But as something else entirely.
“Whoever is coming for you…” I say slowly, voice low, controlled. My grip tightens around my gun. “…they’re not going to stop.”
Her eyes meet mine. No fear. Only that same sharp, unyielding fire.
Chapter 5 – Valeria
The attack leaves me with no illusions about my situation.
The men who broke into Timofey’s house weren’t random assassins or opportunistic criminals. They were trained professionals with one objective. The fact that they managed to infiltrate such a heavily guarded place proves one thing: Anton wants me dead, no matter how far I run.
Hiding won’t solve anything. Sooner or later, the attacks will continue until one of them succeeds.
I scrub at the blood still clinging to my arms and legs in the bathroom of the new room they moved me into. The warm water doesn’t wash away the tension coiling in my muscles, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins.
I force my brain to switch gears. Fear and grief have their place, but right now, survival demands planning, not despair.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes, jaw set hard. I barely recognize myself—but I don’t care. I can’t.
Every move has to be deliberate. Every thought focused. I start cataloging what I have. I pull a towel over my hair, dry myself, and run my fingers along the edge of the sink. Calm. Controlled. Calculated.
This is no longer just about survival.
This is about taking back what was stolen—and making sure my enemies pay.
I stare at my reflection. Pale, determined.
I know what I need. To secure my position permanently within the Petrov organization, simply being a guest under temporary protection won’t cut it. My cousin will always believe he can remove me.
The solution comes slowly, logically. If I become part of the Rusnak family officially, my survival becomes more valuableto them than my death. My enemies wouldn’t be hunting a scared refugee anymore. They’d be going after a Rusnak. That changes everything.
I reach for the other sweatpants and shirt waiting in the room, pulling them on slowly as I solidify the plan in my mind. I roll the sweatpants up so they don’t drag. Every small action, every detail, is part of the preparation.
By the time I finish, I feel the fire in my chest, one that tells me I’ll probably regret this plan, but I don’t pay it any mind.
I leave the room and walk slowly up the hall, toward Timofey’s bedroom on the third floor. My steps are deliberate, steady, each one echoing softly in the empty corridor.
When I knock, he immediately opens the door, and my breath catches. He’s standing there in sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his chest bare. Broad, muscled, perfectly sculpted. Dangerous and…arresting.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is sharp, clipped. I don’t blame him. After his house was attacked only moments ago—because of me—I understand his frustration.
“Can we talk?” I keep my gaze just above his chest, forcing myself to stay composed.
He hesitates, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair, then steps back. “Come in.”
He shuts the door behind me, leaning against it with arms folded across his chest, every line of him tense and commanding.
“Start talking,” he says.
I take a deep breath, steadying the fire that’s coursing through me. “Let’s get married.”
He laughs.
It’s sharp, incredulous, the kind of laugh that says he’s never taken anyone seriously enough to entertain the idea.
When he sees that I don’t flinch, that I don’t back down, his laugh dies, replaced by a hard frown.
“You must be joking,” he says, voice low but edged with disbelief.
