The man standing over me is surprisingly lithe and lean. He looks almost out of place here, like he wandered in from a completely different life. Light clothes, sleeves rolled neatly, hair ruffled. He has on dark sunglasses, and the kind of face that belongs in an advertisement rather than an alleyway kidnapping.
He’s handsome in a polished, effortless way.
Which makes the situation feel even more wrong.
He smiles down at me, the expression warm and pleasant, as if we’ve just bumped into each other.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “It’s slippery.”
My pulse roars in my ears as I try to shift out of the puddle I’ve fallen half-into. “Let her go. Please. She didn’t do anything.”
Is this some Bratva thing? Did Kazimir, or whoever supervises Devin, ask her to do something that could have gotten her into trouble?
“Relax,” he replies, still smiling, still gentle, like he’s calming a child. “We’re not here for her.”
The words sink in slowly, cold and heavy.
Not here for her.
He reaches out, and the twinge in my ankles tells me I have no other choice, though I still search for an out. Rain thickens in the air, turning the street into a blur of gray and glassy reflections. The man studies me with a kind of patient interestthat makes my skin crawl, as if I’m no longer a person to him, but a problem he’s already solved.
He extends his hand, palm up, the gesture almost courtly.
“Come on,” he says gently, like we’re late for dinner. “Let’s not make this difficult.”
My body betrays me.
I place my hand in his automatically, the way you do when someone offers help as you are stepping off a curb. It feels like some ingrained reflex of politeness overriding sense. The second our fingers touch, his grip tightens.
Not enough to hurt, but enough to control. Despite his lean physique, he’s all iron under the flowy shirt and sunglasses.
His hand is warm and dry despite the rain; his hold precise, thumb pressing into the tendons of my wrist in a way that tells me he knows exactly how much pressure to use. My fingers tremble uncontrollably, and he notices.
Up close, the casualness reads like a costume. The leisurely clothes. The easy smile. The clean sneakers.
Everything chosen to look harmless.
I swallow and instinctively bring my free hand to my stomach, brushing over the small curve there as if I can shield the baby with my palm alone.
His eyes drop immediately.
That same flicker again.
Sharp. Assessing.
Satisfied.
“Well,” he says softly, amusement threading through his voice, “would you look at that. You must be Alyona Demsky. Soon to be Baranov.”
My heart stutters.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to get the upper hand over Kazimir Baranov for months,” he continues, almost conversationally, like we’re gossiping over coffee. “I didn’t thinkhe’d let you roam around the city all on your own. And all I had to do was… wait.”
Ice floods my veins.
He doesn’t wait for a response. His grip tightens further, and he starts walking, tugging me with him toward a white G-wagon idling at the curb. The rain begins to fall harder, drumming against the roof and drowning out the sound of my breath.
Chapter 31
