12. Ivan
12
IVAN
T he city stretches out beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, Darren is hunting. But he’s never had a quarry protected by me.
The flash drive is wrapped in a Faraday pouch, not transmitting a thing until I want it to happen. All he knows is it was at the restaurant, then at her place, then it vanished.
I look across at my bathroom door. Cora’s in there, throwing up, third day in a row. I’m not surprised. Her stress levels must be through the roof.
I push the door open, crouching beside her, ignoring the smell of vomit. I gather her hair in one hand, my other braced on the small of her back as she trembles through the convulsions. I don’t speak. What is there to say? She doesn’t need words. She needs someone who won’t leave.
When it’s over, she sags against the cool porcelain, her breath ragged, her arms trembling as she tries to push herself upright. I grab a towel, run a cloth under warm water, and wipe her face clean. Slow, careful strokes.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push me away. Just lets me do it, her body momentarily pliant in a way I’ve never seen before.
That unsettles me more than I want to admit.
I press a glass of water into her hand. She takes it without a word, her fingers brushing mine as she drinks.
She looks up at me, lashes fluttering, uncertainty flickering in her eyes like she isn’t sure what to make of me.
I don’t know what to make of myself either.
I should feel nothing. That’s what I’m used to. But since she came along, I’ve felt a whole load of things. All of them new.
I pull away before she can look at me too closely and see what I’m not ready to acknowledge. Grabbing one of my shirts and a pair of sweatpants, I set them beside her before stepping out.
When she emerges from the bathroom, she is drowning in my clothes, the soft cotton swallowing her small frame, sleeves too long, waistband cinched tight.
She refuses to look at me, her expression carefully blank, but the fact that she is wearing my clothes, wrapped in something that smells like me, sends something possessive tearing through my chest.
The weight of what I’ve done still hangs between us. She sits on the edge of my bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them like she can make herself smaller, like she can shrink away from the reality that she’s mine now. Legally. Irrevocably. “Sorry about that,” she mutters. “Bit sick, I guess.”
I lean against the dresser, arms crossed over my chest, watching her. The distance between us is deliberate, a buffer for both our sakes.
Her expression is carefully blank, but I know the war she’s fighting inside her head. The marriage, the contract, me.
“You need to rest,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. “Take a nap.”
She lifts her gaze to me, eyes shadowed but sharp. “I’m fine.” The words are hoarse, edged in defiance, but she’s still pale, still fragile from the toll the day has taken on her.
I study her, searching for any sign that she’s lying. “Do you need a doctor?”
She shakes her head. “No. Just—” She bites her lower lip, hesitating before forcing the words out. “I just need space.”
My jaw tightens, but I let it go. There’s no point in telling her the truth—not when she already knows it. Instead, I give her the one thing I can: honesty about the war she’s now trapped in.
“Not until Darren is dead.”
She stiffens. It’s subtle, but I catch it—the slight tightening of her fingers around her legs, the way her shoulders lock in place. She doesn’t look at me.
"Until that happens," I continue, my voice calm, absolute, uncompromising, "you do exactly what I say. You stay here. You don’t leave. You don’t fight me on anything. Which includes letting my doctor check you over."
Her head snaps up at that, her gaze locking onto mine, sharp and wary. “Why do you care so much?”
I exhale slowly, pushing off the dresser. I don’t answer right away. Instead, I step closer, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us inch by inch until I’m standing over her.
“Because you’re mine,” I say.
If she was smart, she’d argue, tell me she doesn’t belong to anyone, least of all a monster like me.
My phone buzzes. Her gaze flickers toward my pocket, and I force myself to step back, dragging air into my lungs as I pull the phone free. I already know who it is before I even check.
Maxim.
I bring the phone to my ear. His voice is sharp, cutting straight to business. “Darren’s men are moving weapons through the docks. He’ll be there for the next hour.”
I don’t react, don’t allow myself to tense, but my pulse beats once, heavy. A rare opportunity. Too rare.
I glance back at Cora. She’s curled up on the pillow, facing away from me.
Turning away, I lower my voice. “I’ll set off now.”
There’s a pause. A beat of static.
"Wait," Maxim warns. "We don’t know how many men he’s got. I need to organize back up."
I exhale slowly, my body already settling into the inevitable. It doesn’t matter.
"Tell them to meet me there," I say. “I could end this before it gets started.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Maxim knows better than to argue, but I hear the hesitation in the way he exhales through his nose, the slight delay before his clipped response.
“Understood. Be careful. Funerals depress me.”
“Even mine?”
“You’re an asshole but you’re still part of the family.”
“I’m touched.” I hang up, and turn to the bed.
She’s fallen asleep, her brow drawn tight even in rest, like some part of her is still bracing for another fight.
I grab a scrap of paper and a pen, my hand steady as I scrawl a quick note.
I’ll be back soon. Do not leave.
I fold it once, placing it on the nightstand where I know she’ll see it the moment she wakes. For a moment, I hesitate, my eyes lingering on her face, my mind whispering things I don’t have time to acknowledge.
Then, I walk out the door.
I step onto the docks, boots quiet against the wet concrete. The industrial maze of shipping containers rises around me, towering steel walls that turn the space into a labyrinth of rust and decay.
I think of going back and telling Cora that Darren is dead, how she’ll smile at me, thank me, make me feel good. I like the idea.
I give signals to my men.
Maxim moved fast. I’ve got four good men as back up. They arrived while I was still scoping the place. They fan out, moving like wraiths through the dark, weapons drawn, senses razor-sharp. The distant slap of water against metal hulls is the only sound cutting through the silence.
Too quiet.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My gut tightens.
Something is wrong.
Then—
Gunfire explodes into the night.
A sharp, violent crack-crack-crack rips through the stillness.
The man to my left jerks, a spray of red bursting from his chest before he even makes a sound. His body slams against a crate, sliding down in a lifeless heap.
Another goes down hard, gasping, his fingers clutching at the wound in his throat before his legs buckle beneath him.
It’s an ambush.
My mind moves fast. A camera I missed. A pressure alarm somewhere. This is what happens when I get distracted by thoughts of her. This is my fault.
“Get out of here!” I bark, already moving.
Bullets tear through the air, ricocheting off metal with sharp, screaming sparks. I dive behind a shipping container, my gun already in my hand, heart pounding in the steady rhythm of war. My remaining men scatter, taking cover wherever they can.
Flashes of light burst through the darkness. Muzzle fire. Shadows moving in the distance. The deafening roar of bullets drowning out the river beyond.
A scream. One of his goes down.
I grit my teeth, fury burning through me. I don’t hesitate. I can’t.
A figure moves in my periphery. I whip my gun up, squeeze the trigger. The man drops instantly, a spray of blood hitting the container beside him. Another moves closer—I fire twice, center mass, watching him crumple.
But they keep coming.
More shadows emerge between the stacks of cargo, too many, too organized.
Darren’s paranoia has worked in his favor. He saw us coming.
I move, weaving through the maze of containers, my boots splashing through puddles of seawater and blood.
A figure lunges from the side—I duck, pivot, slam my elbow into his throat. He chokes, stumbles—I drive my knife into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. The gurgling sound barely registers before I twist the blade, yank it free.
Another comes at me before the first body even hits the ground.
No time.
I shift, bringing my gun up, but he’s already swinging—a metal pipe whistling through the air.
Crack.
The impact slams into my ribs, pain exploding through my side. I don’t falter. My free hand grabs his wrist, twists— he yells in agony as bones snap beneath my grip. My gun presses against his skull.
I pull the trigger.
He drops, but there are too many. We’re surrounded.
I glimpse my men— dying, falling, bleeding into the concrete. One by one. Picked off. I’m all that’s left.
Rage claws through me. I force my way forward, bullets ripping through the night. I take another out—headshot, instant kill. Another falls as I bury his own knife in his throat.
But it’s not enough.
A sharp punch to my ribs. A boot slamming into the back of my knee.
I stumble but don’t go down.
I swing, my fist colliding with bone—another crunch. Another grunt. But then?—
A gun slams into the back of my skull.
Pain erupts. Blinding. White-hot.
The world tilts. My vision blurs.
No.
I sway, trying to steady myself, but another impact—a sharp, brutal blow—sends me to my knees. My vision tunnels, darkness pressing at the edges.
Rough hands grab me, yanking me up, dragging me across the pavement. My boots scrape against the concrete, my body too heavy, too slow.
Distantly, I hear laughter. “Cora,” I mutter, seeing her walk toward me. She’s smiling, about to kiss me. “I’m coming,” I say.
I blink and she’s gone. There’s a man, gun held in his hand, standing over me. I fight to get to my feet as more kicks land in my stomach, my back, my head.
A voice, sickeningly amused. “You’ll see her real soon, asshole.”
The butt of the gun into my skull. With a sickening crunch, darkness swallows me whole.