7. Ivan
7
IVAN
S he moves inside the restaurant, weaving between tables, balancing trays, offering professional smiles to people who don’t deserve them.
I watch from my SUV, parked just far enough that I won’t be noticed but close enough that I can see everything. She has no idea that every step she takes is monitored.
She thinks she’s free.
But I never let go.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, keeping my breathing steady, forcing myself not to get out. Not to cross the street. Not to walk in there, take her by the wrist, and remind her that she belongs to me. To fuck her over that table where she’s writing down an order.
It would be so easy.
The moment she left my sight, I tracked her. I let her think she was rebuilding her life on her own. She wasn’t. I built it for her.
The job? A small, quiet restaurant, tucked away in a place where no one will bother her, where they pay her what I told them to pay her. Where no one will dare touch her. Because they know better than to cross me.
The apartment?
One call, and the landlord miraculously decided to drop the rent. I made sure he understood the consequences of ignoring my orders.
A lucky break, Cora must think. Cheap place, well paid job, all in Manhattan.
And then there are the cameras.
She would kill me if she knew.
Tiny, unnoticeable. One outside her front door. One in the alley beside the building. One across the street, angled perfectly to catch anyone coming or going.
The inside ones? Those I justify less easily.
For safety, I tell myself. For control, a voice in my head corrects.
Because it isn’t just protection. It’s more than that.
I need to see her.
I need to know she’s breathing, eating, sleeping. That no one gets near her.
That no one else sees what I see when I look at her.
Because she’s mine.
She just doesn’t know it.
I watch her now, the way she moves, the slight crease in her brow as she focuses on a task, the way her fingers skim the rim of a glass absently before setting it down. Even now, I can see the exhaustion in her frame.
She’s still not eating properly. I’ll have to fix that.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and my fingers twitch. I should be the one doing that.
A muscle in my jaw tenses.
I exhale slowly, forcing the possessive urge back down, reminding myself why I’m here.
Darren’s men are out looking for her.
They’re sniffing around. They don’t know where she is yet, but they’re getting closer. I’ve intercepted two of them in New York already, inquiring about her. I should have got her to change her name, made her harder to trace.
I killed the two men but they’re like cockroaches. More will come.
There’s a shift at the edge of my vision.
A man.
He leans against the lamppost across the street, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Smoking, but not really smoking.
His posture is all wrong—too restless, too alert. His weight shifts from foot to foot, his gaze flicking toward the restaurant in a way that makes my blood run cold.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. The sharp, possessive fury in my chest burns hotter, sharper.
I can’t act rashly. Not yet. Not here, where the streets are busy, where Cora is just inside, oblivious to the way my world is closing in on her.
I count the seconds. Thirty. Sixty.
The man doesn’t move.
Doesn’t leave.
His gaze flickers toward the restaurant again. Again.
Something inside me snaps.
Sliding out of the SUV, I melt into the crowd, my steps measured, controlled. Silent. The man doesn’t see me coming—he’s too focused on the restaurant, on Cora, on something he will never get the chance to touch.
I track his movement as he pushes off the lamppost and starts down the sidewalk, still watching, still lingering.
I close the distance.
One step. Another.
My hand clamps around his arm in a vice grip as I lean in, my voice low, even. Lethal.
The man stiffens. “What the?—”
I squeeze harder, my fingers digging into muscle, my grip unforgiving. I lean in, my mouth barely inches from his ear.
“Make a sound, and I will put a bullet in your stomach right here, right now.”
He doesn’t struggle, but I feel the tension in his body—the moment of hesitation, the calculation of whether he can run.
He can’t.
He knows it.
He swallows hard and nods.
I guide him toward my SUV, my grip unrelenting, my pace calm. No one notices.
I open the driver-side door and shove him inside. He barely has time to gasp before I slide in beside him, slamming the door shut. I point the gun straight at him. “Key’s in the ignition. Drive. Take it slow.”
The engine hums as he pulls away from the curb, merging into the steady flow of traffic.
His breath comes faster now, his pulse jumping in his throat. I can see it—his hands flexing against his knees, his body stiff, his mind scrambling for a way out.
“Listen, I don’t?—”
“Shut up.” My voice is calm, flat. But there’s no mistaking the steel in it.
He shuts up.
“Take a left. That alley.”
He does as I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not doing nothing, mister. Please, I’ve got kids.”
“Stop here. Out.”
The man stumbles as he climbs out of the car, his legs barely holding him up. He smells of sweat and fear, the stink of desperation clinging to him. I keep my grip tight on my gun, steering him into the shadows of the alley.
His breath comes fast, panicked. He tries to turn his head, to get a good look at me, as if seeing my face will help him.
I shove him against the cold brick wall, pinning him there with nothing more than the weight of my presence. I don’t rush. There’s no need.
I tilt my head, studying him, letting the silence stretch long enough for him to feel it. Letting him know how this will end.
His chest heaves, and his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for something—a weapon, a phone, anything that could give him a way out.
He won’t find one.
I lean in slightly, my voice low, calm. Deadly.
“Who are you looking for?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wrong answer.”
I strike before he can protest. An open palm to the throat. A calculated hit, just hard enough to collapse his airways for a few seconds. His hands fly up to his neck as he stumbles forward, wheezing, his body shaking.
I let him struggle. Let him feel the way the air refuses to come properly.
Then I let him go.
“Try again.”
He bends at the waist, sucking in a ragged breath. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. He spits it onto the pavement, his eyes darting wildly around the alley, looking for an escape that isn’t there.
He knows what I am now. Knows what men like me do to scum like him.
I can see the exact moment it sinks in. The knowledge that no one is coming to save him.
“Give me a name,” I say, “or I’ll make it agony.”
His gaze locks onto mine. His lips part.
“Darren…” he finally gasps.
I go still. “Why?”
“I’ve no idea. He just said to find her and then report back.”
She has something Darren wants.
Something he’s willing to send men into my city to retrieve.
I keep my face blank, but my mind is already working, already picking apart every moment, every detail of the night she left.
So what the hell does Darren think she has? I searched the bag. It was just cash.
I pull the knife from my belt, pressing the tip under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to meet my gaze.
“Any last words?”
“Please, I don’t know anything else, I swear.”
“I believe you.”
I slide the blade into his ribs.
He exhales sharply, a wet, rasping sound, his body jerking once before the fight drains out of him.
I lower him to the ground smoothly, watching as the light fades from his eyes.
I wipe the blade clean against his jacket, standing up, glancing around.
It’s like he was never here.
My place is nothing like hers—bare, functional, empty. A penthouse overlooking the city, all sharp angles and cold surfaces. The kind of place no one with a soul would live in.
I strip off my jacket, tossing it onto the chair in the corner. My vodka burns as it slides down my throat, but it doesn’t settle me the way it should.
Not when I know she’s still out there. Alone. Unprotected.
They’ll keep coming. I need a way to keep her safe.
The idea comes to me at once. Marry her.
With my name, no one will touch her.
She’ll be untouchable. She’ll also be mine.
I set the glass down, exhaling slowly.
Then I pull out my phone and open the security feed from her apartment.
Nothing out of place, no shadows in the hallway, no threats lurking in the dark. She’s safe. Humming to herself in the shower, the steam making it impossible to see more than a vague outline of her body. I’ve jerked off to that outline more times than I can count.
I sit back in my chair, one hand resting on the desk as my other lingers near my gun, a habit I can’t shake. I watch the screen as she emerges and wraps a towel around herself, pulling her hair up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.
She has no idea.
No idea that I’m watching. No idea that every ounce of peace she’s had since coming here is because I refuse to let the world touch her.
Because I refuse to let Darren reach her.
The air in my apartment suddenly feels too thick, too hot.
Her skin is still damp, a soft sheen catching the dim light as she moves. The bruises that once darkened her body, the ones that made my blood boil, that made me vow to destroy every man who had ever put a hand on her, are gone now, her skin smooth and untouched. I should be relieved.
Instead, I want to mark her all over again.
The towel clings to her frame, barely covering her. A single droplet of water slips from her collarbone, down between her breasts, over the soft curve of her stomach.
Mine.
She pads toward the bed, unaware, unguarded. The light from her bedside lamp casts a golden glow over her skin, making her look softer than she is. She’s small, delicate, but I know better than to think she’s fragile. There’s fire inside her.
Fire only I should be allowed to tame.
She sits on the edge of the bed and picks up her brush, running it through her hair. I watch the strands glide through the bristles, watch the way her throat bobs as she breathes, watch the way she closes her eyes for a second, like the act itself soothes her.
And then?—
She drops the towel.
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.
My cock throbs with need.
Not just her curves, though they set something deep and possessive alight inside me. It’s everything. The way her skin glows under the dim light, the way her fingers absently skim over her stomach as she reads, the way she shifts lazily on the sheets, utterly unaware of what she’s doing to me.
Unaware that I’m barely holding myself back.
She lays back, stretching her legs slightly, her book open in one hand, the other tracing absent patterns on her thigh.
She shouldn’t be alone like this. She shouldn’t be without me.
She sighs, her fingers brushing higher. Too high.
I touch myself through my pants, my breath heavy. I shouldn’t. I should look away, focus, find the rest of Darren’s men and end them.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
She shifts again, legs parting slightly, and my control frays.
Her fingers slide lower.
My jaw tightens.
She bites her lip, breath hitching, her movements slow, unhurried. I watch her chest rise and fall, watch the way she arches slightly, watch the soft, helpless expressions flit across her face.
She’s beautiful like this. Untouched by the world.
And yet she doesn’t even know she belongs to me.
I should be the one touching her right now.
I undo my belt with one hand, my other stroking in time with hers, my body aching for her.
She moans my name.
“Ivan…”
I lose control.
My body jerks in time with hers. I barely contain the growl in my throat as I ride it out, my gaze locked on her, on the way her chest rises and falls, her skin flushed, her body spent.
I exhale, my body tense, still strung tight despite the release. The obsession doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens.