Chapter 8
Makari
Evening drapes the estate in silence, the kind that hums with power.
Outside, the pines sway in a low wind, whispering secrets to anyone who dares to listen.
There are four Komandas out there tonight—teams moving goods through the dark, ferrying them north.
I stand in the surveillance room, one hand braced on the console, watching the monitors cycle through each section of Ursa Arcane’s remote property.
Everything about this place—the stone walls, the steel gates, the wilderness swallowing the perimeter—control built. Mine.
So when I see movement in the wrong quadrant of the feed, control fractures.
A voluptuous figure slips into the northern warehouse. Unauthorized. Unarmed.
I zoom in. The cameras catch a flash of long dark hair, a coat brushing the backs of her legs, and a flashlight trembling in one hand.
Roxanne Adler.
The woman who manages to undo my composure simply by walking into a room.
She clocked out an hour ago after a late day prepping for one of Bar Harbor’s many restaurant openings where I’m to make an appearance.
My jaw tightens. Of all the places to wander, she’s chosen the one that could get her killed if the wrong man found her first. That bunker is where we move shipments that can’t afford daylight—antique weapons, black market tech, artifacts bound for Montreal and beyond.
And she’s down there alone, sniffing around like a curious cat at a wolf’s den.
I grab my coat and head out, cutting through the courtyard and down the old maintenance path. The air smells like iron and wet pine. Every step sharpens my anger into focus.
She’s barely been here a month and she’s already reorganized my financials with the precision of a surgeon, and yet she still doesn’t understand what kind of animal she works for.
Or if she does, she’s reckless. I thought I made it clear that I could make her disappear just as quickly as I could make her wealthy.
By the time I reach the bunker, my pulse is steady again.
That’s the problem with her: she makes me forget to stay steady.
The keypad glows faintly in the dark. I punch in the code, and pull the door open without making a sound.
I have no idea how Roxanne could’ve gotten the code, but it doesn’t surprise me; she’s brilliant.
Inside, the air is cold and dry despite summer finally settling in the last few days. The scent of oil and gunmetal clings to the stone walls. I can hear her soft footsteps somewhere ahead—too heavy for anyone on staff, and too hesitant to be confident.
I follow the sound. She’s standing near the far table, tracing her fingers along a disassembled rifle like she’s afraid and fascinated at once. Her flashlight cuts a silver beam through the shadows. It glances off her cheek, the line of her neck, the curve of her waist.
“Looking for something, Ms. Adler?”
Her gasp is soft, but sharp enough to echo. The flashlight jerks in her hand, then lands on me—blinding for an instant before she lowers it.
“Jesus, Makari.” Her voice trembles just enough to amuse me. Her throat works with a nervous swallow. “Mr. Medvedev,” she corrects herself. “You scared me.”
“Good.” I take a slow step forward. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I—I know. I just…” Her eyes flick to the crates stacked against the wall.
“I heard a noise from the west wing earlier and thought maybe a shipment had been dropped off. I was curious. And all the men are…” She trails off, referencing the teams I sent out hours ago.
She’s right; staffing is low tonight. But the group that delivered the shipment knows exactly what they’re doing and where to go, with little supervision.
“You thought you’d check it out yourself?” My tone is even, but my body has already moved into the space with her, circling, close enough that the warmth from her body brushes against me each time she turns to keep me in view. Her warmth draws me to her in this cold dark place.
“I didn’t want to bother security,” she says quickly. “And it’s not like I touched anything—”
“You touched everything.” I glance at her gloved hand resting on the edge of the table.
Her mouth opens, ready to argue. Then she sees the faint smirk on my face and falters. “You think this is funny?”
“No. I think it’s reckless.” I stop directly in front of her, blocking the way to the door. “And reckless gets people buried in these woods.”
She stiffens, chin lifting. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Medvedev?”
I let the silence stretch until it hums. “No. I’m warning you.”
Her lips part, a sharp intake of breath. “You don’t intimidate me.”
That’s a lie that almost makes me laugh.
I step closer until her back brushes the cold concrete wall.
The flashlight trembles in her grip, scattering light across my chest, the open collar of my shirt, the glint of the tattoo at my throat.
I don’t try to hide it now, not like I do with everyone else—a careless decision made when I was younger.
For some reason, Roxanne always seems to seek it out when she thinks I’m not watching.
“Then why,” I murmur, “are you shaking?”
“I’m not.” But the denial cracks halfway through.
I reach up and cover the flashlight with my hand, pressing it down so we’re cast in near-darkness. My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You walk into my territory, into my bunker, and tell me you’re not afraid?”
“I told you—I was curious.”
“You don’t know what kind of curiosity gets men killed.”
“I’m not a man.”
That earns her a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. You’re worse.”
Her breath catches, and I can see the pulse at her throat.
She straightens as the wall bites into her back.
She’s trembling, but it isn’t fear anymore.
It’s something else. Something that feels a hell of a lot like heat.
I breathe in her warm, spicy scent. It's familiar somehow and makes my chest tighten. For a split second, I’m somewhere else—a dark room, music low and slow, a flash of white satin beneath my hands.
A body arching into mine. The memory flickers and dies, leaving nothing, but the ghost of it.
I clear my throat, forcing the past back where it belongs. “You shouldn’t test me, Roxy.”
Her eyes flash. “Then stop treating me like a criminal.”
“Maybe I don’t know yet if you are one.”
That stings her, I can tell. Her spine straightens, and her voice comes out sharp. “You think I’m stupid enough to steal from you? Or spy on you? I’m not one of your men, Makari. I work with spreadsheets, not guns.”
I move closer, until there’s barely an inch between us. “And yet, here you are…in my bunker… with my weapons.”
The sound of her breath hitching goes straight to my gut. I shouldn’t be reacting like this—not to defiance, not to danger—but the sight of her pressed against the wall, chin tilted in defiance, is enough to make me forget why I came down here in the first place.
“I’m beginning to think,” I say slowly, “you enjoy getting caught.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t lie.” My hand finds the wall beside her head, palm flat against the concrete. She flinches but doesn’t move away. “You like the thrill of it. Testing boundaries. Seeing how close you can get before someone notices.”
Her mouth curves, faintly defiant. “And what happens when someone notices?”
I shouldn’t, but I lean in until my breath brushes her ear. “That depends on who catches you.”
The shiver that runs through her is unmistakable. She turns her head slightly, eyes glinting in the dim light. “And what are you going to do, Mr. Medvedev? Fire me?”
I let out a low growl of laughter. “Firing you would be too easy.”
Her pulse jumps. “Then what?”
“Keep you close.”
That earns a flicker of confusion. “Close?”
I push off the wall, giving her room to breathe.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll shadow me. Every meeting, every inspection, every damn hour until I decide you understand what Ursa Arcane really is.
If you’re going to work for me, you’ll do it by my side.
No more wandering around and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
You can’t pretend anymore, Miss Adler, that you’re not involved. ”
Her brows shoot up. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s not a request.”
She folds her arms, trying to look composed, but the tremor in her breath betrays her. “You think this is punishment.”
I glance over my shoulder at her, the corner of my mouth lifting. “No. This is insurance.”
“Against what?”
My gaze drifts deliberately down her body and back up again. “Distraction.”
Her jaw drops. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She pushes past me, brushing against my coat as she goes. The touch is fleeting but leaves a spark that travels all the way up my spine. I let her walk a few steps before speaking again, voice low enough to make her pause.
“Don’t come down here again.”
She turns slightly, just enough for me to see the smirk tugging at her lips. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”
I shouldn’t smile, but I do.
The door hisses as she opens it, the light spilling in from the hallway cutting her silhouette in gold. Her hips sway as she walks away, unhurried, unafraid.
God help me, I can’t look anywhere else. For a man who’s spent years mastering restraint, she is the one variable I can’t control. Every move she makes feels calculated to test me, and I can’t decide whether to cage her or worship her for it.
The door closes behind her. Silence floods the bunker again, but the air is still charged with her scent.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard.
This was supposed to be simple. Keep her employed, keep her distant, keep my empire intact.
But she’s sharper than she looks. My books are already in perfect order, my schedules are tighter, and my men are impressed by her efficiency. She’s dangerous in a quiet way—organized chaos hidden beneath polite smiles. And now, I’ve ordered her to stay close. Stupid. Necessary. Both.
I glance down at the disassembled rifle she’d been examining; her fingerprints now smudging the steel.
My thumb drags over the cool metal as that flash of memory returns again—white satin, the sound of rain, the taste of a woman’s skin.
I can’t place it, but it crawls under my skin, insisting it means something more.
For now, it doesn’t matter. I leave the bunker and step out into the night.
The wind cuts across the courtyard, sharp and clean.
The moon hangs low over the pines, a pale witness to whatever madness I’m walking into.
In the distance, the lights of the main house glow faintly through the trees. The low purr of a car sounds, and Roxanne’s little SUV pulls out, headlights glancing across the woods. I imagine her clenching the steering wheel, furious and flushed, cursing me under her breath. Good. Let her.
Fear keeps most people obedient. Anger keeps them alive. But her? I suspect it will do neither.
As I walk back toward the estate, I replay her voice—steady, defiant, tinged with something she doesn’t understand yet.
But that fog still lingers in the corners of my mind.
I haven’t felt disoriented like this since the drugs and alcohol marred my early 30’s.
The last thing I need, another addiction.