Page 87 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

That damn Chris showed up at her place with roses.

What the hell was he trying to do? Didn't he care about everything that had happened between Anna and me?

On the screen, Anna turned and opened the door. She invited him in.

In that instant, my sanity went up in flames.

She knew exactly what that guy wanted, and she still let him in. A man and a woman, alone. Would he stay the night? Would he touch her? Would he—

I couldn't let myself finish the thought.

Jealousy surged up from my gut like acid, burning through every organ in my body.

That bastard Chris—Ivy League grad, perfectly dressed, knew all the right things to say, knew how to charm women. Every goddamn thing about him was cleaner than me, better than me.

Anna had been his friend for years. He knew every part of her life, everything about who she had been as a student. And me? I was nothing more than a man who had spent two decades crawling through the darkness of the criminal world—blood staining my hands, a gun weighing down my pocket. I could never give her a future she could claim openly and without shame. The only thing I could do was hide behind a screen like a sick man, watching her life from the shadows.

"Boss, looks like the kid's going to propose to Ms. Bennett." Dmitri's voice cut through.

Propose?

The word seared into me like a red-hot brand.

My throat worked for a long moment before I could force the words out through clenched teeth. "Shut up."

On the monitor, the curtains drew closed. Warm yellow light leaked through the edges. I couldn't see anything, but that blurred glow was like a thin needle, jabbing at my frayed nerves over and over.

Every frame made me want to kill someone.

No. I couldn't wait anymore.

I grabbed my jacket off the chair and bolted. Dmitri shouted after me on the phone, but I ignored him.

I drove like hell. New York's neon lights streaked past the windows, slicing into my eyes. Only one thought pounded through my head—Anna was mine, and if Chris laid one finger on her, he was a dead man.

Red light at the corner. I slammed the brakes. The tires screamed against the pavement. I gripped the steering wheel, palms slick with sweat.

But what if—

What if she'd fallen for Chris?

Should I let her go? Could I let her go?

No. I couldn't lie to myself. Just thinking about her in someone else's arms, smiling at someone else, calling out someone else's name—I wanted to blow up all of New York.

Green light. I floored it. The car shot forward like an enraged beast.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside her apartment building.

The car went silent except for my ragged breathing.

I looked up. Her window glowed with light, warm yellow seeping through the curtains. Exactly like the monitor feed.

I shoved the door open, got out, slammed it shut, and walked toward the building with heavy steps.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on with each floor I climbed.

Outside her door, I took three deep breaths before I knocked.