Renat
My gun is out before I think. Training. Instinct. The part of me that's kept me alive in this business for fifteen years.
Two men. Caucasian, late thirties, cheap suits that scream federal. Or maybe the organized crime task force that's been sniffing around Bratva operations for months. The one in front has his weapon drawn, pointed at my chest.
"Step away from the girl," he barks.
I don't move. My hand is still on Ava's face, her skin impossibly soft under my fingertips, and the thought of letting her go makes something violent twist in my chest.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"I said step away—"
I shoot him in the shoulder.
The suppressor on my Glock makes it almost quiet, just a muffled cough. He goes down screaming, and his partner freezes for half a second, long enough for me to put a round through his kneecap. He drops like a stone.
The whole thing takes three seconds.
Ava gasps, stumbling back against the wall, her face bone-white.
This is what I do. I solve problems. I remove obstacles. I've killed men for far less than interrupting me. But watching the fear bloom in her eyes makes my chest constrict in a way that feels dangerously close to regret.
I can't afford regret.
"Get your things," I tell her, holstering my weapon. "You have two minutes."
She doesn't move. Just stares at the two men writhing on her floor, their blood spreading across the cheap linoleum in dark pools.
"Are they—" Her voice breaks. "Will they—"
"They'll live. This time." I step over the one with the shoulder wound, heading for her bedroom. "But if you're still standing here in ninety seconds, I'll tie you up and carry you out. Your choice."
That gets her moving. She scrambles after me, and I'm too aware of how small she is, how fragile. She looks like I could break her in half without trying.
I wait for the thought to repulse me. Instead, my cock thickens.
Wrong. This is all wrong.
Her bedroom is exactly what I expected from three weeks of surveillance, a narrow bed with threadbare sheets, a desk piled with textbooks, a closet that probably contains five outfits at most. The window looks out on the fire escape I already identified as her most likely escape route.
I should have accounted for federal surveillance. Should have known they'd be watching her too, waiting to see if the Bratva made contact. Sloppy. I'm never sloppy.
She's pulls open the closet door and yanks a large duffel out, tearing it open on her bed. It’s already filled with a change of clothes, a small toiletry pack and her passport.
Interesting. Making her way to the small table she is using as a desk, she grabs the textbooks sitting there and shoves them into the duffel with shaking hands.
Her anatomy textbook. A phone charger. A framed photo of her with an older woman and a girl who must be her sister.
"Leave the phone," I say.
She freezes, clutching it like a lifeline. "I need—"
"They can track it,” I say, pointing through the door to the men who are still groaning on the floor, calling in their location. “Leave it. We have to go."
Her jaw sets in a way that would be defiant if she wasn't so obviously terrified. "My mom—"
"Will believe you're dead if you call her from a Bratva safe house.
" I move closer, backing her against the desk.
She smells like stale coffee and fear and something sweeter underneath, something that makes my teeth ache with the need to bite.
"Drop the phone, Ava. Or I'll take it from you, and you won't like how I do it. "
She drops it and it clatters onto the desk.
"Good girl," I murmur, and her pupils dilate. Interesting.
I should be thinking tactically right now. Exit strategy. The two feds are already calling for backup. I have maybe five minutes before this place is swarming with law enforcement.
Instead, I'm cataloging the way her pulse flutters in her throat. The way her breathing has gone shallow and fast. The way she's pressed back against that desk like she's not sure whether to fight or flee.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask.
"The Devil." She whispers it.
"Renat Korolyov," I correct. Names have power, and I prefer to be nameless. But I want her to say it. Need her to. "Say it."
"Renat." It comes out breathy, uncertain. “Renat Korolyov.” Perfect.
My hand moves of its own accord, threading into her dark hair and tilting her head back. She gasps, and I feel it everywhere. In my chest. In my cock. In the empty place where my soul used to be.
This is not supposed to happen. I chose this assignment specifically because it was straightforward. Retrieve the girl, use her as leverage, eliminate the father when he surfaces. Clean. Simple. The kind of work I excel at because I feel nothing.
But I'm feeling now.
I'm feeling so much it's like being burned alive from the inside.
"I'm going to keep you," I tell her, and it's not part of the plan. It's not tactical. It's pure want, raw and undeniable. "Whatever happens with your father, whatever deals get made, you belong to me now. Do you understand?"
I expect her to spit in my face, or at least have the survival instinct to lie.
Instead, she just stares up at me with those huge ink-blue eyes and whispers, "Why?"
Because I'm the Devil, and you look like salvation.
I don’t respond. Instead, I release her and step back, picking up her duffel. "Time's up. We're leaving."
She doesn't argue as she follows me back into the living room where the two feds are still groaning on the floor. The one with the shoulder wound is trying to reach his phone. I kick it across the room.
"Tell your people the Bratva has her," I say. "Tell them if they come looking, I'll send her back in pieces."
I won't. Even the thought makes something violent tear in my gut. But they don't know that.
Ava makes a small, wounded sound behind me.
"I won't hurt you," I say without looking at her. "Not unless you make me."
It's the closest thing to a promise I can offer. And it's more than I've given anyone in fifteen years.
I take her hand, her small, cold hand that fits in mine like it was made for it, and lead her out of the apartment. She doesn't pull away. Doesn't resist.
"If you try to run," I tell her conversationally as we descend the stairs, "I will catch you. And when I do, I'll tie you up and put you in the trunk. I won't gag you because I want to hear you scream, but I will make sure you understand exactly who owns you now."
Her breathing hitches, but she squeezes my hand tighter.
Christ. She's not supposed to respond like this. She's supposed to be leverage. A means to an end.
Instead, she feels like the end itself.
My car is parked two blocks away, a black Mercedes with bulletproof glass and diplomatic plates. I scan the street, checking angles and sight lines, listening for sirens. Nothing yet, but they're coming.
I open the passenger door for her. She hesitates, looking back toward her building one last time.
"Last chance to fight me," I say quietly. "Once you get in this car, Ava, you're mine. No going back."
She looks up at me, and in the glow of the night, I can see tears tracking down her cheeks.
Then she gets in the car.
I close the door. Walk around to the driver's side. Start the engine.
My heart is pounding, and I don't remember the last time that happened. Maybe never. Maybe I've never had a heartbeat before this moment.
"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice small.
I pull out into traffic; I was supposed to head to the warehouse district.
Only now I realize it won’t be secure enough.
I need somewhere I can keep her safe while I figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about the fact that I was supposed to use her, destroy her, and instead I want to worship her.
"Somewhere no one will think to look for you," I say. "Somewhere you're mine." I turn towards the Strip.
She doesn't respond. Just hugs her duffel bag to her chest and stares out the window.
I drive faster than I should, putting distance between us and the apartment. In the rearview mirror, I see the first flash of police lights as they arrive at her building.
Good. Let them come. Let them try to take her back.
I'll burn down the whole city first.