Where would you even go?
The question stopped me cold. I'd spent twelve years running, and they'd found me anyway. I had no money—my accounts were under the name Keira Walsh, and accessing them would leave a trail. I had no allies—everyone I knew was part of the life I'd built as someone else. I had no weapons, no resources, no plan.
All I had was a man who'd killed for me and proposed marriage in a parking garage.
I sat back down on the bed and tried to think.
The FBI was out. Rodion was right about that—my family had connections everywhere, and the Petrovics had more. I'd be dead before I finished giving my statement, or worse, I'd be "released" into their custody and disappear forever. Witness protection was a joke when the people you were hiding from had agents inside the program.
Running was out, too. I'd been careful—so careful—for twelve years, and they'd still found me. My face was known now.My patterns. My habits. I could change my name again, move to another city, build another identity from scratch. But they'd be looking. And eventually, they'd find me.
Which left door number three: Rodion Rysev.
I turned his name over in my mind, trying to reconcile the man I'd known with the man I'd seen today. In my office, he'd been charming and guarded and unexpectedly vulnerable. He'd talked about his mother's death, his family's expectations, the performance he couldn't stop. He'd looked at me like I was the first person who'd really seen him in years.
And then he'd pulled a gun and killed four men in less than ten seconds, his face utterly cold, his movements precise and practiced. He'd done it before. Many times, probably. This was who he really was—not a businessman with insomnia, but a killer. A criminal. A man who lived in the same violent world I'd spent my whole life fleeing.
But he'd done it to protect me.
That was the part I couldn't stop thinking about. He hadn't hesitated. Hadn't calculated the risk or weighed his options. The moment those men came through the door, he'd put himself between them and me. He'd killed to keep me safe.
What kind of man did that for a woman he barely knew?
A man who's been stalking you for a week, I reminded myself.A man who admitted he's been following you, learning your routines, watching you without your knowledge or consent.
That should have horrified me. It did horrify me. But some treacherous part of my brain kept circling back to the way he'd looked at me in the car. The honesty in his voice when he'dadmitted what he'd done. The way he'd said he wanted to earn my trust.
This was insane. He was insane. And I was insane for even considering his proposal.
But what choice did I have?
I couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, my mind too loud. I lay in the darkness and stared at the ceiling and thought about all the ways my life had gone wrong.
At some point—I didn't know what time, I'd lost track of the hours—I gave up. I wrapped myself in the robe that had been left for me and slipped out of the room.
The penthouse was dark except for the city lights filtering through the massive windows. I moved quietly, not wanting to attract attention from whatever security was stationed outside. I just needed to walk. To move. To do something other than lie in bed and spiral.
I found my way to the main living area—an open space with modern furniture and art that looked expensive and impersonal. Beyond it, a wall of windows looked out at Manhattan, the skyline glittering like scattered diamonds.
He was standing there. Silhouetted against the glass, a tumbler of something amber in his hand, his posture rigid with tension.
I should have gone back to my room. Should have retreated before he noticed me, preserved whatever distance remained between us.
Instead, I heard myself say: "Can't sleep either?"
He turned. In the dim light, his face was all shadows and sharp angles. He looked tired. Human. Nothing like the killer I'd seen that afternoon.
"Occupational hazard," he said. "Drink?"
I should have said no. "Yes."
He moved to a bar cart in the corner and poured me something—vodka, I realized when he handed it to me. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I felt it like an electric shock. Brief. Accidental. Enough to make my pulse stutter.
Stop it.
I took a long swallow, letting the alcohol burn its way down my throat. He watched me, not speaking, giving me space to decide what this conversation would be.
"I have questions," I said finally.
