Chapter 6
Sergei
"You're officially stuck with me now."
Izzy's voice cuts through the City Hall corridor, echoing off marble that's seen a thousand marriages and probably twice as many regrets.
She's clutching the marriage certificate like it might disintegrate, her black hair falling loose from the twist she'd attempted this morning.
Those blue eyes flash with triumph and terror in equal measure.
I button my suit jacket, charcoal grey, the only concession I made to this charade, and study my new wife. She's wearing cream silk that hugs every curve I memorized four nights ago, and the sight makes my jaw lock.
"Stuck implies I had a choice," I say.
Her laugh is sharp. Nervous. "You signed the paper. That was a choice."
"Was it?" I take the certificate from her hands, folding it with deliberate care. Ten minutes ago, we stood in front of a judge, who looked bored enough to fall asleep mid-ceremony. Two signatures. One perfunctory kiss that lasted exactly three seconds and felt like touching a live wire.
Now she's Mrs. Orlov, and I'm trying not to think about what that means.
We exit into grey afternoon light, rain threatening in clouds the color of gunmetal. My car, black SUV with bulletproof windows and enough armor to survive a small war, idles at the curb. Marco's behind the wheel of Izzy's town car two spots back, waiting to follow us to her penthouse.
"I need to pack," she says, fidgeting with the diamond on her left hand. I bought it yesterday after we signed the agreement. Three carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. It cost more than my first kill contract, and watching her slide it on made something primitive twist behind my ribs.
"We'll be quick." I open the SUV door, my hand finding the small of her back. The touch sends heat through my palm, and I force myself to pull away. Business arrangement. That's what she called it.
Except business arrangements don't make your pulse kick when she bites her lip.
The drive to her penthouse takes thirty minutes through midtown traffic. She's quiet beside me, staring out the window, and I use the silence to check my mirrors. Force of habit. The black sedan three cars back has been there since we left City Hall.
Could be coincidence.
I don't believe in coincidences.
"What's wrong?" Izzy's watching me now, those sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Maybe nothing." I switch lanes abruptly, cutting off a taxi. The sedan follows. "Call Marco. Tell him to park when we get to your building. You're riding with me after."
Her face goes pale. "Someone's following us?"
"Don't look back." My voice comes out harder than I intend, but she obeys, gripping the armrest instead. "Your phone. Now."
She fumbles it out of her purse, and her dad's lighter tumbles out with it, that scorched gold thing she carries everywhere. Her hands shake as she dials Marco.
"Marco, change of plans," she says, voice steadier than I expected. "Park when we arrive. I'm leaving with Sergei." Pause. "Yes, I'm sure. I'll text you later."
She hangs up. Looks at me. "Who is it? Elena? My uncle?"
"Could be either." I take another hard turn, watching the sedan struggle to keep pace. "Could be someone new. Your family's not the only one with enemies."
"Comforting."
"You married The Wolf, kotyonok. Comfort's off the table."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it. Little kitten. She blinks, color rising in her cheeks, and I regret it immediately. This is supposed to be professional. Clean. Except nothing about Izzy feels clean. She's all sharp edges and desperate need wrapped in designer silk.
We reach her building. Marco pulls the town car into the garage entrance while I keep driving, circling the block. The sedan's gone, lost somewhere in the theater district, but that doesn't mean we're clear.
"Stay here," I tell her, pulling into a loading zone half a block down. Rain starts pattering against the windshield, soft at first, then harder. "I'll get your things."
"I can pack my own—"
"You can stay in this car, where it's safe." My hand finds her knee, fingers tightening through silk. The touch is meant to be reassuring but lands somewhere closer to possessive. "Five minutes. Don't move."
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work, remembering how it tasted. "Sergei—"
"Five minutes, Isabelle."
I'm out of the car before she can argue, rain soaking through my jacket as I jog back to her building. The doorman lets me in, eyebrows raising at my appearance, but he’s too well trained to comment.
I take the private elevator to 38, already cataloguing what she'll need.
Clothes, toiletries, whatever sentimental shit she can't live without.
Her penthouse feels different in the daylight. Less seductive, more exposed. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the rain-darkened park, and I can see exactly how vulnerable she is up here. Glass and marble, and nowhere to hide if someone comes through that door with bad intentions.
She needs me. The thought shouldn't satisfy me as much as it does.
I pack efficiently. Suitcase from her closet, armfuls of dresses and jeans, and impractical shoes. Her bathroom yields enough product to stock a salon, and I grab what looks essential. In her nightstand, I find a framed photo of her and her father, both laughing at something outside the frame.
I pack that, too.
Four minutes. I'm scanning for anything else when my phone buzzes. Message from Izzy.
Black sedan's back. Different position.
Ice floods my veins.
I'm moving before conscious thought, suitcase abandoned, hand going to the Glock tucked against my spine. Out the door, down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because elevators are death traps. My phone buzzes again.
Two men getting out. Not cops.
Fuck.
I hit the lobby at a dead run, the doorman shouting behind me, but I'm already through the service exit into the rain.
The SUV's where I left it, engine running.
Izzy's pressed against the passenger door, face white, and the sedan's parked across the street.
Two men in dark suits approach with purpose.
They see me. One reaches inside his jacket.
I'm in the driver's seat before he clears leather, throwing the SUV into gear, tires screaming as we lurch forward. Izzy slams back in her seat, gasping, and I floor it through a red light, weaving between cars with the precision of someone who's run from worse.
"Seatbelt," I bark.
She clicks it with shaking hands. "Who were they?"
"Don't know. Don't care." Another turn, hard enough to make the tires hydroplane. The sedan's trying to follow, but traffic's thick, choking. "You hurt?"
"No. Terrified, but no."
"Good. Stay terrified. Keeps you sharp."
We blast through another intersection, and I check the mirrors. The sedan's three blocks back now, struggling. I take two more turns, double back, lose them completely in the tangle of one-way streets around Columbus Circle.
Only when I'm sure we're clear do I slow down, merging into normal traffic, like we didn't just run from armed men in broad daylight. Rain drums against the roof, steady and relentless. Izzy's breathing too fast, her hand white-knuckled around the door handle.
"We're okay," I tell her.
"Okay?" Her laugh is brittle, sharp. "We just got chased by whoever they were. Nothing about this is okay."
"You're alive. That's okay enough." I glance at her, taking in the fear beneath the bravado. "Welcome to my world, Mrs. Orlov."
She stares at me, blue eyes wide and dark. Then her gaze drops to her lap, where her dad's lighter gleams against cream silk. She picks it up, thumb working the mechanism. Click snap. Click snap.
"We can't go back for my things," she says quietly.
"I'll send someone. Tomorrow, when it's safe."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight you learn what it means to be married to The Wolf." I reach over, covering her hand with mine, stilling the lighter's anxious rhythm. Her skin is cold. She’s trembling. "I'll protect you, Izzy. That's the deal."
She looks at our joined hands, then up at me. The fear in her eyes melts into determination or maybe just acceptance.
"Then protect me," she whispers.
The rain gets harder. I drive us toward Brooklyn, toward the fortress I've built, toward whatever comes next.
Behind us, the city bleeds into grey nothingness.