11. Aurora
11
AURORA
My hands shake as I stuff clothes into my backpack. The sirens screaming outside shred what little composure I have left.
"It's not for me," I whisper to myself, zipping my toiletries bag shut. "They don't know where I am."
But what if they do? What if Kristofer finally found me?
Each wail of the sirens drags memories to the surface. Red-blue lights flashing on the wall. Blood soaking into carpet fibers.
Look what you made me do.
"Focus, Aurora. Just focus."
The name feels strange on my tongue right now, like wearing someone else's clothes. Because in moments like these, I'm always Jamie Fields again, terrified and on the verge of running.
Where can I even go? Hannah is still at the studio. My savings won't get me far. Maybe I could head north? Canada? Or south to Mexico?
I grab my emergency cash stash from under the mattress and shove it into an inner pocket. Seven years of carefully constructed anonymity. Gone in an instant because I dared to step into the light for one night. Because I let myself feel something for Ruslan.
The sirens fade, but my heart doesn't slow.
"Breathe," I command myself, forcing air into my lungs. "Just breathe."
Outside, a car door slams.
My hands freeze.
"You're being paranoid," I mutter. "It's probably just a neighbor."
But then I hear it.
Heavy footsteps climbing the stairs outside our apartment. Deliberate. Purposeful. Coming closer with each ponderous thud .
Those aren't Hannah's light steps.
And they stop right outside our door.
I'm convinced the entire universe is holding its breath, waiting to see if I'll make it out alive.
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape without me. I strain my ears, desperate for the familiar jingle of Hannah's keys or her habit of humming off-key when she thinks no one's listening.
Nothing.
"Hannah?" I whisper, knowing it's futile.
The doorknob jiggles.
Thank god I locked it.
I creep toward the window, staying low, and keeping my movements quiet.
Outside, parked against the curb, sits a nondescript sedan. Dark, possibly black or navy. No distinguishing features.
A car I've never seen on this block before.
Then, I hear the sound of the door unlocking.
What the fuck? What the actual fuck?
The hinges squeak as the door swings open.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The options flash through my mind as I scramble back to my bedroom window. My shaking hands fight with the latch. Why won't it fucking open?
Heavy footsteps cross our living room floor.
Not Kristofer, not Kristofer, please not Kristofer...
I claw at the window, but it's stuck. Of course it's stuck. The universe wasn't holding its breath to see if I'll make it out alive.
It's actively trying to kill me.
The bedroom door crashes open.
I spin around, back pressed against the window, ready to face what I've been running from for seven years.
But it's not Kristofer.
A tall man stands in my doorway, his face unfamiliar but his intentions crystal clear from the wicked blade clutched in his hand.
The knife turns, and I can't help but notice an eight-pointed star tattooed on the back of his hand.
His eyes lock onto mine. Cold. Emotionless. Professional.
And I know what he's here to do.
Survival instinct takes over.
My backpack flies from my hands, hoping to catch him by surprise. But he catches it with his free hand, barely losing his balance.
A string of words that I can't understand tumbles from his lips. His voice is flat, emotionless. Then he takes a step towards me.
No time to scream. No time to think.
I kick a nearby chair between us, sending it skidding across the floor. It crashes into his shins, but he simply steps over it like it's nothing more than a minor annoyance.
My bedroom suddenly feels impossibly small. The window behind me won't budge. The door is blocked by a killer who moves with practiced efficiency. I'm trapped like an animal, cornered in my own home.
"Please," I whisper, backing up until I feel the windowsill pressing into my spine.
He doesn't respond. His eyes are empty, calculating. This isn't personal for him.
The glint in the distance. I realize. Mikhail's death wasn't an accident .
I saw something I wasn't supposed to. And now I'm just a loose end that needs tying up.
I lunge for the bedside lamp, but he's faster, so much faster.
In two steps, he's closed the distance. I kick out instinctively, and feel my knee connecting with his groin. A grunt is his only tell, as both of us fall to the floor.
He turns in midair and slams down onto me, driving the air from my lungs.
Stars explode behind my eyes from the impact.
The knife rises.
Suddenly, all I can see before my eyes are my family's lifeless faces. Their blood on the walls. That awful message.
And I know that this is how Jamie Fields dies.
For real this time.
Yet in that moment, I feel a strange peace, like I'm finally going home after seven years of running. Maybe death isn't so scary when you've been living on stolen time.
I close my eyes, waiting for the sharp pain that will end it all.
A sound like a clap of thunder explodes through the room.
Instead of piercing pain, warm liquid sprays across my face. The man's weight becomes suddenly heavier as he collapses onto me, pinning me to the floor, and the knife plunges into the floorboards next to my face.
A scream builds in my throat, wild and primal.
It tears from my lungs as the reality hits me.
I'm covered in someone else's blood.
A dead man's blood.
Before the sound fully escapes, a massive hand clamps over my mouth. A familiar scent hits me immediately.
Mahogany and cedarwood.
The distinctive smell that's teased me in my fantasies for the past week.
I blink through the blood splatter, my eyes meeting familiar pair of light gold ones. Ruslan's face hovers above me, his expression tense. He raises his finger to his lips in a silent command for quiet, his other hand still firmly covering my mouth.
My scream dies against his palm. My heart hammers so violently I wonder if he can feel it through his fingertips. The man who'd almost killed me lies motionless across my body, his blood soaking into my clothes, his dead weight making it hard to breathe.
Ruslan's eyes scan my face, searching for something: fear, understanding, trust? I don't know what he finds there, but his expression softens slightly.
"When I take my hand off your mouth, zarechka ," he whispers, his voice so low I barely hear it. "I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"
I manage a small nod against his hand.
He slowly removes his palm from my mouth, then shifts his attention to the dead man. With practiced movements, Ruslan heaves the body off me. The absence of weight is sudden and jarring, making me gasp.
Blood covers my shirt, my hands, my face. I stare at my trembling fingers, covered in crimson, and suddenly I'm back in Kansas City, seeing my family's blood dry on the walls.
Slowly, I rise to my feet.
"You..." My voice is a strangled whisper as I stare up at Ruslan
His presence fills the room like a physical force. The same magnetic pull that drew me to him at the production party now takes on a new dangerous and intoxicating quality to it.
Blood is smeared across his beautiful hands.
The same hands that held me against him, touched my thigh, and cupped my chin.
The same hands that lingered at the edge of my dreams and fantasies all week.
The same hands that just ended a life to save mine.
His golden eyes lock with mine, and despite everything—the body, the blood soaking into my clothes, and the familiar metallic odor of blood in the air—my traitorous body still responds.
My pulse quickens for reasons beyond fear.
I should be terrified. I should be running. Instead, my mind keeps replaying the way his body felt against mine, both in fantasy and reality, and how instantly he appeared when I needed him most.
"Are you alright?" His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
Reality crashes back. I scramble backward until my spine hits the wall, putting distance between us.
"What are you doing here?" My voice shakes. "Are you here to hurt me?"
Ruslan's expression shifts, something almost wounded flashing across his features.
"I'm not here to hurt you, zarechka ." He lowers himself to my eye level, keeping his movements slow as if approaching a frightened animal. "I'm here to protect you."
"Protect me?" I laugh, a hysterical edge to the sound as I stare at the gun in his hand. "What are you?—"
"I have every reason to believe that my nephew's death was not an accident." His voice hardens, golden eyes flicking toward the dead man sprawled across my bedroom floor. "This is evidence of that."
"I don't understand," I whisper, even though part of me does.
Ruslan reaches toward me but stops when I flinch. "Did you see anything on set today, Aurora? Anything unusual right before Mikhail was shot?"
I stare at the gun in Ruslan's hand, the same one that just saved my life. My heartbeat gradually slows from its frantic pace, and I feel an unexpected calm wash over me. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's something else.
"I think I saw something," I admit, my voice barely audible. "There was a glint on the hill behind the camera. Like sunlight reflecting off metal."
Ruslan nods, his expression grave. "A scope."
"I didn't think much of it at first. I thought maybe it was just someone's phone or a piece of equipment." My eyes drift to the body on my floor. "But then Mikhail collapsed and everything happened so fast..."
"You did nothing wrong, zarechka ." His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the violence I just witnessed. "But if you're innocent, why did you run? Hannah said you were packing to leave."
"I can't have the police speak with me." I press my back harder against the wall, as if I could somehow disappear into it. "I can't let him find me."
Something dangerous flashes in Ruslan's eyes. "Who is 'he'?"
I press my lips together, shaking my head. The words won't come. If I say his name, he'll become real in the worst possible way.
Ruslan moves closer, careful not to touch me. "Did he hurt you?"
I close my eyes, unable to look at him as I give a small nod.
"Aurora." His voice wraps around my name like a caress. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
My eyes snap open, and I feel a bitter laugh escape. "You don't understand. Nobody can keep me safe. Not from him." I gesture at the dead man between us. "This? This is nothing compared to what he'd do."
"You don't know what I'm capable of," Ruslan says, each word carrying the weight of a promise.
"And you don't know what he's capable of," I whisper back.
I drag my sleeve across my face, trying to wipe away the blood. "Ever since Sienna took my picture at Nikoforov, it's felt like someone's been watching me."
The words sound pathetic even to my own ears. Like a child afraid of monsters under the bed. Except my monster is real.
"I haven't slept through the night this entire week." My voice cracks. "I feel eyes on me when I'm at my window. I keep checking for cars I don't recognize."
Ruslan's expression shifts, something close to guilt flickering across his face.
"Someone has been watching you, zarechka ." His voice is low, almost apologetic.
I feel my body go rigid. "What?"
"It was me."
Ruslan was watching me?
I stare at him, mouth open, waiting for the familiar rush of fear and dread.
Instead, all I feel is a surge of heat flooding through me.
All those times I felt eyes on me in the darkness... when I'd stand at my window, heart racing, body tingling with a mixture of fear and something else...
That was him ?
My fantasy comes rushing back. A dark figure emerging from the shadows. Deliberate steps coming up the stairs. Large tattooed hands pressing me against the glass and pushing my legs apart.
This whole time…
He was actually there.
Heat pools between my legs as I imagine him watching me all week. What else did he see? Did he know I was thinking of him?
Did he fantasize about me like how I fantasized about him?
The thought makes me weak in the knees.
And I remember how I came with his name on my lips this morning.
"Why?" I whisper, my voice trembling with a confusing mix of fear, anger, and something far more primitive and sensual.
"Because you ran from me," he admits, not looking away. "I wanted to understand why you ran. Why you're so afraid of cameras. Why you're so desperate to hide in a city where everyone just wants to be seen."
His eyes hold mine, fierce and unapologetic. "Now I have a clearer picture."
"Why would you care?" The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it.
"Because you intrigued me from the moment you crashed into me." A hint of that familiar playfulness returns to his voice.
He takes a step closer, and I don't back away.
"But now," he continues, his gaze dropping to the dead man between us, "we have a more immediate problem. It's not safe for you here."
"It hasn't been safe for a long time," I whisper.
"Which is why you should come with me, Aurora." He extends his hand. "I can protect you from whoever sent this man, and from whoever you're running from."
I stare at his outstretched hand.
I should walk away from this. Turn down his offer and watch my carefully constructed life as Aurora Castellanos crumble when the police inevitably arrive to run my prints.
If I do that, Jamie Fields would come back to life, and Kristofer will find me.
Or I can take Ruslan's hand. A man who kills with the practiced ease of someone who's done it before. A man who's been watching me for a week without my knowledge. A man whose very presence makes my body respond in ways I've denied myself for seven years.
It's a hell of a choice.
The monster I know or the devil I don't.
Jamie would run, I know that for sure. It's what I've done since that night. Run and hide and pretend that the girl I was died along with my family.
But what if I'm tired of running? What if, just this once, I want someone else to share this burden with me?
My gaze shifts from his outstretched hand to those golden eyes that have haunted my dreams. There's danger there, yes. A predator's intensity that should send me sprinting in the opposite direction. But there's also something else. Something that looks suspiciously like devotion.
Has anyone ever looked at me like that before? Like I'm worth protecting?
Even as my rational mind screams warnings. He kills people, he watched you without consent, he's clearly involved in something dangerous.
But my heart beats a different rhythm.
He saved you. He came for you. He wants you.
If I take his hand, there's no going back. No pretending I don't know who he is or what he's capable of. No maintaining the fiction that Aurora Castellanos is just an ordinary woman with an ordinary past.
But if I don't take his hand... if I face this alone...
Slowly, the words take shape on my lips. "Where would we go?"
"Somewhere safe," Ruslan replies. "Somewhere private. A place where nobody will ever find you."
I continue to stare at his hand, and that's when I realize.
Power radiates from Ruslan like heat from a flame.
Not a cruel, desperate power that Kristofer wielded like a weapon.
But something different. Something natural, absolute, and unquestioned.
When Ruslan commands a room, the world bends to his will. I saw it at the production party when he ordered the photographer away. I felt it in how naturally he took control in the car, and how effortlessly he parted the crowd at Nikoforov.
And I can feel pulsing in the air between us in the presence of the dead man who was trying to kill me mere moments ago.
Power emanates from him even when he's watching me from a distance.
That's why I keep fantasizing about him taking me against that window. Because with Ruslan, being seen doesn't feel dangerous anymore.
Standing next to him, I'm untouchable.
Protected.
I place my hand in Ruslan's.
His fingers close around mine with a gentle squeeze that sends warmth radiating up my arm and through my entire body. That simple touch anchors me, pulling me back from the edge of panic I've been teetering on since I first heard my would-be murderer's footsteps on the stairs.
The dead man's blood is drying on my skin, making everything feel sticky and wrong.
I should be horrified by this—by all of this—but all I can focus on is the solid pressure of Ruslan's hand holding mine.
He leads me through my apartment, past the living room where Hannah and I spent countless nights watching bad movies and drinking wine.
Part of me wants to leave her a note. But what can I even say?
Slowly, Ruslan guides me down the stairs towards his black Lamborghini. He opens the passenger door, and I slide in, feeling oddly detached from my body as I do so.
Only when the engine purrs to life do I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I should be terrified. I should be questioning every choice that led me to this moment.
But as we pull away from the curb, leaving behind the dead man, my apartment, and the life I've carefully built as Aurora Castellanos, I feel something unexpected bloom in my chest.
Relief.
For the first time in seven years, I'm not running alone.