Ava
His mouth is on mine before I can think, before I can breathe, before I can do anything but feel.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's claiming, possessive, brutal in its honesty. His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back with a surprising gentleness, and his other hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise. He's not asking permission. He's taking.
My hands find his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his expensive shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palms, and every thought of pushing him away dissolves.
He tastes like danger and darkness and something addictive I can't name.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His black eyes are blazing now, no longer empty voids but burning with something that looks almost like hunger.
"You're mine," he says again, and this time it sounds like a vow. Like a promise written on an ancient text.
"I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't even know you."
"You know enough." His thumb traces my bottom lip, already puffy from his kiss. "You know I'll keep you safe. You know I'll give you what you need. You know that no one will touch you while you're under my protection."
"But what do you want from me?" The question comes out desperate. "You say I'm yours, but what does that mean? What am I supposed to be to you?"
Something shifts in his expression. The hunger is still there, but now there's something else. Something like surprised recognition.
"Everything," he says simply. "I want everything."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I." He releases me and steps back, running a hand through his hair. It's the first time I've seen him look anything less than perfectly controlled. "I wasn't supposed to want you. You were a job. A means to an end. But the moment I saw you..."
He trails off, turning away to stare out at the Vegas skyline.
"The moment you saw me, what?" I press.
"The moment I saw you, I knew I was fucked.
" He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Fifteen years. Fifteen years of being empty, of feeling nothing, of doing terrible things without remorse.
And then you walk into your apartment looking exhausted and scared and so goddamn brave, and suddenly I can't breathe without thinking about you. "
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the fact that the Devil himself just confessed to being…what?...consumed with me.
"I'm not brave," I finally whisper. "I'm terrified."
"You're the bravest person I've ever met." He turns back to face me. "You packed a go-bag. You timed your escape routes. You kept going to work, kept studying, kept fighting even when you knew they were coming for you. That's not fear, Ava. That's grit."
Tears blur my vision. I've spent four weeks feeling like a coward, like someone who should have run when she had the chance. Hearing him call me brave breaks something inside me.
"I don't want to be here," I say, even as I know it's a lie.
"Yes, you do." He closes in on me again, but this time he doesn't touch me, just stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Part of you does, anyway. The part that's tired of looking over your shoulder all the time.
The part that wants someone strong enough to protect you, even if that someone is a monster. "
"You're not a monster." The words slip out before I can stop them, and his eyes widen slightly.
"Don't lie to yourself, Ava. I am exactly what you think I am."
"No." I shake my head. "A monster wouldn't have promised to protect my mother and sister. A monster wouldn't care that I want to finish school. A monster wouldn't look at me like..." I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
"Like what?" he probes, and my pulse rate kicks up a notch.
"Like I'm the only thing that matters."
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with a dangerous current of electricity.
"You are," he finally says. "You're the only thing that matters now."
All I can think about is how his lips felt on mine, how his hands felt when they were gripping me, how for the first time in four weeks, I felt safe.
"I need..." I don't even know what I need. Sleep, maybe. Or food. Or just a moment to process everything that's happened. "I don't even know." I let out a sigh and shake my head. “Could I take a shower, please, and get out of my work clothes?”
He nods, immediately shifting into action mode. "There's a bathroom through there." He points to a door off the living room. "Towels are in the cabinet. I'll order food. What do you like?"
The mundane question throws me. "Um. Anything? I'm not picky."
"Ava." He waits until I meet his eyes. "Tell me what you like."
It feels like a test. Like he's asking about more than just food.
"Italian," I say quietly. "I love Italian food."
"Italian it is." He pulls out his phone. "Go. Take a shower. I'll have food here by the time you're done."
I grab my duffel and head toward the bathroom, but pause at the door. "Renat?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
He looks at me like I just said something in a foreign language. "For what?"
"For not..." I struggle to find the words. "For not making this worse than it has to be."
Something flickers across his face. Acceptance, maybe. Or regret.
"Go, Ava," he says softly. "Before I change my mind about being gentle with you."
I flee into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
The bathroom is obscenely luxurious. Marble everywhere, a shower that could fit four people, a bathtub with jets that looks more like a small pool. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the wild-eyed person staring back at me.
My hair is a mess. My cheap uniform shirt is stained. My eyes are red-rimmed from crying. I look exactly like what I am, a woman who's been kidnapped by the mafia.
Except I got in the car willingly.
And I kissed him back.
And some twisted part of me is relieved to be here instead of rotting in a federal prison cell because of something my father did.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand. The steam fills the space, and I finally clear my mind.
I lean my head against the wall and push away thoughts of my father's betrayal. Of the children who died because of him. Of my mother and sister who must be terrified. Of the life I was building that's now ashes. Of the fact that I'm attracted to a man who kills people for a living.
Of the fact that when he said I was his, part of me wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to it just to stay afloat.
I wash my hair with expensive shampoo that smells like sandalwood and bergamot. I scrub my skin until it's pink. I try to wash away the last four weeks of fear and the last two hours of chaos.
It doesn't work.
When I finally emerge wrapped in a towel that is so soft and fluffy it doesn’t seem real, I can hear Renat moving around in the main area of the suite. Talking to someone in rapid Russian, his voice low and commanding.
I dig through my duffel for clean clothes. The best I have is a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Nothing fancy, but clean at least.
I get dressed and take a deep breath before opening the door.
Renat is standing by the windows, phone pressed to his ear, still speaking in Russian. But when he sees me, he goes silent mid-sentence. Just stares at me like he's never seen me before.
"I'll call you back," he says in English, and hangs up without waiting for a response.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." But he's still staring. "You look... different."
"Clean, you mean."
"Beautiful."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"The food is here," he finally says, gesturing to the small dining table where several white takeout containers are laid out. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I ordered several things."
I walk over and my stomach growls at the smell. Pasta carbonara. Lasagna. Caesar salad. Garlic bread. It's enough food for six people.
"This is too much," I say.
"Eat what you want. Leave what you don't." He pulls out a chair for me, and when I hesitate, he adds, "Please."
I sit, and he sits across from me, watching as I pile food onto a plate. I would usually feel awkward eating in front of a stranger, but I'm too hungry to care.
The first bite of carbonara nearly makes me moan. It's been so long since I've had real food instead of diner leftovers and ramen.
"Good?" he asks.
"Amazing."
We eat in silence for a while. Or rather, I eat while he watches me with that intense focus that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't.
"Can I ask you something?" I say between bites.
“Why do you believe my father will come out of hiding for me? Not my sister or my mother.”
He considers my question, but I know he will tell me the truth, whatever shape it takes.
“Because you know more than you think, and it was clear you were the one most in danger.” He watches me as I place my fork on my plate and push it from in front of me.
“He won’t come, not for me, or my family.” Despite knowing this since he left, it still makes my throat tighten at the thought. He put his greed ahead of his family’s safety. My father is the worst kind of man.
“A lot of people want to find your father, Ava. Not just Bratva, or even FBI. None of them are good, all of them were coming for you. I believe I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”
I clear my throat, try to push words through it, but they come out broken and brittle. "You can't save me. You've become the reason I need saving."
"I know." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "But I'm going to try anyway."