"One night," she said. "I'll stay one night. And then we talk about this like rational adults."
"Fair enough."
We walked to the elevator in silence. I could feel her beside me, the heat of her body, the tension radiating off her in waves. She was terrified and furious and probably already planning a dozen ways to escape.
She wouldn't find any. My security was too good, and besides—she was smart enough to know I was right. Runningwasn't an option. The Petrovics would find her. And what they'd do to her would make death look like mercy.
Marriage was the answer. Marriage to me.
Now I just had to convince her of that.
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. She stood as far from me as possible, her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on the numbers climbing overhead.
"Rodion," she said quietly.
"Yes?"
"If I do this—if I agree to this—I need you to understand something."
"What?"
She turned to face me, and her eyes were hard.
"I'm not a damsel. I'm not going to fall at your feet with gratitude. And if you ever—ever—treat me like property, like a thing to be owned, I will find a way to destroy you. I don't care how powerful your family is. I will burn everything you love to the ground."
I believed her. Completely.
"Understood."
"Good."
The elevator doors opened onto my penthouse. She stepped out first, her spine straight, her chin high.
She looked like a queen walking into enemy territory.
I was starting to think I might be the one in danger.
Chapter 8 - Keira
The guest room was beautiful. Expensive linens, soft lighting, a view of the city that probably cost more than my entire apartment. It felt like a cage.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the clothes I'd put on that morning—a lifetime ago, when my biggest problem was whether I could maintain professional boundaries with a patient I was developing feelings for. Now that patient had killed four men in front of me and proposed marriage like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Keira O'Shea.
The name echoed in my head, a ghost I'd thought I'd buried forever. Twelve years of building a new identity, a new life, a new self—all of it shattered in seconds by men with guns and Irish accents who'd found me anyway.
I should have known. Should have realized you can't outrun blood. My father's shadow had stretched across my entire life, and even death hadn't diminished it. Now his brother wanted to use me as a bargaining chip, trade me to the Petrovics like a commodity, marry me off to some man named Branko who probably saw women as possessions to be used and discarded.
I thought about the women I'd treated. The survivors of trafficking who'd sat in my office and described horrors I could barely comprehend. The Petrovics had done that to them. And now my own family wanted to hand me over to those monsters like a gift.
I stood and walked to the window. The city glittered below, indifferent to my crisis. Somewhere out there, Cormac's men were regrouping. Planning their next move. And thePetrovics were waiting, patient as spiders, for their promised bride.
I tested the window. Locked, of course. Not that it mattered—we were forty floors up, and I wasn't suicidal. Just desperate.
I moved through the room, checking doors, examining locks. The bathroom had no windows. The closet was empty except for a robe and slippers that looked brand new, never worn. The main door opened onto a hallway, but I could hear movement out there—security, probably, making sure I didn't do anything stupid.
Like run.
