CHAPTER 12
SLOANE
"That's it. I can't take anymore. I need a breather," I murmur, checking the time on my phone.
Criminal Procedure class ended exactly three minutes ago. Enough time for the room to have emptied out, but not enough for my Russian shadows to start worrying.
I slam my notebook shut and stow it in my backpack with the rest of my books. After these days with my bodyguards, I've learned their patterns. They'll wait exactly where I left them, with the precision of Swiss watches. And that, ironically, makes them predictable.
I peek out the second-floor window. As expected, Sergei and his partner (who I now know is named Yuri) are stationed by the building's main entrance, scanning every student who leaves.
I smile. They aren't looking up.
With my backpack on my shoulder, I slip down the hall in the opposite direction of the main exit, toward the west side fire escape I discovered yesterday during my interior recon of the building.
The door squeaks slightly when I open it, but the noise gets drowned out by the bustle of students in the main hall.
The Las Vegas air hits me like a hot slap when I step out into the small alley between buildings. Freedom. For the first time in days, I don't have eyes watching me constantly. The feeling is intoxicating.
I walk fast, blending in with the groups of students, keeping my head down. My plan is simple: get a quiet coffee in the coffee shop on the other side of campus, enjoy an hour of normalcy, and then let them "find" me, feigning confusion about where I was supposed to meet them.
The campus coffee shop is a hive of activity at this hour.
The aroma of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls mixes with the buzz of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter.
I get in line, enjoying the mundane nature of the moment.
Right now, I'm just another student, not the FBI plant or the Russian mafia's guest.
"A large Americano, please," I order when I reach the counter, savoring the simple pleasure of choosing my own coffee without having to tell my bodyguards first.
Steaming cup in hand, I find a corner table with a view of the entrance. I settle in, pull out a book, and prepare to enjoy my little rebellion.
It doesn't even last half an hour.
The atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts subtly. Conversations die down, as if someone had slowly turned the volume dial. I feel a chill crawl up the back of my neck, that sixth sense that's kept me alive in the worst neighborhoods of Brooklyn. Someone is watching me.
I don't need to look up to know who it is.
"I think you lost something, Murphy."
His voice, deep and with that Russian accent that's heavier when he's angry, makes my stomach flip. Slowly, I lift my gaze from my book.
Dimitri is standing in front of my table, a dark, menacing presence among the colorful college vibe. He's wearing black jeans and a gray t-shirt that stretches over his muscles like a second skin. His expression could freeze hell over.
"How did you find me so fast?" I ask, not bothering to fake surprise.
"I'll remind you that every guard carries a comms earbud," he says, dragging a chair over to sit across from me. "And that this is the last place anyone would look for someone who thinks they've been clever."
His body fills the space in an intimidating way, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the coffee shop. He smells like leather, something musky, and expensive cologne I don't recognize. Masculine and dangerous.
"I don't 'think' I was smart," I reply, taking a sip of my coffee with fake calm. "I was. I got half an hour of peace."
His gray eyes scan me, darkening like a storm brewing.
"You think this is funny?" His voice is deceptively soft. "Do you realize my men could lose their jobs over this?"
A pang of guilt shoots through me, but I push it away. I didn't ask for bodyguards.
"It's not my intention for anyone to lose their job," I say. "But I didn't ask to be watched 24/7 either. So here we are, at an impasse."
Dimitri leans forward, invading my personal space. His proximity makes my pulse race treacherously.
"It's not negotiable, Sloane."
My name on his lips sends a shiver through me.
"Everything is negotiable," I counter, leaning toward him too, refusing to be intimidated. "Get rid of the bodyguards and I won't have to keep ditching them."
A humorless smile curves his lips.
"And let you walk around alone, completely exposed? In your dreams."
"I can take care of myself," I insist. "I grew up in Brooklyn, not a fairy tale castle. I know how to defend myself."
"Really?" His tone is condescending, irritating. "Allow me to doubt that."
Rage ignites something inside me. I hate being underestimated.
"I've been doing kickboxing since I was sixteen," I inform him, my voice tight. "I've put guys bigger than you on the ground."
For a second, I see something like amusement in his eyes. Then, in a movement so fast I barely register it, he stands up, grabs my arm, and drags me toward the back exit of the coffee shop.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I hiss, trying to wrench free as we cross the kitchen under the surprised gaze of the staff.
He doesn't answer until we step out into a small service patio, a concrete space surrounded by fences and dumpsters. Completely private.
"You're going to prove to me that you know how to defend yourself," he says, finally letting me go.
I rub my arm where his fingers left a phantom caress that makes me nervous. Adrenaline starts pumping through my system.
"I'm not going to fight you in an alley," I reply, though a part of me is tempted by the idea of wiping that arrogant look off his face.
"I don't want to fight," he replies, stepping in front of me. "I just want you to prove to me that you can protect yourself if someone attacks you."
There's something in his eyes, an intensity that goes beyond the challenge. Genuine concern?
"I have nothing to prove to you," I say, but I'm already adjusting my stance, preparing instinctively. My body knows this dance even before my mind decides to participate.
"If you convince me, we could reduce the security," he offers, a bargaining chip he knows I can't refuse.
"Promise?" I ask, wary.
He nods once, solemn.
"Fine," I say, raising my hands into a guard position. "Whenever you're ready."
For an instant, he seems surprised by my quick acceptance. Then, without warning, he moves.
He's fast. Too fast. I try to block his advance, but before I can fully react, he's behind me.
An arm wraps around my waist like a steel bar, pinning me against his chest. His other hand goes up to my throat, his fingers pressing lightly on either side of my neck.
He doesn't cut off my air, but the message is clear: he could.
"You'd be dead," he whispers in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine.
I try to break free, applying the techniques I know. Kick back, hip movement. Nothing. It's like fighting a wall.
"Dead again," he murmurs, adjusting his grip with barely any effort.
Frustration and something else begin to boil inside me. His body is pressed completely against mine, hard and hot. His hand on my throat isn't painful, but... controlling. Dominant. Paralyzing in a way I've never experienced.
Something primal and bewildering wakes up inside me. A physical response I can't control.
When his fingers press a little harder, creating a sense of lightheadedness, a sound escapes my lips. Soft, needy, unmistakably erotic.
A moan.
Time freezes. We both go completely still, surprised by my reaction. I can feel his heart hammering against my back, just as fast as mine. His breathing has become heavier, more irregular.
Suddenly, he lets me go as if my skin burned him. I take a stumbling step forward, turning to face him. His face is a mask of shock and something darker, more primitive.
"I..." I start, having no idea how to explain what just happened.
"Your bodyguards stay," he says abruptly, his voice hoarse, more accented than usual. "And this... incident didn't happen."
Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads for the door. He stops briefly, without turning all the way back.
"Sergei and Yuri are outside waiting for you. Don't run off again."
And with that, he vanishes, leaving me alone with the confusion of my body and a disturbing discovery: it turns me on when Dimitri Morozov controls me. It turns me on when he grabs me by the throat.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stand very still trying to process what just happened. My pulse is still racing, my breathing uneven. Between my legs, there's a lingering heat that shames and fascinates me in equal measure.
I've never reacted to physical dominance like that before. On the contrary, all my life I've fought against any form of control. And yet, Dimitri's hand on my throat, his body pinning mine...
"Fuck," I whisper, running my hands over my face.
The worst part isn't my reaction. It's his. The way he let go of me, as if he'd seen something in me that scared him.
As I head out to meet my bodyguards, a certainty crystallizes in my mind: this has complicated everything exponentially. My mission. My relationship with the Morozovs. My own understanding of myself.
And yet, beneath the confusion and shame, there's a thought I can't banish:
What would it feel like if Dimitri had continued?