Anton’s voice.
It slides in low and steady, deep enough to make something in my stomach tilt. No panic. No static. Just control. The earpiece is smaller than a lentil, barely visible unless you know where to look. It sits deep in my ear canal, hidden behind a strand of hair Jasper curled too tight. When Anton speaks, it’s just a faint vibration against my skin—like a thought I didn’t mean to have.
God. It’s not fair how that voice works on me. It should come with a warning label. Or a muzzle.
My hands stop shaking.
Just like that.
They’ve been trembling ever sincehedecided personal space was optional.
Timofey Volkov.
Even thinking his name makes my skin crawl.
It’s not that he’s loud or obvious. He isn’t. That’s what’s worse. He’s quiet. Effortless. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice because everyone already leans closer on instinct.
When he walked up to me earlier, I noticed stupid things first, like how his suit fit too well to be off a rack, or how his cufflinks caught the light like they had stories buried in them. Charcoal wool, silk tie the color of dried blood. Hands manicured, movements unhurried. Everything about him saidold money and older sins.
But it was his eyes that did it.
Blue.Not the pretty kind you write poems about. The kind that belong to overcast skies before a hurricane hits. Sharp and still, like he was already inside my head, rearranging the furniture.
And then he leaned in.
Right into my space. Breath warm against my skin, cologne faint and expensive. And that voice… smooth and practiced, a little too close to my ear.
“You don’t know me yet. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
The words had weight. Not curiosity—ownership. Like he wasn’t warning me so much asclaimingme.
And in that second, I swear he knew.
He knew someone was listening. He knew I wasn’t alone in my head. He knew about Anton.
Like he could hear the steady breath in my ear, too. Like he was smiling for the cameras while staring straight through the line that tethered me to the man across the street.
It wasn’t just intimidation. It was a message.I see you. All of you. Even the parts you think are hidden.
I grip the clutch tighter and swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs. His cologne is still clinging to my skin. My heartbeat still hasn’t come down entirely.
Okay. Breathe. You’re fine. Normal people breathe all the time. In. Out. Like a person who isn’t about to spontaneously combust in front of a dessert table.
Someone glances my way—a woman in diamonds and judgment—and I panic-laugh too loudly, like I just remembered a hilarious joke told by no one.
“Oh wow,” I say to absolutely no one, pointing at the sugar wings like they just saved my life. “Look at that craftsmanship. Michelangelo who? I mean, if angels were made of… uh… diabetes.”
The woman blinks, nods politely, and walks off—probably to tell her friends there’s an unstable pastry enthusiast loose in the ballroom.
I press my lips together and pretend to study the wings again, but my eyes are darting everywhere. Every waiter’s tray looks suspicious. Every camera flash feels like a spotlight.
I hate that I’m shaking over a man who hasn’t even touched me beyond a kiss on the cheek. I hate that a single whisper can unravel me this fast.
But mostly, I hate that he’s still somewhere in this room—watching—and that I canfeelit.
To look normal, I do what any self-respecting adult at a mafia-adjacent gala would do: I grab a pastry.
The dessert tray is untouched, which should’ve been my first clue. But I need to chew something or I’ll start chewing the inside of my cheek, and that’s not a sexy look when you’re already sweating through a satin bra.
