10. Cora
10
CORA
T he sharp crack of wood against the wall makes me jump, my grip tightening on the damp cloth in my hand. My pulse jolts.
Everything stops.
Ivan.
He stands in the doorway like he owns the place, bleeding, dangerous, furious. Outside, people are shouting, running, cars screeching to a halt.
His suit is ruined, black fabric torn, soaked in blood that hasn’t dried yet. His jaw is clenched so tightly I think it might break, and his broad shoulders rise and fall with slow breaths.
But it’s his eyes that hold me captive.
The instant they lock onto mine, the rest of the world disappears.
The only thing left is him.
My breath catches, my chest tight.
It’s been weeks since he told me to forget him.
Weeks since he touched me, since he ruined me, claimed me, broke me apart—then left.
And now he’s here.
His voice slices through the tension, sharp and demanding.
“Got a table for one?”
I barely process the words.
I force myself to breathe.
“How did you find me?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Far too easily.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
I don’t know what’s more dangerous—the blood on his hands or the look in his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
He steps forward, closing the distance like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like I should have expected this.
“Men are coming for you. Luckily, I got here first.”
“Second time of asking, how did you find me?”
“I’ve been stalking you,” he says smoothly, voice dropping lower. “Tracker in your heel.”
“You realize that’s insane, right?”
“What? Keeping you safe? Making sure you got this job? Getting your rent lowered?”
My breath stutters.
That explains it all.
The too-good rent. The way my landlord avoided eye contact when I signed the lease.
The way my boss never questions me, never pushes me, always looks afraid of me.
“You’re bleeding,” I say as he shakes off his jacket. “Who got you this time?”
“Dead men,” he replies. “First aid kit. You got one?”
I bring it out from beneath the counter, my fingers trembling.
He leans against the counter, his gaze unreadable, his breathing slow and even like he isn’t dying all over my workplace. Like he hasn’t just walked in here, tearing my life apart all over again. “Was that you?” I ask, pointing at the chaos outside, the sirens getting louder.
My fingers brush the first button of his ruined shirt.
He doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t even flinch. Says nothing.
I hesitate.
It’s not fear that holds me still—it’s something far worse.
Memory.
I remember this.
I remember the feel of his body beneath my hands. The sharp edges of him, the way he felt unmovable, untouchable—except when he was touching me.
I force my hands to keep going, sliding each button free, revealing the damage beneath.
God help me.
His body is all hard muscle and old scars, a canvas of violence and history I’ll never understand. Blood streaks his ribs, the deep, angry gash beneath screaming for attention.
And his skin is warm.
Too warm.
I shouldn’t be touching him. I shouldn’t be here, pressing a cloth to his side, cleaning the blood from his skin.
The weight of his stare sets my nerves on fire. His breathing slows as I work.
Heat grows low in my stomach.
I clear my throat. “I need to clean it first.”
His lips twitch, a slow, knowing smirk.
“You remember.”
He watches as I grab the bottle of alcohol and a clean cloth.
When I pour it over the wound, he doesn’t flinch.
Of course he doesn’t. Ivan isn’t the kind of man who shows pain.
But his muscles go taut beneath my fingers, his breath shifting the tiniest fraction.
Good. So he can feel something.
I press the bandage against his skin, deliberate, careful.
His lips twitch again—something like amusement.
“What are you doing here, Ivan?”
His reply is ominous. “I told you. Darren’s looking for you. Sent men to kidnap you.”
“That SUV was yours, wasn’t it? The one across the street.”
“You noticed?”
His fingers close around my wrist.
Not rough. Not hard.
Just enough to make me feel the weight of his touch.
“Why does he want me?”
“He knows what you stole from him and he wants it back.” His grip tightens. “But I don’t like to share.”
I clear my throat, force myself to focus. Not on his scent—leather, smoke, something darker underneath. Not on the way his shirt hangs open, revealing hard muscle and fresh bandages.
He clicks his fingers in front of my eyes, drawing my attention back to his face. “Listen. I need you to go home and pack.”
I freeze.
The air thickens.
My stomach twists. “Is that a request?”
His gaze is steady. Too steady.
“No.”
“I can’t just leave,” I snap. “I have a job. I’ll be fired.”
Ivan doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t argue.
Instead, he turns, walks past me, and heads straight for Emilio.
I go still.
A strange, twisting kind of panic grips my chest. Not fear. Something worse.
I watch—helpless, stunned—as my boss pales instantly.
And then—Emilio nods.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
The shift happens so fast, so easily, that I can’t breathe.
When Ivan returns, his expression is unreadable. “You’re free to go.”
I gape at him. A slow, creeping rage unfurls in my chest.
Just a few words, and my boss folded like a house of cards.
My entire world shifts, crumbles, bends under Ivan’s will.
Like he’s mine to obey. Like I belong to him already.
Heat flares in my veins, a dangerous mix of anger and something far worse.
I want him.
Even now, even while I burn with fury, even while I hate the way he controls everything around me, all I can think about is his body pressing me against the counter, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth on mine.
I breathe in, slow and shaky. “Where are we going?”
His gaze darkens. “I told you. Your place. You need to pack.”
“Why?”
He stares straight at me. “When you plugged that flash drive into your laptop, it sent your location to Darren. He needs the flash drive back and he’ll kill to get it.”
“What’s on it?”
“No idea but we’ll soon find out.”
I catch myself. “Hang on. How did you know I found it?”
“Cameras in your place.” He says it calmly, like I should have expected nothing less.
“You put cameras in my apartment?”
He nods.
“You had no right, you son of a bitch.”
He shakes his head. “We can argue later. You need to pack, quickly, and then we’re going to get married.”
The words hit like a shockwave, stealing the breath from my lungs. “Sorry, what?”
I stare at him, my mind reeling, my body betraying me in the worst way.
He looks like it’s already done. “We’re getting married.”
Heat coils deep, my legs unsteady, my core aching with something raw and unyielding.
“You want to marry me?”
“Want doesn’t come into it. It’s about need.”
“And what do you need?”
“I need you alive with my ring on your finger.”
“That’s insane. You’re insane. Get the hell out of here.”
He grabs my hand, dragging me toward the door. “It’s happening,” he growls as I try and fail to break free. “We’re getting married. Now stop fighting me or I’ll carry you out of here over my fucking shoulder.”