be.
He fills it.
Calm. Deliberate. Eyes like a loaded weapon set on safety.
“Did you not hear her?” Anton says, voice low enough to make the room smaller.
Evan’s hand loosens on my wrist without meaning to. I’m still pinned by it anyway.
Anton’s gaze drops once—bracelet, bruise forming, proximity—then lifts to Evan’s face with the kind of cold that makes you understand your mistakes in a single second.
Everything in me goes hot and stupid. Tears, snot, the whole humiliating mess. I can’t stop it. I can’t move.
Anton takes a step in.
And that’s where it ends.
34
Anton
Forty minutes before I tore into her apartment and ended it.
Perfect timing. Or maybe just bad luck. Depends which side of the barrel you’re standing on.
Ray called while we were still walking out of the penthouse, the place I’ve got Mary stashed, high above The Strip, where nobody touches her unless I say so. Said he’d pulled motel footage, a grainy shot of Viktor slipping inside just before dawn. Paid cash, fake plates, classic move. But he wasn’t gone. Not yet.
Which means today isn’t just another day in Vegas. Today, the bastard’s cornered.
Twenty minutes later, we are in the SUV.
