Prologue
Kholod
The bullet grazed the brick wall inches from my cheek, spraying grit and razor-sharp snowflakes across my face like goddamn shrapnel.
My gut wound burned like somebody'd jammed a red-hot poker right through me—every breath ripping fresh hell.
Warm blood was leaking out fast, dragging the last scraps of heat from my body.
This filthy, cramped back alley in South District had turned into my personal slaughterhouse. The stench of rotting trash, gunsmoke, and fresh blood hung thick in the air, turning my stomach.
I'd fucked up bad. Never figured Kieran would have the balls to hit me on Christmas Eve, this close to my turf. Ballsy. Reckless. Suicidal.
Boots crunched on the snow at the alley mouth—slow, deliberate, like they were savoring the kill. Low Irish drawls cut through the night, mocking, cat-and-mouse bullshit. They were closing in, drawing out the fun of watching me, boss of the Morozov family, bleed out in this shithole gutter.
"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way..." Church bells and carols drifted from somewhere distant, crisp and cheerful. To me, it sounded like a fucking dirge.
My vision was going fuzzy, ears ringing like a busted fire alarm. My trigger finger was numb from blood loss and the biting cold—dead weight.
I was saving my last round for myself.
Scuff—crunch—
A soft shuffle from deep in the alley. No copper tang of blood. Just a faint whiff of something sweet. No killer vibe.
Instinct kicked in. I wheeled around on pure adrenaline, gun leveled into the dark, voice a gravelly bark. "Who's there? Show yourself!" It didn't even sound like me—raw and wrecked.
A slim shadow flinched in the gloom.
"Out! Or I shoot!" I snarled it louder, though each word yanked at my gut like a knife twist.
The figure froze, then edged into the dim light, slow as hell.
Blood blurred my eyes; couldn't make out details. But the outline? Girl. Young.
"You need help?"
"No."
"But you're—"
"Beat it!" No time for some lost civilian stumbling into this mess. My focus had to stay on the real wolves at the mouth.
She didn't budge. Stepped closer instead.
"Hey! Over there! I heard something!"
"Morozov ain't getting far! The bastard's hit!"
My growl had drawn 'em. Footsteps pounded now, closing fast.
Game over. I yanked her into my chest, clamping a hand over her mouth.
We were mashed tight. Orange blossom—clean, sharp—cut through the alley's rot like a lifeline.
"Over there!"
"Sorry..." she whispered, hot against my palm. Then she shoved me back against the wall. Before I could blink, her arms hooked around my neck.
"Oh, baby, I hate to let you go!" she hollered, voice bright and loud as hell.
Next thing, her lips crashed into mine—cold, soft, electric.
I froze solid.
Whizzing bullets. Shouts. Carolers. The fire in my gut. All of it? Gone. Just her mouth on mine, clumsy and sweet, that orange scent wrapping around my skull.
Her kiss was green as hell—awkward, just pressing close. She trembled against me, maybe from the freeze, maybe fear. Long lashes brushed my skin like feathers.
To sell it, she flicked her tongue in tentative, tracing my lips. Hesitant. Teasing.
Me—a guy who ran empires, crushed throats without blinking—reduced to this. Letting some stranger call the shots. The thrill hit like lightning, mixing with the raw edge of death. My blood fired up, body betraying me in the worst goddamn way. I nearly groaned right there.
She felt it, stiffened to pull back. But fuck that—my arms locked, dragging her deeper. I took over, sucking her tongue, pinning her head so she couldn't squirm free. My palm slid to her neck—cool silk under my fingers. She gasped into my mouth, a soft whimper that lit me up worse.
Christ, I was rock-hard, throbbing. If not for the hole in my belly, I'd have her pinned and screaming under me right then.
"...Shit, it's just some horny couple making out! Damn it!" A gravelly voice from the mouth, pissed-off and fading.
"Nah, let's bounce. Check elsewhere. He can't have gone far!"
The crunch of boots receded into the night.
She'd saved my ass.
The realization slammed me like a gut punch. Her smarts. Her guts. How long had that kiss dragged on? Seconds? An eternity? When she finally broke free, we were both heaving, fogging the air between us.
"...They're gone," she murmured.
"You..." I started, but agony clawed my stomach again. I grunted, knees buckling. She caught me, steadying my weight like it was nothing.
"You're bleeding bad! You need a hospital—now!" Her fingers flew over her phone.
"Hello? Hello? Is this emergency services? I'm at... South District, near the narrow alley behind Seventh Street. Someone's been shot."
She clicked off, slung my arm over her slim shoulders without a word. "Hang on. Ambulance is coming."
She was tiny, no muscle to her, but she hauled me anyway—dragging us toward the glow at the mouth. Her warmth seeped through her coat, soft curves pressing close against the snow's bite.
Every step was torture. Pure fire.
We hit the mouth just as sirens wailed closer, cutting the dark.
She exhaled sharp, shifting to prop me better. Minutes later, medics swarmed—stretcher out, prying me off her, dumping me on the gurney.
My hand brushed something cold, metallic. With my last gasp, I snatched it.
A bracelet.
They wheeled me into the rig. Door swinging shut. I twisted for one look—her face, anything—but bang. It sealed, muffling the world.
"Find her..." The vow burned in my brain as black spots swallowed me whole.
Whoever you are. Wherever you run.
You're mine.