3. Aurora
3
AURORA
I can feel Kristofer's hand burning against my lower back as we approach the concierge desk. My heart hammers so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it echoing through the ornate lobby. The Hermitage is even more impressive than the photos online. All gilt edges and crystal chandeliers. The kind of place I'd normally stop to admire.
Not today.
Today, it is either going to be my prison or my salvation.
"Checking in," Kristofer announces, his voice dripping with false charm. "Christensen."
I dart my eyes around the lobby, searching for any sign of security or someone who might be connected to Potyomkin. Did my message even reach him? Does he care? The uncertainty makes my stomach twist.
"Of course, Mr. Christensen." The concierge taps at her keyboard, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keys. When she glances up, her gaze catches on the bruise across my cheek.
She freezes for a millisecond, just long enough for me to see recognition in her eyes.
She sees it. She knows.
Kristofer squeezes my waist painfully, leaning close to my ear.
"You better not have tried anything stupid, Jamie." His breath is hot and rancid against my skin. "Remember what happens when you make me angry."
"I didn't." I swallow hard, keeping my eyes down.
The concierge's eyes flick between us, then settle back on her screen. The moment stretches like taffy, each second an eternity as I wait for... something. Anything. A security team. A phone call. Any sign that my desperate message was received.
"Your reservation looks in order." She reaches beneath the counter and produces two keycards in a small paper folder. "You'll be in suite 1424, west tower. The view of the Strip is unrivaled. The finest in all of Vegas, in fact."
My heart plummets to the marble floor beneath my feet.
"Welcome to the Hermitage, Mr. Christensen." She slides the keycards across the polished countertop. Her eyes meet mine for just a moment, completely professional, betraying nothing. "Enjoy your stay."
Kristofer's fingers dig deeper into my side as he snatches the keycards with his free hand. "We will. Thank you."
I'm trapped.
Kristofer's hand slides down my back as we walk away from the concierge desk. My legs feel like they're moving through mud, each step taking me closer to a nightmare I've spent seven years running from.
His fingers creep lower with each step, until they're resting firmly on my ass. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, trying not to flinch away.
"You know, Jamie," he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear, "I really thought you were going to do something stupid and desperate. But it seems like you're my good girl after all."
My stomach churns at the phrase "good girl." It sounds nothing like when Ruslan said it. From Kristofer's mouth, it sounds tainted and poisonous.
"And as a token of my gratitude, I'm going to let my good girl feel good before the wedding." He squeezes my ass hard enough to bruise.
Panic seizes my throat, choking me. I know exactly what he means. The same thing he meant in the back of that police cruiser seven years ago. The memory threatens to pull me under, but I force it away.
I need to stay present. Alert.
I need to look for another way out.
When the elevator doors slide open, I hesitate for a split second. Is this my last chance to run? But where would I go? The lobby is endless marble with nowhere to hide.
The elevator doors close behind us with a soft ding that sounds like a death knell.
We're alone.
He pulls me against him, his body pressing into mine from behind. I feel his erection through his pants, hard against my lower back. Bile rises in my throat.
"Oh, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie." His hands roam freely over my breasts and squeeze the tender flesh mercilessly again and again. "You're finally back. This is finally real. It's not a dream anymore."
Another wave of nausea washes over me. I close my eyes, desperately trying to dissociate from what's happening. I imagine Ruslan finding me. I imagine him tearing Kristofer apart with his bare hands.
But I can't count on that fantasy becoming real.
The elevator stops with a gentle chime, and the doors slide open. Kristofer walks me forward, his hand still gripping my ass possessively as we move down the carpeted hallway toward our suite.
The hallway seems to spin in front of me with each step, and somehow we're standing in front of our door in what feels like the blink of an eye.
Kristofer opens it with the room key and walks me inside. The suite is luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the neon glow of the Strip stretching into the distance.
But all I feel is the cold grip of hopelessness seizing me by the throat.
Kristofer closes the door with a decisive click, and then throws the deadbolt for good measure.
The sound of metal sliding on metal might as well be my death sentence.
"Finally alone," he growls, shoving me forward.
I stumble and fall onto the king-sized bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Before I can scramble away, his weight crashes down on top of me, pinning me to the mattress.
"Wait," I gasp, panic clawing through me. "You said I can freshen up first."
His breath is hot against my neck. "You can freshen up after I'm done. I've waited seven years for this, Jamie. Seven fucking years. I'm not waiting another minute."
I struggle beneath him, trying to twist away, but he's too strong. His weight crushes the air from my lungs. My fingernails scrape uselessly against the bedspread as I try to crawl out from under him.
"Stop fighting this, Jamie," he snarls as he holds me down in bed.
His other hand yanks at my shorts. The sound of fabric ripping suddenly fills the room. Cold air bites my exposed skin, and I scream. A raw, desperate sound that tears from my throat.
Kristofer clamps his hand over my mouth, mashing my lips against my teeth until I taste blood.
"Shut up," he hisses. "Nobody's coming to save you, you fucking bitch."
The metallic sound of his belt clinking apart is deafening in the room. My entire body goes rigid with terror as I realize what's about to happen.
He's going to rape me.
And there's nothing I can do to stop him.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I try to beg through Kristofer's hand clamped over my mouth. The words are trapped, just muffled sounds that don't even sound human to my own ears.
"Save those tears for later, Jamie," Kristofer whispers, his tongue suddenly trailing up my bruised cheek. "Because this is nothing compared to what I'll do after we're married."
His teeth sink into my shoulder, hard enough that I scream against his palm. The pain shoots through me like electricity. His free hand gropes roughly at my breast, pinching and twisting until I'm sobbing.
I close my eyes, trying to disconnect from my body, from this moment. This isn't happening. This can't be happening! This must be a nightmare! I'm not Jamie Fields anymore!
But I am. I always have been.
And this isn't a nightmare.
It's real.
Kristofer shifts his weight, and I feel him positioning himself behind me. My body goes rigid with terror, tears flowing freely now as rough fingers dig into my hips.
Then, I hear a loud insistent knock at the door.
My eyes fly open. Hope surges through me like a lightning bolt, and I try to scream again, fighting against Kristofer's hand with renewed strength.
He slams me down into the bed, driving the air from my lungs with the motion while his fingers dig into my flesh.
"We're busy!" Kristofer shouts, his voice ragged with rage and lust.
The knocking comes again, and the door rattles in the frame this time.
"I said we're fucking busy!"
There's a moment of silence, and my heart plummets. But then, a thunderous crash as the door bursts open, splintering from its hinges.
Men pour into the room, shouting in Russian. Everything happens so fast. Kristofer's weight suddenly disappears from my back as he's yanked away. I scramble backward on the bed, pulling my torn clothes around me, trembling uncontrollably.
Through my tears, I see Kristofer forced to his knees, surrounded by men in dark suits, pressing a gun against his temple.
But there’s something familiar about one of the men.
And that's when I notice the tattoo on the back of his hand.
An eight-pointed star.
It’s just like the one on the hand of the man who tried to kill me back in my own apartment all those weeks ago.
"What the fuck is this?" Kristofer roars, and his defiance earns him a hard kick to the face.
I look up and see a man standing apart from the others. He's older, with silver at his temples and a face that seems permanently carved into a scowl. He surveys the scene with cold, calculating eyes that remind me of a wolf assessing its territory.
I know who I'm looking at.
Vyacheslav Potyomkin. The lord of Las Vegas.
Relief pours through me at the sight of Potyomkin. His presence fills the room like a physical force, cold and imposing. But right now, it's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen.
With a sharp gesture and words I don't understand, Potyomkin gives an order to his men. They immediately yank Kristofer up to his feet. He struggles and curses, his face twisted in rage, but the men are merciless as they march him out the door.
With only one man standing beside him, Potyomkin's eyes scan the room before settling on me, huddled on the bed with my clothes torn and my dignity in shreds. His gaze lingers on the bruise blooming across my face, his expression unchanging but somehow darkening all the same.
He whispers something to the man beside him, who promptly walks into the bathroom. A moment later, the man emerges with a plush hotel bathrobe.
My hands shake violently as I take it and pull it around my body. The soft fabric should feel comforting, but I feel just as exposed as before. The ghost of Kristofer's touch is still fresh. I can still feel his tongue on my cheek and his teeth in my shoulder.
Potyomkin speaks in Russian, his voice gravelly and formal. I stare blankly, not understanding a word until he says my name.
"Aurora..."
He pauses, waiting, his severe expression impossible to read. The silence stretches between us.
The man standing next to him clears his throat and explains in perfect English: "He wishes to know your father's name, so that he may address you with the respect that your position demands."
My father's name. A simple request that opens a floodgate of memories. My father. My real father. Murdered in our family home, his blood spelling out awful words on the walls.
"My father's name is Mark," I stammer out. "Mark Fields."
The moment the name leaves my lips, Potyomkin's expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His eyebrows lift slightly, and his perpetual scowl deepens into something more contemplative.
"That is not the name I was led to believe," he says in heavily accented English, each word slow and deliberate.
A chill runs through me. Liliya's warning echoes in my mind: Others are looking into who you are... being intriguing in the bratva world is the easiest way to get killed.
Potyomkin must have been one of those people digging into my past.
But it doesn't matter now. The monster that I was trying to hide from has already found me.
"The man you saved me from." My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. "He murdered my family seven years ago. My parents, and my brother. He wrote messages on the wall in their blood, and stalked me for seven years." I shudder at the memory. "I had to change my name. I had to become someone else to survive."
Potyomkin watches me with those wolf's eyes, assessing everything. My trembling hands, my tear-stained face, and the fear that still claws at my insides.
For a long, terrible moment, I think I've made a mistake by telling him the truth.
Then, something impossible happens. A ghost of a smile appears on his stony face.
"Very impressive, Aurora Markovna," he says. "To survive seven years alone and hunted requires strength and cunning most do not possess."
His approval shouldn't matter. This man is dangerous, perhaps as dangerous as Kristofer in his own way. But after spending the last few hours next to the monster that haunted me, having Potyomkin acknowledge what it took for me to stay alive feels like validation.
Just then, one of the men who took Kristofer away comes back into the room.
He crosses to Potyomkin and leans close, whispering urgently in Russian. I catch nothing except Kristofer's name, but the effect on Potyomkin is immediate. His face darkens like a storm cloud, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
He barks something back, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch. The man nods and hurries from the room.
"There is a complication," Potyomkin says, turning back to me. "You should have told me your stalker is not merely police, but head of his entire police force. You have put me in a very difficult position, Aurora Markovna."
My stomach drops. "I didn't know."
I truly didn't. Seven years ago, Kristofer was just a rookie cop with a badge and a gun. Even that was terrifying enough.
The thought that he's risen through the ranks while hunting me makes my skin crawl.
"I cannot kill a police officer of this rank so brazenly." He smooths down his tie. "Even in my own city."
My heart sinks.
"I understand," I whisper. "All I ask for is shelter. Safety under your protection for just a little while until I can get back to Ruslan."
Potyomkin's head tilts slowly to one side, his eyes studying me with an unsettling blend of curiosity and what almost seems like pity.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?" The question comes out as barely more than a breath.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich is dead."
The world stops. Everything from the room, to the lights of the Strip outside, and even my own heartbeat freezes in place.
"No," I say, the word automatic, instinctive.
"The Triads attacked his mansion hours ago." Potyomkin's voice sounds distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. "He was killed defending his home."
"No." I say it louder this time, as if volume could make it untrue. "That's not true. That's impossible."
But even as I deny it, I remember Kristofer showing me that news alert about a shooting at the Dragunov estate.
I hadn't wanted to believe it then, either, but I should have.
Ruslan is dead.
My legs give out, and I sink back onto the bed. The robe slips from my shoulder, but I can't summon the energy to fix it.
Because if Ruslan is dead, then nothing matters anymore.