9. Aurora
9
AURORA
My eyes snap open in the darkness of my bedroom.
My chest heaves, skin slick with sweat, heart racing like I've run a marathon. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and there's an aching emptiness between my thighs that makes me want to scream in frustration.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. But all I can see is Ruslan's face, feel his hands, hear his voice calling me " zarechka ."
"Fuck," I whisper into the empty room, my body still throbbing with need.
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow.
Every night since I fled Nikoforov like some modern-day Cinderella leaving behind more than just a glass slipper has been the same.
Dreams of Ruslan's lips on mine, his hands exploring my body, the heat of his desire pressed against me.
And every night, I jerk awake hours before dawn and moments before dream-Ruslan enters me, body humming with desire.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed and pad across the cold floor. My body is on fire, demanding a release.
The ache between my legs hasn't subsided, and something else has joined it as I approach the window and feel a prickling at the back of my neck that has nothing to do with my dream.
I square my shoulders before leaning closer to the glass. It's a habit I've developed over the years.
The street below is empty, bathed in the orange glow of street lamps save for a particularly dark part of the block where the light has gone out months ago.
My heart beats a rapid staccato against my ribs as I stare into that patch of darkness.
I can't shake this feeling, this certainty , that someone is out there watching me.
For a whole week, I've been bracing myself for the inevitable. A bouquet of white lilies on my doorstep. A heart-shaped box of chocolates with each piece bearing another letter of my name. A silver necklace with my initials engraved on it.
But there's been nothing. No gifts. No notes written in that eerily perfect handwriting professing his undying love. No anonymized phone calls that hang up as soon as I answer.
Standing at my window, I press my fingertips against the cool glass. My fingers trace patterns on the condensation my breath leaves behind.
I can feel it.
Eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.
But it doesn't feel like I'm being hunted.
It feels like someone's studying me. Learning me.
And the most fucked up part is… I feel thrilled by it in the most fucked-up way possible.
"You're losing it, Aurora," I whisper to myself, but I don't move from the window.
I know why.
Because I'm hoping there's a pair of golden eyes looking back at me.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand.
4:00 AM glows in angry red numbers. I need to be up in three hours for work. With a frustrated sigh, I fall face-first back into bed.
But sleep refuses to come.
I close my eyes and let my mind wander. But the moment I do, I imagine myself standing at the window again.
This time, I know I'm being watched because a dark shadowy figure is standing outside looking up at me.
I can't see his face, but I can sense his presence even in the darkness.
The fear that should flood my system transforms into something else entirely. A knowledge, deep in my bones, that whoever stands in the shadows isn't there to hurt me.
He's here to protect me.
In my mind, I open my nightgown with a slow trembling motion to entice him closer. My bare skin prickles in the cool night air as I stand exposed before the window, illuminated by the dim street light.
I want him to see me. All of me.
My breathing quickens as I imagine his reaction. The hunger that must be building in him at the sight of me bared and waiting. Slowly, he takes a step forward. Then another. And another.
My hand slides to the slick wet heat pooling between my thighs and I realize that I'm soaked .
I close my eyes and imagine phantom footsteps, impossibly light yet still audible, coming up the stairs while I wait for him by the window. Each step bringing him closer to me. The door to my bedroom opens soundlessly and then closes with a soft click of finality.
An unmistakable scent of cedarwood and mahogany fills the space between us.
Large powerful hands run along my body. With each trembling breath, my breath fogs the pane as they find my legs and push them apart.
"Ruslan," I murmur into my pillow, my fingers working faster as I imagine him freeing his cock.
He covers my mouth before he buries himself to the hilt inside with one savage thrust. Pain intertwines with pleasure so intimately that I can't separate them. My body stretches to accommodate him as I scream silently into his hand over my mouth.
The smell of cedarwood and mahogany overwhelms me as he starts to thrust.
His lips brush against my ear. His teeth graze the skin of my neck. One hand roams my body, kneading and squeezing the tender flesh screaming for his touch. While the other plays with my clit.
"I'll keep you safe, zarechka ." He nibbles my earlobe.
"I'll keep you hidden." A thick finger enters my mouth.
"Nobody can touch you but me." His voice grows rougher as he fucks me against the window. "Because you're mine."
I believe him. In this moment, I believe every word.
My fingers move faster, mimicking the pace of my fantasy as I bite the pillow. Pressure builds inside me, coiling tighter and tighter until I'm trembling on the edge.
When I come, my body bucks against my own hand. The release crashes through me in waves that leave me weak-kneed and gasping.
Only when the last ripple of pleasure finishes coursing through me, do I drift off to sleep with Ruslan's name still lingering on my lips.
* * *
The prop gun feels heavier than usual in my hands as I position it on the velvet display cloth. The final outdoor scene of the day when Ivan gets shot is scheduled to film in twenty minutes, and I'm making sure everything looks perfect.
Hannah sidles up next to me, arranging the blood packets that will burst dramatically when Mikhail, playing Ivan, gets "shot."
"So..." Hannah drawls, her voice pitched low. "I noticed that Sienna's post disappeared. Like magic."
I freeze, my fingers hovering above the gun. "What?"
"Yep. Gone. Poof. Like it never existed." Hannah's eyes gleam with mischief. "Someone with a lot of power must really care about keeping you off social media."
Heat creeps up my neck. "It was probably just the club enforcing their no-camera rule. Nikoforov is super strict about that."
"Mmm-hmm." Hannah's skeptical hum makes my cheeks flush hotter. "Sure it isn't because Ruslan Dragunov is head over heels for our little props girl?"
"I'm not thinking about Ruslan," I say, too quickly.
"That's funny, because this morning around four AM, I definitely heard you thinking about him." She mimics a breathy moan. "Oh, Ruslan..."
I nearly drop the prop gun. "Hannah!" I hiss, looking around frantically to make sure no one heard. "I was asleep!"
"With your hand between your legs?" She winks.
My mortification is complete. "I hate you."
"Such a shame you never got his number." Hannah picks up one of the blood packets, squeezing it thoughtfully. "You think we can ask Mikhail for it, you know. He's right over there."
I follow her gaze to where Mikhail Dragunov is reviewing his lines. With his curly hair and light eyes, he shares a resemblance to his uncle, for sure.
But compared to Ruslan? He's like a candle against the sun.
"Absolutely not," I whisper fiercely. "Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be? 'Hi, can I have your uncle's number so I can finish what we started before I ran away like a terrified rabbit?'"
"It would be a great conversation starter."
"It would be career suicide."
"Hey, that's exactly what you thought about your last so-called career suicide."
"I—"
The director's assistant cuts through the set. "Quiet on set!"
Hannah leans in close as we both straighten up. I jab her with my elbow to stop her from talking, but I can't deny that she's right.
I stare from the props table, watching as Mikhail go over his lines one more time before the scene starts.
Maybe I could ask Mikhail for Ruslan's number when we break after this shoot. Not even to pick up where we left off, just to apologize for running away.
I owe him that much.
"You're staring," Hannah whispers, nudging me. "Taking my advice to heart?"
"I'm just keeping an eye on all the props," I protest, but the heat creeping up my neck betrays me. "One of us has to be working."
The director calls, "Places, everyone!" and the set transforms into a flurry of movement. I hand the prop gun to the weapons master who checks it one final time before passing it along.
"Final checks!" the director shouts.
I walk up to Mikhail and give him a once-over to make sure everything is perfect. As I walk behind him, I notice a glint reflecting the sun back into my eyes like a mirror.
But when I blink again, it's gone.
I turn my attention back to Mikhail, check him for the telltale bulge of the blood packet beneath the front of his shirt, and then give the director a thumbs up. He signals at me to clear the shot and I do.
"Action!"
The scene unfolds exactly as written. The gun rises, and the trigger is pulled.
BANG!
Mikhail staggers backwards, clutching his chest, his face contorting in pain exactly as rehearsed before he collapses to the floor with a heavy thud.
I frown. Something feels off.
"Cut!" The director's voice rings out. "Perfect! Mikhail, that was?—"
Mikhail doesn't move.
For a moment, nobody reacts. It's not unusual for actors to stay in character until explicitly released.
"Mikhail?" the director calls again.
The stillness extends too long. Then, I notice the dark red stain spreading across the back of Mikhail's white shirt.
"Wait a minute," Hannah whispers beside me. "There aren't any blood packets in his back."
My eyes drift from Mikhail towards the concrete wall behind him.
And that's when I notice it.
A perfectly circular hole with lines spiderwebbing outward.
A bullet hole.
Ice floods my veins.
"He's been shot!" I scream, running toward Mikhail's crumpled form. "Someone call an ambulance!"
The set erupts into chaos. Crew members rush forward while others back away in horror.
I reach Mikhail first, dropping beside him. His face is ashen, eyes wide and unfocused. Blood—real blood with its unmistakable coppery scent—seeps through his shirt. When I reach out, his face feels cold and still.
Reality crashes over me with sickening clarity.
He's dead.
I stare at Mikhail's lifeless body as people rush around in panic. The world spins around me, voices melding into unintelligible noise. This can't be happening.
"Someone call 911!"
"Is there a doctor here?"
"Oh God, oh God!"
But I know it's too late. The stillness of his body, the vacant stare, the blood pooling beneath him. I've seen death before. In my parents' home. On the blood-soaked walls.
The next realization shakes me to my core.
Police. Investigators. Cameras. News crews.
Attention .
My heartbeat quickens to a painful rhythm as I back away from the chaos. Hannah's eyes find mine across the room, and she immediately understands. She pushes through the crowd toward me.
"Aurora, breathe," she whispers, gripping my trembling hands. "What do you need?"
"I have to go. I can't be here when the police come." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.
"The police will want to talk to everyone?—"
"Hannah." I squeeze her hands so hard my knuckles turn white. "Please. Cover for me. Say I got sick and left early. Say anything."
She studies my face for a long moment before nodding. "Okay. Go. I'll handle it."
I slip away, taking advantage of the chaos. As soon as the set is behind me, I break into a run, and I don't stop stopping until I reach my car. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely get the key in the ignition.
"You got comfortable," I hiss at myself as I drive. "You let your guard down, and now look what's happened."
I know Mikhail's death isn't my fault. Logic tells me that. But seven years of running has taught me that bad things will always find Jamie Fields when she starts getting comfortable.
Because the truth is: Aurora Castellanos might be innocent, but Jamie Fields will always be guilty.