He’s a Galkin through and through.
And maybe that worries me a little more than it should.
I down the rest of the vodka, pour another. The alcohol warms me, but it doesn't dull the edge.
If Mikhail folds, he goes home.
If not... well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For now, I wait. The penthouse is silent save for his breathing and the hum of the city below.
Dawn is breaking, painting the windows pink.
Another day in the life.
But something tells me this one's going to be different. And something tells me that Landon Lane is going to be a job like no other…
Chapter 5
Landon
My head throbs like someone’s hammering nails into my skull.
I groan, rolling over, expecting the soft give of my bed, the familiar scent of my lavender pillow spray. But the surface beneath me is too firm, too leathery.
My eyes flutter open, blurry at first, adjusting to the dim light filtering through massive windows.
Fuck.
This isn’t my apartment. The ceiling is too high, the room too expansive, like some kind of upscale loft I’ve only seen in magazines.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
It hits me all at once. The street. The prickling sensation of being followed. The thud against the back of my head. Strong arms lifting me. A car door slamming. My heart lurches, and a shrill scream rips from my throat before I can stop it. It echoes off the walls, sharp and desperate, like a trapped animal.
“Oh God,” I gasp, clutching at my chest. Instinctively, my hand reaches out for my stuffie Claw but my fingers grasp empty air.He’s not here. Of course he’s not. He was in my backpack, which I must have dropped on the sidewalk.
The thought of my darling stuffie lying there, abandoned, sends a fresh wave of panic surging through me.
Claw is all I have left of Mom.
What if someone takes him? What if?—
No. I need to focus. I need tobreathe.
I push myself up on the couch, my vision clearing enough to take in the room. It’s huge, luxurious even: marble floors, sleek furniture, a view of the city skyline that screams money.
But it’s not home.
And I’m definitely not alone.
Across from me, in a wide armchair, sits a man. He’s massive, broad-shouldered, with dark hair cropped close and a jawline that could cut glass. His eyes are piercing, cold, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.
He’s dressed in a dark suit, no tie, top button undone, but there’s nothing casual about him. He looksmean. Moody. And scary as hell. Like the kind of guy who could snap bones without breaking a sweat.
“You,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Youhit me. You brought me here.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just nods once, slowly, like it’s no big deal. His expression doesn’t change. No smirk, no apology. Simply that steady, unnerving gaze.
