20. Rowan
ROWAN
For the second time since Sofia entered my life, I have disobeyed my master.
My body still hums from the aftermath of sex, a deep, boneless calm washing over me in slow waves. It is a stark contrast to the anger and panic that had torn through me less than an hour ago after finding her trying to sneak off the property again.
One moment, I had been ready to drag her back inside, lock every door in the estate behind her, and put enough guards around her to make the Kremlin jealous.
The next, she had been looking at me through the rain, telling me with those damn eyes that she was not afraid of the man standing in front of her.
The cab of the SUV smells of rain water and her. It should make me more alert, more aware of the boundaries we’ve not only crossed for a second time but have now stomped far past, but instead it sinks under my skin like a drug I have no intention of surviving.
She stays low to the floor, tucked out of sight with my jacket covering her as I slowly ease the car out of the garage.
My hands remain steady on the wheel as I pull down the long stretch of drive toward the gate.
The wipers drag water away from the windshield in slow, rhythmic sweeps.
Beyond the glass, the world is black, the estate looming behind us in the rearview.
The windows are tinted dark enough that the guards outside can’t see inside, but they know better than to stop me and force me to roll my window down the entire way to explain where I’m going this late at night.
That is the power of having this reputation.
Tonight, every ounce of fear my name invokes works against Ivan.
The guard at the booth steps forward only for a brief moment, recognizing me behind the wheel when I crack the window just enough to reveal my eyes. He straightens immediately, head bowing quickly before stepping back into the booth to trigger the gate.
Iron groans against the rain-soaked night, parting slowly. As soon as we pull through, Sofia shifts back into the passenger seat and tosses my wet coat to the back. She looks flushed and wild in the dim dashboard glow, her hair damp and tangled around her face, lips still swollen from my mouth.
She shivers slightly then leans forward to crank the heat.
We didn’t bother heading back inside to change into drier, warmer clothes.
Honestly, I wouldn’t allow myself to. I was too afraid I’d be able to talk myself out of following through with this plan.
The moment we stepped back into that house, I knew I would have remembered every order, debt, and bruise still faint beneath my skin from the last time I crossed him.
Her hand slips into mine once the car eases onto the main drag heading into Moscow’s center city. I lace our fingers together, bringing our joined hands up and twisting them to press my lips to the back of her palm.
The gesture is the gentlest thing I’ve ever done, yet it also feels the most natural.
I keep my mouth against her skin longer than necessary, savoring the scent of her.
I have lived so long with blood on my hands that the softness of hers feels like absolution, and I am just selfish enough tonight to take what I have not earned without a fight.
Confessing my feelings for her had been the last thing I expected to come barreling out of my mouth.
I am still not sure how it happened.
One moment I was trying to push her away, to tell her why this could not continue, why I could not afford distraction because Ivan’s punishment might become something far worse if he saw how completely she had gotten under my skin.
The next, I was standing in the rain telling her she made me want more than the life I was given.
That confession still sits in the air around me even now, weighing on my shoulders.
I did not mean to give that truth a voice.
I feel exposed now in a way no enemy has ever managed to make me feel.
Guns have been put to my head and knives to my throat, I have been beaten, shot, hunted, and left for dead in rooms where no one came looking until morning.
None of that has frightened me the way Sofia’s tenderness does. She saw the bruised, broken man beneath all his discipline and wanted him anyway. It has stirred something deep in my chest I am terrified to name.
Desire is not what still simmers low beneath my skin. Desire is familiar enough to be dismissed. It can be starved, denied, turned into anger, work, violence. I know how to survive wanting a body.
This is the ache that came when she told me I was not just what Ivan made.
Some starving, pathetic thing inside me almost believes her.
She didn’t see me as Ivan’s best enforcer tucked away inside that service entrance.
I wasn’t the creature Ivan pulled from the pit and taught to bite when commanded.
She saw me.
Rowan.
I don’t know what to do with being seen by someone who might leave lasting damage to places I thought had withered to nothing if she were to be taken from me.
I ease up on the gas when we approach an older district of Moscow.
The city changes slowly, shedding the cleaner edges of money and privilege until the streets narrow and the buildings press closer together.
Here, Moscow looks older and more tired, less interested in pretending it is anything other than a place that has survived too much and chosen suspicion as a civic virtue.
The pavement gleams under the rain. Puddles gather along crumbling sidewalks, reflecting streetlights in long, trembling ribbons of amber.
The buildings here are weathered, brick facades scarred by decades of brutal winters and mild rainy seasons.
Water stains trail beneath windowsills as rust crawls along metal balconies.
A few satellite dishes cling stubbornly to exterior walls like barnacles on an old ship.
Dim lights glow from behind curtains as we pass.
Areas like these are the kinds of places where, despite people living stacked on top of each other, people mind their own business because asking questions can get you killed. I know neighborhoods like this intimately from my childhood.
Beside me, Sofia goes still. Her fingers tighten around mine the closer we get to our destination.
She has been quiet this entire drive, which unsettles me more than her argument with me over something pointless.
At least then her sharp tongue and reckless questions would break up this tense silence.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye.
Rain paints moving shadows across her face through the windshield. Her hair is still damp, curling slightly at her temples from the heat blasting from the vent in front of her. She looks pale in the dashboard glow but her chin is lifted with that stubborn determination I’ve come to be fond of.
I pull to a stop in front of a narrow apartment building when Sofia points to it, shutting off the ignition before leaning forward to study it through the windshield.
The building is older than the others surrounding it, or perhaps it has simply been less fortunate with being upkept.
Peeling paint curls around the entrance, reminding me of freshly carved scars.
The stone steps are cracked down the middle leading up to the front doors.
The stairwell lights flicker weakly behind the glass door, throwing a jaundiced glow over the small lobby beyond.
A row of dented mailboxes lines one interior wall, most of them tagged with fading names and numbers.
One security camera sits above the entrance, angled too obviously away to be useful.
It’s nowhere near as derelict as some of the hideouts I’ve scouted in years past, but it still sets my teeth on edge.
There are too many windows facing the street to know if we’re being watched. Too many parked cars with fogged glass and no easy way to tell whether they are empty or not. The alley to the right of the building is dark and narrow enough for a man to hide with a gun drawn at the entrance.
Sofia squeezes my hand, pulling my attention away from scanning the rest of the street. “Ready?”
I hold in an exhale.
No, I am not ready for the possibility that the man upstairs is exactly as innocent as she says he is.
He has had the last twenty years to craft himself into a victim with enough truth to make his lies believable.
I have no choice but to go up there with her and see for myself because I refuse to allow her to do any of this alone again.
I’d rather die than let Sofia go unprotected again.
I step out first. The cold rain slides beneath my collar and down the back of my neck. I close the door quietly, every trained sense sweeping the area around us. My hand lifts to brush the concealed weapon at my side, finding comfort in its presence.
I move around the front of the vehicle and open Sofia’s door before she can do it herself. Her eyes lift to mine and a small smile tugs at her mouth. She takes my hand when I offer it to her, slowly stepping onto the wet pavement as I guide her from the passenger’s side.
I sweep the street one more time, then guide her toward the entrance with a hand hovering near the small of her back. The front door is not locked. That is the first thing that bothers me.
I pull it open slowly, the hinges complaining in a soft metallic whine that is swallowed by the rain coming down behind us.
The lobby beyond smells damp from the runner carpet that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades.
Cigarette smoke is a permanent undercurrent that cuts through the sour mildew smell.
The heat inside is weak, fighting a losing war against the drafts slipping in through the cracked seal at the front door.
By the time we reach the third floor, Sofia is practically vibrating with anticipation.