Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Milana
The words send a chill racing down my spine that has nothing to do with the blasting AC.
“What?” I whip my head toward Ilya.
Ilya doesn’t answer. His jaw is locked, eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors. Fear spikes through me, I grip the edge of my seat as he reaches across with one hand, pops open the glove compartment, and pulls out a black gun like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I’m not new to guns. In our lifestyle, they are as common as morning coffee. But watching him handle it with such effortless precision, checking the magazine one-handed while accelerating hard, sends a different kind of shiver through me. This man does this all the time. He’s used to being chased.
“Do you know how to shoot?” he asks, voice calm but edged.
“Wait, what? Shoot? No, of course not.”
“Then you’d better get down.”
I’m still trying to process his words when he suddenly barks, “Get down! Now!”
A shot cracks through the night like thunder. Something slams into the back of the car with a metallic thud. I duck instantly, curling low in the seat as more gunfire erupts behind us.
The car swerves violently. Glass shatters, my side window explodes in a spray of shards that rain down over me. I cry out, covering my head with my arms.
Ilya is swearing under his breath in Russian as he fires back with one hand, the other still gripping the wheel. The car jerks sharply left, then right. Bullets ping off metal. Another window cracks.
The noise is deafening––gunshots, screeching tires, the roar of engines closing in. I can barely breathe, heart slamming against my ribs. For the first time in my life, I wish I knew how to shoot. I wish I could do something other than cower while Ilya risks everything to keep us alive.
The chaos feels endless. More curses spill from his lips. Another hard swerve. Then, gradually, the gunfire fades. The pursuing engines fall back.
“You can sit up,” he says, voice deep and steady.
I straighten slowly, glass crunching under me, my hands shaking as I brush shards from my hair. “What… what the hell was that?”
We’re already approaching my dorm building. The familiar lights of the university residences come into view, almost surreal after the violence. I glance at Ilya and catch him looking at me from the corner of his eye, his expression darkening.
I follow his gaze downward.
My blazer is torn open across my stomach.
Blood is seeping through the fabric, dark and wet against the pale material.
I press my fingers to it carefully and wince.
It stings, but it’s not deep, just a graze, it must have been from flying glass or a close bullet.
The bleeding isn’t heavy, but it’s enough to make my stomach roll.
I look back at him, breath still ragged. The night has officially gone from bad to terrifying.
Ilya
I glance at the cut on her stomach again, blood slowly seeping through the torn fabric of her blazer. “Are you hurt?”
Milana shakes her head, still a little breathless. “No, I’m fine. It’s just a tiny cut.”
She says it casually, but I know better. Bodies go into shock after shit like this. I’ve seen it too many times, men who thought they were fine until they dropped.
Before I can stop myself, I'm out of the car. I stride to her side, yank open the door, and lean in. My hands move over her automatically, patting down her arms, her sides, her shoulders, searching for injuries she might have missed, for wounds hidden beneath the adrenaline.
Big fucking mistake.
The second my palms make contact with her warm skin, a sharp zap of electricity shoots straight through me. It’s intense. Unfamiliar. Nothing like the detached way I usually touch people. I yank my hands back like she burned me.
Our faces are suddenly too close. I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel-gray eyes, smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the metallic hint of blood. For one dangerous second, I almost lean in and kiss her.
What the fuck is going on with you?
I pull away sharply and put some distance between us. “You okay?”
“It’s just a tiny cut,” she repeats. “Probably glass. I have a first aid kit inside. I’ll clean it up when I get in.”
“Get down then.”
A small, teasing smile curves her lips. “Aww, look at you being all worried about me. A minute ago, you looked like you wanted to rip my head off.”
I shake my head slowly, fighting for control as I hold her door open. “Get the fuck down, Milana. We don’t have time for this.”
She finally listens, tugging that pathetic excuse for a blazer down over her ass as she walks toward the dorm entrance. My eyes betray me for a split second, catching the way her ass cheeks peek out with every step. I force my gaze up and ahead.
When I got this job, they described Milana Morozov as timid.
Quiet. Barely speaks unless spoken to. The photo I was shown made her look like a sheltered teenager.
This woman in front of me is none of those things.
She’s a full-grown firecracker with dangerous curves, legs that go on forever, and a mouth that doesn’t know when to stay shut.
And her skin, God, her skin… focus, you idiot.
We reach her dorm, an aging brick building looming against the darkness. At two in the morning, the campus is eerily quiet, with only a handful of windows still lit.
I don't relax until we're standing outside her door on the third floor. Just as she reaches for the handle, I place a hand on her shoulder.
"Stay behind me."
She snorts. “Dad, there’s nothing in there.”
Dad? I ignore the jab and clear the small shared living area first, two couches, a tiny kitchenette, textbooks scattered on the coffee table. Typical student dorm. No threats. I motion her forward.
“How the hell did your brothers let you come all the way out here alone?” I mutter under my breath. A Bratva princess this nonchalant about her safety doesn’t make sense.
She leads me down a short hallway to her bedroom. The moment I step inside, the space screams her. Soft lighting, a neatly made bed with crisp white sheets and a few elegant throw pillows in muted grays and deep burgundies.
Books on criminal law and forensic psychology are stacked on her desk and nightstand. A small corkboard holds photos of her with friends, and a couple of elegant prints on the walls.
I stay by the door, scanning every corner while she moves to her closet. “Pack fast,” I tell her. “We’re not staying long. Those bastards might circle back.”
She turns to me, still clutching the hem of that ridiculous blazer. “I need to take a shower.”
“No time,” I say flatly. “We need to get moving.”
Milana gives me a look that says she’s not backing down. “I need to clean up. I’ll be quick, five minutes, tops. I can’t leave like this, I stink of blood and sweat.”
I clench my jaw but nod. She grabs a bag and disappears into the ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind her. I sit on the edge of her bed, trying to stay focused on the job.
Big mistake.
All I can think about is her in there. Naked. Water sliding down that velvety skin I felt under my hands earlier. Those creamy thighs that were on full display during the entire car ride.
The way her ass cheeks peeked out from under the blazer when she walked. My cock twitches hard at the images flooding my brain. I stand up abruptly and adjust myself, cursing under my breath.
This is new. I don’t get like this. I don’t lose control over a woman, especially not one I’m supposed to be protecting. She’s a job. Nothing more. I need to get my head straight.
Needing to distract myself, I step out into the living room, pull out my burner phone, and dial.
The man on the other end picks up immediately. “Boss.”
“How is he?” I ask, voice low.
“Still unconscious.”
“Good. Keep him chained. No food. No water. Make him understand that the only thing standing between him and a very painful death is his willingness to talk. I expect answers before I return. I’ll be back within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Got it.”
I hang up and slip the phone into my pocket, forcing my mind back into mission mode. When I walk back into her bedroom, Milana is already out of the shower.
She’s standing there in tight black pants that hug her legs and a tiny black bralette that leaves her entire stomach exposed. The cut on her abdomen is still visible, angry and red. A first aid kit sits open on the bedside table.
She looks up at me, almost shy for the first time tonight. “Can you help me clean this? It’s hard to reach properly.”
I swear under my breath, the word rough and low in Russian. This is pure fucking torture.
I walk toward her anyway, every step feeling like a dangerous mistake.
I move to the bed and sit down, opening the first aid kit with more force than necessary.
Milana walks over without hesitation and steps right between my spread legs, standing close enough that her bare stomach is level with my face.
Fuck.
The scent of her hits me immediately, warm jasmine and something softly sweet, like fresh blossoms on her damp skin. It wraps around me, clean and feminine, stirring something dangerous low in my gut.
All I can think about is dragging my tongue across that velvety expanse, tasting the water still clinging to her, following the trail down to where her black pants sit low on her hips.
I examine the cut and luckily it’s shallow. I grab a cotton pad and antiseptic, keeping my movements brisk. The moment I press the pad to the cut on her stomach, she flinches.
“Hold still,” I mutter, voice rougher than I intend.
Her hands come up instinctively, resting on my shoulders for balance.
The touch burns through my shirt. On any other day, with anyone else, I would have knocked their hands away instantly.
I hate being touched. But her fingers on me…
they don’t irritate me. If anything, I want them to dig in harder.
I keep cleaning the wound, jaw clenched so tight it aches. She’s so close I can feel the heat of her body, watch the way her stomach trembles slightly under my touch. Her bralette leaves nothing to the imagination, and every breath she takes makes her chest rise and fall inches from my face.
“Who were those people shooting at us?” she asks quietly, her voice a little breathless.
“Most likely Michael’s men,” I answer, dabbing at the cut. “That’s why we need to move fast. Before they catch up.”
“Okay.”
She stays quiet for a moment, fingers still curled on my shoulders. “It’s strange, though. That my brothers sent you. I don’t know you. Normally they would’ve sent someone I’m familiar with.”
I pause, forcing myself to focus. “They were going to send Konstantin, but they changed their minds. He’s too close to your family.
If he left the country right now, it would attract attention and point your enemies in your direction.
People are watching everyone in your circle, especially your allies.
So, he contracted the job to me instead. ”
“Hmm. That makes sense.”
Was that relief or disappointment I heard in her voice? Had she been hoping for Konstantin instead? Either way, she’s stuck with me.
I finish cleaning the graze, apply a clean bandage, and tape it down. My hands linger a second longer than they should on her warm skin before I pull away.
“Pack,” I tell her, standing up and stepping back to put much-needed distance between us. “Only essentials. We need to leave soon.”
She nods, turning toward her closet, and I have to force my eyes away from the sway of her hips.
This woman is going to be a problem. A fucking, tempting problem.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her move around the room. She pulls a bright pink suitcase from the closet and starts throwing clothes into it with quick, efficient movements. My eyes track every item as it lands in the bag.
Then she reaches for her lingerie drawer.
Lacy thongs. Delicate bras. Tiny, barely-there sets in black, red, and other different colors. Those would look sinful against her skin. Vivid images flood my mind, her wearing nothing but one of those scraps of lace, bent over, looking back at me with those hazel-gray eyes.
Focus, damn it.
She moves to the bedside table next and opens the top drawer. My eyebrows shoot up.
What the fuck?
Out come the toys. A couple of vibrators, plugs, and other things I don’t have time to catalog. She tries to bury them quickly under a pile of clothes, cheeks already flushing, but I’ve seen enough.
This is not the sheltered, timid girl her brothers described. Not even close.
Before I can stop myself, I step forward, reach into the suitcase, and pull out a small pink rose-shaped toy. I turn it over in my hand, finding the button and pressing it. It immediately starts buzzing to life.
Milana spins around, eyes wide. Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. “Put that down!”
I hold it higher as she lunges for it, easily keeping it out of reach. I’m a foot taller than her, she doesn’t stand a chance.
“Hmm,” I murmur, tilting my head. “I wonder how this works.” I run my thumb over the vibrating petals. “Do you wear one of those pretty little thongs while you use this?”
“Drop it!” she hisses, face now bright red. She jumps again, trying to snatch it, which only makes her bralette shift and gives me a better view of her cleavage. “You have no right to go through my stuff!”
I smirk, even as a voice in the back of my head asks what the hell I’m doing. She’s a job. I shouldn’t be playing with her like this. But the way she’s blushing and flustered is far too fucking amusing.
“How do you use it, princess?” I ask, voice dropping lower. “Are you a naughty girl when you’re alone in this bed? Do you spread those pretty thighs and—”
“Stop!” She’s practically squirming now, mortified and furious.
I finally switch it off and toss the rose back into the suitcase. But I’m not done. I reach in again and pull out a realistic-looking dildo, turning it in my hand.
“Huh. This doesn’t compare to the real thing at all,” I say, chuckling darkly. “Quite small.”
Her mouth falls open in shock. “That’s six inches!”
I meet her eyes, letting my gaze drag over her body slowly. “Still small compared to the real thing.”
She closes her mouth, then opens it again, speechless for a moment. The red on her cheeks deepens. “Drop my stuff. Now.”
I hold her stare for another beat, then toss the toy back with the rest. A low chuckle escapes me. “If you ever want the real thing, you can always ask me nicely.”
She glares at me, fire in her eyes despite the embarrassment. “You wish.”
I grin, something dark and possessive twisting in my chest. I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I shouldn’t be this hard over a few toys and her flushed cheeks. But as she turns back to her packing, muttering under her breath, I already know I’m lying to myself.
This girl is dangerous. And I’m starting to like it way too much.