Chapter 9
Roxy
Two days later, and I’m still mad. Not at Medvedev, exactly—at myself. I’ve let him get under my skin. I’ve let my mind drift back to the moment in the bunker, the way his voice dragged over my name… low and dark and knowing.
I’ve let myself dream about him.
The only thing that makes sense is that it’s adrenaline. Definitely not attraction—no. Fear, for being backed into corners by a man who runs an empire of darkness.
But fear doesn’t make you stand in front of your closet at seven a.m. debating between the navy blouse that flatters your waist and the silk one that shows more cleavage than is probably appropriate.
The mirror doesn’t lie. The blouse I chose dips a little lower than necessary. My hair falls softly over my shoulders. My perfume—the one I usually save for nights out—hangs in the air like a poorly kept secret. “Professional,” I mutter to my reflection. “Totally professional.”
If I believe it hard enough, maybe he will too.
Makari Medvedev is a no-way kind of man. I’ve come across plenty of them since my daughter was born. Even with Andi always toddling around, it was hard not to feel lonely; but with every man there was a no-way. A reason not to get involved beyond a stolen kiss or a quick tryst.
Tugging on a light jacket, I list all the reasons getting close to The Bear would be a mistake: Too old. Too dangerous. Too much.
The man’s a rumor wrapped in cashmere and gunpowder, a killer who donates more to Maine’s wildlife trust each year than most governments.
I’ve seen the reports myself—millions poured into conservation projects, reforestation, endangered-species initiatives.
It makes no sense. The contradiction of him scratches at me.
I spent the entire car ride trying to balance his soul against all the good he’s done, wondering if he does it out of caring or covering his ass.
By the time I make it to the main house, fog curls over the pines like breath. The morning is damp, hushed, waiting. I climb the stairs to his private office, heart hammering in a way that annoys me.
I knock. No answer.
“Mr. Medvedev?”
Silence, then a deep voice from inside. “Come in.”
He’s half-dressed when I push the door open—shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, sleeves rolled, damp hair pushed back. He stands by the window, fastening a cufflink, sunlight carving the edges of his shoulders and making the silver hair on his barrel chest gleam.
Every sensible thought I’ve ever had melts away.
He glances up, catches me looking, and something sharp flickers behind his eyes. “You’re early.”
“I’m punctual,” I say too fast.
His mouth curves like he knows exactly what that means. “Then let’s begin.”
I drop my bag onto the chair, trying to steady my breathing while he finishes dressing.
The scent of his cologne—wood, citrus, a hint of tobacco—fills the room until I feel drunk on it.
When he shrugs into his jacket, the small motion pulls the fabric across his chest, and I suddenly understand why people call him The Bear. The room feels smaller with him in it.
He hands me a clipboard. “You’ll shadow me today. Observe. Take notes. Speak only if spoken to.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Is that a rule or a preference?”
“Both.”
“Got it. Dictatorship with an open-door policy.”
His eyes narrow, but I catch the ghost of a smile before he turns away.
We spend the morning moving through Ursa Arcane’s maze of offices, workshops, and hangars full of equipment that probably has more than one use. I’ve seen bits and pieces of it before, but now it feels like I’m following a predator into the maze. And I might not make it out without his help.
Everywhere we go, men stop talking when Mak enters. Their eyes drop; their backs straighten. Is it out of respect or fear?
He introduces me only when he feels like it. “My assistant,” he says, voice clipped, one hand occasionally finding the small of my back to guide me through narrow halls. The touch is light but electric, ownership disguised as politeness.
At the operations yard I meet Jesse, the land manager—a broad-shouldered man with weather-lined skin and a grin that says he’s seen everything, twice.
I like him already; unlike the other men who wear tactical gear and hidden holsters, Jesse looks like a blue-collar guy.
He could be any construction worker, any farmhand.
He shakes my hand, eyes flicking from my blouse to my face.
“So you’re the one giving the big man headaches. ”
“Not on purpose,” I answer.
Jesse chuckles. “Good. You’ll be good for the Bear.”
Makari’s head snaps toward him, a silent warning that wipes the grin clean off Jesse’s face. I swallow a laugh.
We move on. Meetings, signatures, more silence. Makari rules every space with minimal words, like the air itself bends to accommodate him. And when another man—one of the logistics officers—lingers too long while explaining a shipment schedule to me, Mak’s expression darkens.
“Eyes up,” he says to the man, flat and quiet.
The poor guy mumbles something and bolts.
I bite back a smile. “That was unnecessary.”
“He wasn’t looking at your report.”
“Neither were you.”
His gaze slides to me, slow and deliberate. “I don’t need to.”
The rest of the day drags and flies all at once. By afternoon, we’re in one of the company SUVs heading north. Rain threatens on the horizon, the kind that turns dirt roads to rivers. The route twists through a pine forest, and then the signal on my phone vanishes.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, gripping the handle as we hit a rut.
“Inspection.”
“Of what?”
“A cabin.”
“Another one of your secret lairs?”
He cuts me a look. “Storage facility.”
“Right. For antique muskets and priceless art that just happen to move across borders.”
He doesn’t answer. Which I’ve learned, means yes.
When we finally stop, the world has gone gray with mist. The cabin crouches at the edge of the trees, old timber darkened by rain. Thunder grumbles somewhere beyond the ridge.
“Stay close,” he says, stepping out first.
The air smells of pine sap and an approaching storm. I follow, trying not to slip on the wet ground. A shiver goes down my spine at the feel of the cool, damp air. Inside, the cabin is cleaner than I expected—a wood-burning stove, rough-hewn table, a generator humming quietly in the corner.
Mak lights the stove, checks a few crates stacked against the far wall, then straightens. “You’ll wait here while I check the perimeter.”
Lightning cracks so close it rattles the windows. I jump. “You’re going out in that?”
“Yes.”
“Are you insane?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, rain already needling the doorway. “I’ve been called worse.”
The door slams behind him before I can reply.
I pace for maybe two minutes before another thunderclap shakes the roof.
Enough. I throw on my coat and step outside.
He’s at the edge of the clearing, head tilted toward the tree line, rain slicking his hair back. The sight is almost otherworldly—silver light, dark coat, the suggestion of muscle under soaked fabric.
“Mr. Medvedev!”
He turns, brows lowering. “I told you to stay inside.”
“There’s lightning! Get back in the cabin before you turn yourself into a human lightning rod!”
His mouth hardens. “Go inside, Roxanne.”
“No.”
For a moment, all I hear is the storm. Then he strides toward me, boots splashing through mud. I take an involuntary step back, heart racing, but he keeps coming until the rain is between us like smoke.
He grips my elbow—not harshly, but with authority—and steers me toward the door. “You don’t give orders here.”
“Maybe someone should,” I snap. “You’re soaked!”
“Concerned for me?”
“Concerned for common sense! How am I going to explain to your empire if the Bratva Bear dies of pneumonia?”
He ushers me inside, slams the door, and the silence afterward hums like thunder. The air between us feels charged, hot despite the chill. He doesn’t acknowledge what I just admitted to knowing: exactly who he is.
Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards. He pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time, each motion precise.
“Are you always this difficult?”
“Only when men treat me like I’m made of glass.”
His eyes narrow. “Glass breaks. You don’t. But you’re the only assistant who has ever improved my empire, strengthened it. If I tell you to stay out of the storm, you obey.”
“I don’t need you to play the hero.”
He moves closer, every inch deliberate. “Who said I was your hero?”
The words graze my ear, low enough to make me shiver. There’s something familiar about them that goes right to my gut, and then my core, a rumble of desire I haven’t felt in years settling there.
I turn, and my back brushes the table. He’s right there, close enough that I can see a faint scar on his jaw, and the glint of that strange tooth when he speaks. His wet shirt clings to his chest, buttons half undone, and I’m suddenly aware of every breath I take.
“Then what are you?” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “The warning you didn’t listen to.”
Something in me tilts. My pulse climbs into my throat. This man terrifies me. He fascinates me. I want to step away, but I don’t.
He reaches past me to set his gloves on the table, and the brush of his sleeve against my arm is enough to short-circuit every logical thought I’ve ever had.
“You can call me Makari.” The words are unexpected. My brows furrow, catching the hint of self-consciousness in them. As if I might reject the suggestion.
“I… you’re my boss.” My lashes are wet silk darkened by a smattering of raindrops that roll down my chest and gather between my breasts.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re finally admitting just what I do to you.”
I laugh, breathless. “You really think everything’s about you.”
“No,” he says softly. “Just this.”
And then he kisses me.
What I worried might be fear fizzles into something more dangerous as his mouth covers mine, claiming me. He’s not gentle, hands finding my waist and pulling me to him as mine fist in his shirt. The taste of rain and peppermint fills my mouth, waking up my senses.
For one wild heartbeat, I let go.
Then it hits me—the scent of him, that same blend of wood and citrus I can’t name. Memory flashes: a masked man, a vault, hands on my hips, a voice growling. Mine.
I freeze.
He feels it instantly, pulling back just enough to see my face. “What is it?”
I stare at him; the pieces snapping into place with sickening clarity. The mask. The voice. The brass tooth catching the light.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “It was you.”
His expression shifts—confusion first, then understanding, then something rawer.
“Roxy—”
I shove lightly at his chest, needing distance, needing air. “You—at the masquerade—you…”
Lightning flashes through the window, cutting the room into gold and shadow. His features look dangerously familiar and make my stomach twist. But there’s a seriousness there.
He steps forward once, cautiously. “It can’t be…there’s no way.” But his eyes narrow, dragging down my body as if pulling the past into the future.
“How could I forget?” My voice cracks, part fury, part disbelief. “Six years, and you—” I can’t even finish.
The air feels thick enough to drown in. I back up toward the door, shaking my head. “I need to think.”
He doesn’t stop me. Just stands there, rain-slick and silent, watching.
Outside, the storm breaks wide open.
Inside, my pulse does the same.