"You...you really want to..."
"What? Kill that bastard?" He shrugged. "Of course. Harper, you have to understand, I like you, not someone else's kid. That little thing has Kirill Orlov's blood. How could I possibly let him grow up?"
My legs went weak, nearly buckling beneath me.
"Don't think about running," he said, his tone returning to that elegant composure, though the coldness in his eyes deepened. "This apartment is surrounded by my men. Guards at the door, at the windows. You've got nowhere to go."
He walked to the nursery door and pushed it open. My heart leaped into my throat.
"Aiden!" I rushed forward, but Julian grabbed me.
"Don't panic, your precious is still sleeping." He pressed down on my shoulders, pushing me back into the bedroom. "If you behave, I can let him live a few more days. But if you tryanything..."
He didn't finish, but the threat was clear enough.
"What do you want?" My voice was hoarse. "What do you really want?"
"I already told you." He bent down, close to my ear, his voice a low whisper like a demon's murmur. "I want you. Just you. You only need me in your world—not that child, not Kirill Orlov, not anything from your past."
He straightened, that gentle smile back on his face, but now it looked more terrifying than any other expression.
"Get some rest, Harper. Tomorrow we hit the road."
He turned and left. The door closed behind him, followed by the sound of the lock clicking into place.
I struggled to my feet and started searching the room for any way to escape. The windows were locked from the outside, and the door was solid wood. I couldn't kick it down. I tore through the entire room—not even a decent tool.
Aiden's crying came from next door.
"Aiden!" I threw myself at the door, pounding frantically. "Let me see him! He's crying!"
No response.
Aiden's cries grew louder, more desperate.
My tears finally came.
Kirill.
Please...please realize something's wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kirill
Sometimes, you just know things are wrong. You don't need proof.
That was the first lesson I learned from twenty years in the underworld. Instinct—sometimes it's more reliable than any intel. And right now, my instinct was screaming.
I stared through the windshield at the apartment building across the street. It was already ten o'clock. Her curtains had been drawn tight since last night. All day, they hadn't budged.
I pulled out my phone and dialed her number again. Just like the dozen times before, it rang twice, then cut off.
Not unanswered. Declined.
My heart sank.
"Boss," Boris turned from the passenger seat, "want me to send someone in?"
