If I look at what happened through glasses that aren't rose-colored by my obsession with her, I'll admit she ran because a few dogs from the Cosa Nostra tried to corner me in an alley, still whining about missing shipments we absolutely did not touch.They've been throwing tantrums for months over drugs some other fool stole.
My little butterfly just felt betrayed that I lied to her about what I do for months. Maybe she got scared. She'll learn soon enough that standing next to me, there's nothing to be scared of.
I remember the first time she found blood on my cuff, and I told her I'd cut myself shaving. She believed that lie too, that time. Innocent little thing.
Soon, when my ring sits on her finger, the whole Bratva will die before they let so much as a scratch touch her.
As for the violence, she'll get used to it. She's a firecracker who might end up inflicting some of her own one day.
I just need to give my little butterfly the right garden to grow in. One full of blood-red roses. And I will. Even if she fights me on it at first. Even if I have to drag her back to it by the wrist.
I forgive her for the stunt she pulled. For thinking, even for a second, she could run from me. Because very soon, she'll be back in my web, right where she belongs.
"So this is her?" Ilya asks, nodding toward the cabin. "Our future queen?"
I raise the binoculars again. She and her sister are rolling in the mud now, hair tangled, leaves stuck in it, dirt smeared up both arms. My Nora has the upper hand. I watch, smirking, as she executes a move on her sister that leaves the girl withering on the ground—a move I taught her myself.
That's my good girl, Nora.
I give Ilya a smile—which used to be a rarity for me but is now becoming common—and nod once.
"This is her."
Chapter Three
Nora
"Nora. Nora. Nooo-raaa…" I hear from my side, and I snap out of my daydream.
"Yeah? Sorry. I was out of it."
"Clearly," my supervisor says, shaking her head. "There's another delivery for you downstairs. Make it quick, please—our meeting starts in five."
"Of course." I sigh, standing up fast to get this over with.
It's been two weeks since I ran from Slava, packed up whatever I could carry from my apartment, and fled to my sister's. I've done everything short of calling the police to protect myself. My gut says that would be the fastest way to end up dead.
I wince at the ache in my tailbone, limping down the stairs. My sister's been kind enough to lend me her car, and from her little cabin outside the city to my office, it's an hour and fifteen minutes on a good day. My ass and my sleep schedule have taken the worst of it—one side of my body is tanner than the other from leaning against the window every drive, and I'm fairly sure the foot I use to drive is bent at some new angle by now.
And all that. For nothing.
Because I still feel watched. Something in me insists he knows exactly where I am. I might have left him, but he hasn't left me.
He could have easily camped outside my workplace and followed me home at the end of the day. But what is a girl oughtto do? I can't exactly quit my job because he knows where the office is. A girl has got to eat.
"Thank you," I tell the elderly delivery man, taking yet another bouquet and a gift box from his hands. I dig random bills out of my jeans and hand them over as a tip.
He gives me a small smile and moves on to the next batch of parcels, hopefully for people who aren't living my exact nightmare.
For two weeks straight, he's sent a bouquet and a gift to my office every single day. It's his way of telling me not to even think we're over.
I sigh and open the box. Another diamond necklace. I'm not taking any of it home; I've been locking all of them in a drawer at my desk because I'm about ninety percent sure each one has a tracker sewn into it. Not that I've checked.
The fact that there's roughly half a million dollars in jewelry sitting in my desk drawer is slowly giving me an ulcer. If anyone ever found it, they'd assume I was committing tax fraud. Which—fair, honestly.
I shake the thought off and open the note tucked in with the flowers.
You did amazing on your presentation, my little butterfly. I miss your voice. I'm sure I'll be hearing it moan for me again soon enough.
