Bride of Vengeance (Blood & Bride #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Ghost in the Flames

Mariana

The warehouse is on fire, and I'm going to die.

The smoke burns my throat as I press my back against the concrete wall, my Glock trained on the only exit that's not blocked by flames. Sweat pours down my face, mixing salt and soot until I can barely see. The air tastes like chemicals and burning wood and my own fear.

Fuck.

I've been in bad situations before. Shootouts with cartel members.

Raids gone wrong. That time in Detroit when the whole building came down around us.

But this? This is different. The heat is so intense it feels like my skin is shrinking.

Every breath burns. The tactical vest that's supposed to protect me feels like it's cooking me alive.

Think, Mariana. Think.

But there's nowhere to go. The main exit is blocked by a wall of flames that reach up to the ceiling. The windows are too high and probably barred anyway—this is Queens, not some suburban mall. The back door I came through has collapsed under burning debris.

I'm trapped like a rat in a maze that someone lit on fire.

Get in, arrest Viktor Orlov's lieutenants, get out. Clean and simple. The kind of operation I've run dozens of times. Intel said three targets, minimal security, standard Bratva warehouse setup. What could go wrong?

Everything, apparently.

The whole place went up in explosions the moment we breached the door—not accidental, but deliberate, strategically planned.

Someone knew we were coming. Someone wanted us separated, vulnerable, trapped.

The coordinated timing was too perfect, too professional.

This wasn't just bad luck or faulty intelligence. This was a setup.

Rodriguez's voice crackles through my earpiece, static and desperate. The signal keeps cutting in and out, making his words sound like they're coming from underwater.

"Castillo, what's your location? We can't reach you!"

I try to respond, but smoke fills my lungs the moment I open my mouth. The coughing fit doubles me over, making my ribs ache against the tactical vest. When I finally catch my breath enough to speak, all that comes out is a rasp.

"Rodriguez—" Cough. "Trapped in—" More coughing. "Southeast corner—"

But I don't think he hears me. The radio crackles once more and then goes silent.

The ceiling above groans ominously, a sound like bones breaking. I look up and see cracks spreading across the concrete like lightning frozen in stone. Chunks of debris rain down, forcing me to press deeper into the corner of this death trap.

Two years. For two years I've been hunting the phantom they call Ghost, obsessing over every detail of his kills, memorizing his patterns, dreaming about the day I'd finally corner him. And I'm going to die before I ever see his face.

The irony would be funny if I wasn't about to be cremated alive.

My mother always said I was too stubborn for my own good. "Mariana, mija, you chase impossible things," she'd say in that mix of Spanish and English that still makes me homesick. "Some wolves are meant to stay in the shadows."

Sorry, Mamá. Looks like you were right.

"Agent Castillo." The voice comes from behind me, low and accented, and definitely not from my earpiece.

Russian accent. Definitely Russian, with that particular cadence that comes from money and education, and years of speaking English as a weapon instead of just a language.

I spin around, weapon raised, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Through the smoke and heat shimmer, I see him.

A man emerges from the shadows like he materialized from the fire itself.

Tall, maybe six-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway.

Silver hair catches the orange glow of the flames, and I realize it's not gray from age—he can't be more than forty-two, forty-three.

It's that pale, almost white silver that some Eastern Europeans have, the kind that makes women stupid and men jealous.

His face is all sharp angles; high cheekbones, strong jaw, full mouth that looks like it could do unspeakable things to a woman.

And dangerous beauty; the kind of masculine perfection that belongs on magazine covers or Renaissance sculptures.

But it's his eyes that steal my breath—dark, almost black, with an intelligence that seems to see straight through me.

This is him. I know it without being told, the way you know lightning is about to strike. The Ghost I've been chasing through two years of crime scenes and dead ends and sleepless nights spent staring at case files.

He's even more impressive in person than I imagined. And I've imagined him plenty.

And he's pointing a Makarov at my head with steady hands that have probably killed more people than I've arrested.

Shit.

"Special Agent Mariana Castillo," he repeats, and his voice is like aged whiskey - smooth, dark, with an edge that burns going down.

"Drop your weapon," I order, though my voice comes out rougher than I want. Could be smoke damage. Could be something else entirely—something involving the way he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands.

He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much. "You first, little wolf."

Little wolf? The nickname sends heat spiraling through my belly that I absolutely cannot acknowledge right now. Not when we're both armed and the building is burning down around us.

Don't you dare find that attractive, Mariana.

A support beam crashes down between us, sending sparks flying like angry fireflies. The heat is getting worse by the second, the smoke thicker. My lungs feel like I've been breathing glass shards. We're both going to die if we don't move soon.

But neither of us lowers our weapon.

"You killed Viktor Orlov," I try to say, because if I'm going to die, I want answers first. I've earned that much after two years of chasing shadows. "Two days ago. Classic Ghost signature."

"Did I?"

The question hangs in the superheated air between us. There's something in his tone, some subtle emphasis that makes me pause. Not denial exactly. More like... curiosity?

"Single gunshot to the head... Clean entry wound, execution-style... No witnesses, no evidence left behind..." I recite the details like a prayer I've memorized through repetition. "Your trademark..."

"Interesting theory." He steps closer, moving with the fluid grace of someone who's spent years learning how to kill efficiently.

The flames don't seem to bother him at all; like he's immune to fire and fear and everything that makes normal people run.

"Tell me, Agent Castillo, what else do you think you know about me? "

"I know you're the most wanted man in the Bratva underworld," I say, rattling off facts I've memorized like gospel.

"I know you've killed at least seventeen people in the last two years - probably more that we haven't connected yet.

I know you disappear like smoke every time we get close, like you've got some kind of sixth sense for law enforcement. "

"And what makes you think any of that is accurate?"

The question stops me cold. There's something in his tone—not arrogance, but genuine curiosity. Like he's actually interested in my answer.

"Because I've been tracking you for two years," I say, but even as the words come out, I hear how weak they sound. "Following your patterns, your methods—"

"You've been tracking a ghost story," he interrupts, and now his voice has gone hard. Professional. "Following breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Chasing shadows of someone who may not even exist the way you think he does."

The ceiling groans again, louder this time. More cracks appear in the concrete above our heads, spreading like veins through pale skin. Dust and debris rain down, coating us both in a fine layer of grit that tastes like failure and impending death.

I point out, tightening my grip on my Glock.

"I'm here because you're in danger," he says, and something in his expression softens. Just for a moment, but I still catch it. "Real danger. Not from the fire."

"You're the danger!"

"Not to you." His dark eyes sweep over my face, cataloging details like he's memorizing them. "Never to you."

What the hell does that mean?

Before I can ask, the ceiling gives way with a sound like the world ending.

I throw myself sideways, but I'm not fast enough. The massive concrete beam comes down right where I was standing, and I know with horrible, crystalline certainty that the next one will crush me like an insect.

Then strong arms wrap around my waist and suddenly I'm flying.

We crash through what must have been a window—I hear glass exploding around us like deadly confetti.

The impact drives the breath from my lungs as we roll across concrete that scrapes against my tactical vest. He takes most of the fall, his body cushioning mine as we tumble together in a tangle of limbs and momentum.

For one impossible, breathless moment, I'm sprawled across his chest like we're lovers who just collapsed into bed together.

I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ribs.

His scent fills my lungs—leather and gunpowder, and something clean that makes me think of winter mornings in the mountains.

Jesus Christ, Mariana. Get it together.

But his heart is beating as fast as mine, and his arms are still locked around me.

When we finally stop moving, I'm straddling his hips, my weapon lost somewhere in the chaos. His hands rest on my waist, steadying me, and for a wild moment I wonder what would happen if I leaned down and kissed him.

That's the smoke talking. Or a concussion. Definitely not thinking clearly.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, and his voice is different now. Gentler. Concerned in a way that makes my chest tight.

I should move. Should roll off him and find my gun and call for backup and do all the things a good FBI agent does when she encounters her most wanted target.