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He stepped closer.

“Sergei.”

The end of the belt passed through the ring. I stared at him in disbelief as he slipped the end through the buckle and slid it all the way down against my neck. Then he wrapped the other end once around his hand.

“You do not get to put me on a leash.”

“Then stop running from me, little pet.”

I grabbed the belt, but his hand settled gently over mine before I could try to unfasten it.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accused him.

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth. “More than I should.”

Heat moved through me, intense and unwelcome.

Sergei placed his other hand beneath my elbow and guided me back to the car. The belt remained loose between us. He didn’t jerk it or choke me or drag me across the pavement, which a very small part of me was grateful for, but that didn’t stop every driver trapped beside us from seeing a half-dressed woman in a black robe being calmly led into an armored vehicle by a huge Russian man with her leash in his hand.

No one intervened. One man looked away so quickly he nearly rear-ended the car in front of him. By the time Sergei helped me inside and removed the belt from my throat, my face felt hotter than my entire body had beneath the lights at Nocturne.

He removed the belt and fastened it around his waist again.

“I hate you,” I spat.

“Noted,” he replied with a smirk.

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

Boston appeared slowly through the rain, first as a pale glow along the horizon and then as a sparkling skyline of tall buildings rising from the dark. The streets narrowed as we moved into the city. The car finally stopped in front of a Federal-style townhouse with dark red brick, black shutters, and iron railings polished enough to reflect the streetlamps. Sergei opened the door and offered me his hand. I ignored it and climbed out on my own.

Two guards stood beneath the awning. Neither looked directly at the bodysuit beneath my robe, though one of them stared very seriously at the opposite side of the street.

Sergei keyed in a code and held the front door open.

The entryway was warm, quiet, and immaculate. Dark wood floors stretched beneath a long runner aligned perfectly with the baseboards. A long, narrow console stood against the wall with a black tray positioned in the exact center. Sergei placed his phone and his keys on it in a straight line, each object separated by less than an inch.

Even his clutter stood at attention.

“This way,” he said, keeping his weapon with him.

Instead of taking me directly upstairs, Sergei led me through the living room and into a study at the rear of the house.

It was exactly what I would have expected from him. Books filled dark shelves in precise rows. A heavy desk faced the door at an angle that gave him a clear view of anyone entering, and one wall contained a tall, locked cabinet fitted with both an electronic keypad and a physical key.

Sergei entered the code, unlocked it, and secured his weapon inside.

Medical supplies occupied one shelf. Spare phones, ammunition, cash packets, and several black folders filled another. On the lowest shelf sat a narrow steel box beside an old silver picture frame lying face down and a sealed cream-colored envelope.

I leaned slightly to get a better look.

Sergei closed the cabinet.

“What’s in the box?”

“Things I prefer secured.”

“That sounds ominous.”