Chapter 35 Lena
LENA
The door clicks shut behind him, and I pull the covers around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. My body still hums with the aftershocks of what just happened, my skin hypersensitive where his hands gripped my hips.
How could I have done that?
How could I have had sex with him? Not just have sex with him, but lead the whole thing. I took control. I rode him like I'd been a sex-starved maniac.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. My thighs are sticky with evidence of our coupling, and shame burns through me, hot and acidic. What was I thinking? The man I had sex with was not Sasha. He was not the man from my cabin. He's a Russian Mob boss who'd put a hit on my life.
Yet, I wanted it. Wanted him. Even knowing he's Aleksandr Romanov, even understanding that the man I fell in love with was built on a foundation of lies and lost memories, my body still responds to his touch like he's the only source of oxygen in the room.
I'm pathetic.
The thought circles in my mind like a vulture over roadkill.
I roll onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest. The silk sheets are too soft, too expensive, nothing like the worn cotton I had in my cabin.
Everything here is wrong. The room is too big, the bed is too comfortable, and the walls are too close, despite all the space.
I miss my cabin with an ache that feels physical. Miss the simplicity of chopping wood and checking the generator. Miss the silence broken only by wind through pines and the occasional call of a hawk. Miss being Maya, even if Maya was just a character I'd invented to stay alive.
Sleep should be impossible, but exhaustion pulls me under like a riptide. My last conscious thought is of gold eyes watching me from across a firelit room, back when I still believed he was someone worth saving.
I wake to the sound of engines.
Multiple engines, the deep rumble of expensive cars pulling up the drive.
I sit up, disoriented, my hair a mess and my body aching in places that remind me exactly what happened last night.
Sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold that feel too cheerful for how I feel.
More engines. Doors slamming. The low rumble of male voices carrying up from below.
I throw off the covers and cross to the window, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The view steals what's left of my breath.
The circular driveway is filling with cars. Black Mercedes and BMWs, sleek and expensive, the kind of vehicles that scream money and danger in equal measure. Men emerge from them, all dressed in dark suits, moving with the controlled grace of predators gathering for a hunt.
Everyone has heard the Pakhan has returned.
I count at least fifteen cars, maybe twenty, and more are still arriving. The men cluster in groups, some smoking, others checking their phones, all of them radiating tension that I can feel even from up here.
And all of them with suspicious bulges beneath their clothes. Guns. They are all armed and ready for violence. My stomach drops to my toes and I rush to the ensuite bathroom. I lean over the sink, but there's nothing but dry heaves.
Shaking, I turn on the faucet and take a long, hot shower, then brush my teeth and get dressed for the day. Not that I have any plans but to stay locked in this room like a good little girl. But I don't want to be caught in my underwear, or worse, if someone decides to come into my room.
The bedroom door unlocks with a soft click.
I spin, my heart jumping into my throat, but it's just Danil. He's dressed in a charcoal suit that makes his massive frame look even more imposing, his expression unreadable as he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
"Don't you know how to knock?" I growl.
He ignores my question. "You should get dressed. Something nice. You'll be expected downstairs soon."
"Expected?" My eyes narrow. "I'm not going down there."
"You don't have a choice. Aleksandr is revealing himself to the organization. His return will shift the balance of power, and you need to be there."
"As what? His prisoner? His trophy?"
Danil turns, and something in his dark eyes softens. "As his woman. His fiancée, remember? That's the story, and you need to sell it."
I wrap my arms around myself as thoughts of last night's almost violent sex replays itself in my mind. My core tightens and my nipples pebble, traitorous body parts!
"I can't do this," I whisper.
"You can." He crosses to stand in front of me.
Up close, he's even more intimidating, all muscle and controlled violence.
But his voice is gentle when he speaks. "I know this isn't what you wanted.
I know you're scared. But those men downstairs, some of them will see you as a weakness.
A liability. Something they can use against Aleksandr."
"Good. Maybe they should."
"Lena." He grips my shoulders, not hard, but firm enough to make me focus on his face. "Listen to me. If they think you're a weakness, they'll try to eliminate you. Not because they hate you, but because that's how this world works. You remove threats before they become problems."
The words sink in like stones in deep water. "So I'm a threat now?"
"You're leverage. And leverage is dangerous." He releases me and reaches into his jacket, pulling out something small and black. A gun. "This is a Glock 43. Nine millimeter. Easy to conceal, easy to use."
I stare at the weapon like it might bite me. "I don't want that."
"Maybe," he acknowledges. "But you need it. For your own protection." He takes my hand, places the gun in my palm, and closes my fingers around it. The metal is cold and heavier than I expected. "Safety is here. You flip it off, point, and squeeze the trigger. Don't pull, squeeze. Understand?"
"Danil, I can't just shoot someone."
"You can if it's them or you." His expression is serious, almost sad. "I hope you never have to use it. But if someone comes for you, if you're in danger and neither I nor Aleksandr is there to protect you…"
He shows me how to check if it's loaded, how to chamber a round, how to aim. His hands are patient, his instructions clear, and I hate that I'm learning this. Hate that my life has become the kind of story where I need to know how to kill someone.
"Keep it on you," he says when we're done. "Always. Even when you think you're safe."
"I'm never safe. Not here. Not with him."
Danil's jaw tightens. "Aleksandr won't hurt you."
"He already has." The words come out bitter. "He ordered my death, Danil. That's not something you just forgive because he lost his memory for a few weeks."
"No," he agrees quietly. "It's not. But the man downstairs right now, the one about to face his organization, he's not the same man who gave that order. The amnesia changed him. You changed him."
"People don't change. Not really."
"Maybe not." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "But sometimes they remember what it feels like to be human. And that's something."
He leaves, and I'm alone with a gun in my hand.
The weight of it feels wrong. Foreign.
I set it on the nightstand and move to the window, wrapping my arms around myself. The cars are still arriving. More men in dark suits, their faces hard and watchful. They move in clusters, talking in low voices, glancing up at the house like they're sizing up enemy territory.
Maybe they are.
Downstairs, I hear voices rising. A lot of voices. The sound builds like a wave, getting louder and more intense.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I should go down there. If I'm supposed to be his fiancée, if that's the role I'm playing in this twisted production, then I should be at his side. That's what a real fiancée would do, isn't it? Stand beside her man when he faces his demons?
Except Aleksandr isn't my man. He's my captor. My would-be killer. The man who took everything from me and then dared to make me fall for him when he couldn't remember who he was.
Then someone shouts. The yell cuts through the noise like a knife, sharp and angry. I move to the door and press my ear against it, as if that will help me hear what's being said.
More shouting. Accusations, maybe. Or challenges. I can't tell from up here, but the energy has shifted. It's not just loud anymore. It's dangerous.
My hand finds the doorknob. I should go down there.
Aleksandr expects me to. Danil told me to.
But I don't turn it. I don't open the door and walk into whatever's happening down there.
Because once I do, once I step into that room and stand beside Aleksandr as his woman, there's no going back.
I'll be marked. Targeted. Every enemy he has will see me as a weapon to use against him.
The voices reach a crescendo. Someone's yelling, their words fast and furious. Others join in, a chorus of anger and confusion. Furniture scrapes against the floor. Something crashes.
I grab the gun from the nightstand, my hands shaking. The metal is cold and heavy and terrifying.
Then a single gunshot cracks through the air.