13. Aurora
13
AURORA
I follow Daria through endless hallways of gleaming marble, unable to ignore the men patrolling with rifles slung casually across their chests. Their eyes track me as I pass, not leering but assessing.
Like I'm a potential threat rather than a blood-spattered woman in shock.
"How many people live here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"This mansion has been empty for years," Daria answers. "Ever since the master of the house passed."
We ascend the stairs past marble balustrades and move deeper inside. As I stare up at the intricate stonework, I can't help feeling like I'm being swallowed whole by some giant stone creature.
"One minute, please," Daria opens a door to reveal a suite larger than the apartment I shared with Hannah. "Shower is through that door. I'll have clothes for you on the bed along with some food."
The door closes with a soft click behind me.
In the bathroom, I peel off my ruined clothes and wince at the dried blood flaking onto the pristine tiles. Hot water hits me like salvation, washing away the blood and terror.
But not the memory of Ruslan's hand covering my mouth, the weight of his presence behind me as a dead man slumped at my feet, or the warmth that surged through my body when I placed my hand in his.
My fingers tremble beneath the spray.
"You're safe," I whisper to myself, the words nearly lost beneath the sound of running water. "You're okay."
But for how long?
I close my eyes, letting water stream down my face as I think about the absurdity and insanity of everything I witnessed in the last twenty-four hours.
But do you know what the most terrifying thing is?
I feel safer here than I have in seven years.
What does that say about me? About him?
I press my forehead against the cool tile as steam curls up to caress me. Kristofer will never find me here. Not with Ruslan's men standing guard. Not with Ruslan's eyes tracking my every move.
Could I leave if I wanted to? The question twists in my mind as I shut off the water.
A more unsettling question follows: Do I want to?
Sighing, I turn the water off, wrap myself in a plush towel, and step out. My skin is flushed, and I know it's from more than just the hot water.
I emerge from the bathroom, water droplets still clinging to my shoulders.
On the bed, Daria has laid out a set of fresh clothes. A pair of black leggings and a collarless single-button blouse. Beside them sits a tray with a sandwich, some fruit, and a glass of orange juice.
I drop the towel and pull on the clothes, and find that they're close enough to my size to be comfortable.
Grabbing the cup of orange juice, I walk to the window, sipping slowly as I take in the view. The estate's grounds sprawl out below me. From this height, I can see the armed men patrolling the perimeter, their rifles glinting in the afternoon sun.
My stomach tightens. This isn't a sanctuary. It's a fortress.
I press my fingers against the cool glass, remembering the tower I spotted when we first drove up. The circular walls, the height... I'm definitely in it. Like some twisted fairy tale princess.
"Hannah must be losing her mind," I whisper.
My hand automatically reaches for my pocket before I realize. I have nothing. No phone, no wallet, not even my keys.
I left everything behind when I took Ruslan's offer.
The juice suddenly tastes sour on my tongue. I set the glass down, pressing both palms against the window as fresh guilt hits me.
Is Hannah home yet? What will she do when she finds a dead man in my room? What will she think? How will she contact me to know if I'm alright when she sees that my phone has been left behind?
A knock comes at the door.
I clear my throat. "Come in."
The door swings open, and Ruslan steps inside, ducking slightly beneath the frame. When those golden eyes meet mine, my heart does a completely inappropriate somersault.
My brain screams at me that this is wrong. He killed a man right in front of me not that long ago. His hands were literally stained with another human's blood.
But neither my body nor my mind seem to care about that.
Instead, they remember how those same hands saved my life, how they pulled me from danger, and how they offered me protection when I needed it most.
"Is the room comfortable?" His voice fills the space between us.
I gesture vaguely at the plush bed. "Haven't had a chance to try it yet."
He nods, a strange expression crossing his face as his eyes sweep over me in the borrowed clothes. "Are you alright?"
The question hits me with unexpected force. Those words feel so foreign after years of hiding, of never giving an honest answer, of never letting anyone close enough to ask.
Is he just being polite? Or does he actually care?
"I'm..." The automatic lie dies on my lips. "I don't know."
Ruslan approaches slowly, like I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. "Is there anything else you need?"
"My phone," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I'd like to text Hannah. Let her know I'm safe."
"Artyom, my head of security, is already on his way to retrieve it. Along with your backpack of belongings."
He takes another step closer, and I back up instinctively until cool glass presses against my shoulder blades. My breath trembles as I realize how closely this mirrors my fantasy. Trapped between Ruslan and the glass, his powerful presence overwhelming my senses.
Up close, I can smell him. That intoxicating blend of mahogany and cedarwood scent that's becoming so familiar in such a short time. His eyes flick briefly to my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
"You're safe here, Aurora," he murmurs.
My fingers curl against the glass behind me. "Am I?"
Ruslan notices my retreat and stops advancing. He raises both hands slightly. A gesture of peace rather than surrender. His restraint brings unexpected comfort.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to crowd you."
This acknowledgment of my boundaries loosens something tight in my chest. The consideration is unfamiliar.
Kristofer never stopped when I backed away, and nobody has ever cared about my comfort like this since I became Aurora Castellanos.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not finding this just a little comforting.
"I understand you must have questions," Ruslan continues, maintaining his distance. "What would you like to know about me?"
I swallow hard, gathering courage. "What are you, really? Clearly you're not just a producer."
The statement hangs between us like smoke. His eyes flicker with something—relief, perhaps—at not having to maintain the pretense.
"You're right." His voice drops lower. "I'm not just a producer. I'm a member of the Dragunov bratva."
My stomach lurches, but surprisingly, I don't feel scared. After witnessing him kill a man to save me, this revelation feels almost... expected.
"Just a member?" I ask, surprising both of us with my boldness. "The way those men out there look at you... it seems like more."
A shadow passes over his face. "My brother Lev was the pakhan. The boss."
"Was?" I ask softly.
Ruslan's eyes meet mine, and a ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Very good catch, zarechka ."
The praise shouldn't affect me, not when I'm standing in a fortress filled with armed men, not when I've just witnessed a murder, not when my entire world has collapsed again. But my heartbeat quickens traitorously all the same.
"Yes, was." His gaze drifts away, focusing on something beyond the window. "Lev was killed today. Not long before Mikhail."
The words land like stones in still water. Two deaths in one day. Both from the same family.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, and I mean it. The platitude feels hollow, but what else can I offer? "I can't imagine what you're going through."
He mutters something under his breath, the Russian words soft and melodic despite their weight.
"What was that?"
"It's Russian," he explains. " My grief alone is left entire . Pushkin."
A sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Still think the real bratva don't wear suits and quote Pushkin while holding guns?"
My heart skips a beat when I recognize the echo of my own words.
"You remember what I said that night." The familiarity of those words spreads through me like a slow sunrise.
"I remember everything you said that night." Ruslan's eyes never leave mine.
I laugh. A small, broken sound. "And here I thought I was just reading a terrible script that evening."
"You were, though." He leans against the windowsill, his massive frame somehow making the spacious room feel smaller. "Just because I add my own experience into the stories, doesn't mean they're automatically good. Not every story in the bratva has a happy ending."
The raw grief in his voice makes my chest ache. Despite everything, I find myself stepping toward him, closing the distance I'd created.
There's something so tragically beautiful about him in this moment. A man caught between worlds and forced to balance violence and vulnerability.
"Real people are always more complicated than the stories we want to tell," I say.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, to comfort him somehow. The impulse shocks me. I haven't wanted genuine connection in so long.
But I understand his pain. Know what it's like to have family ripped away in violence.
To be left with nothing but grief and questions and rage.
I break the silence first, my voice too loud in the quiet room. "What happens next?"
Ruslan's expression shifts, becoming unreadable. "First, I'll have someone clean up the body from your apartment."
The clinical way he says it makes me shiver. Like he's talking about removing a stain from a carpet, and not a human being.
"Next, I'll hold a funeral for my brother and nephew."
A tremor runs through his shoulders, almost imperceptible.
"Then, and only then, can I think about what happens next."
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. A man was murdered in my bedroom. Two members of Ruslan's family are dead. And I'm standing in a fortress of a mansion talking to a man who killed someone right in front of me.
What the hell am I doing here?
"Until the funeral is done, you should stay in this room," Ruslan says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Both Mikhail and Lev being killed on the same day is no coincidence."
I wrap my arms around myself.
"The fact that someone tried to kill you, the only witness to Mikhail's hit?" Ruslan continues. "Also not a coincidence."
The word 'hit' jolts through me. Not accident. Not tragedy. No murder.
Hit.
Just like in the movies. Except this is real.
I've stumbled into the very world I ridiculed in the script. The irony would be funny if I weren't so terrified.
"I have an idea who might be behind these murders," Ruslan says, rubbing his jaw. "But I won't know for certain until the funeral."
His eyes darken with something dangerous. "I can't risk you being seen by the same people who ordered the hit."
"Does that make me your prisoner?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
Ruslan shakes his head. "I'm not trying to keep you as my prisoner, Aurora."
"I understand." And strangely enough, I do.
He gestures to a panel near the bed. "If you need anything, there's a button you can press to summon Daria."
I nod, suddenly exhausted. The weight of everything crashes down on me at once.
Ruslan turns and walks to the door. When he reaches it, he pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back over his shoulder at me, sighing.
"If there's one good thing that happened on this awful day," he says quietly. "It's the fact that I managed to save you."
The weight behind those words makes my breath stutter. There's history there. Pain and failure and something else I can't name.
My curiosity piques despite myself. What makes this dangerous man tick? What drives him? And why does he care so much about saving a girl he barely knows?