Chapter 10
TERESA
Idump the contents of my dresser onto the bed—jeans, sweaters, an old university hoodie—stuffing whatever lands closest into a battered carry-on.
My hands are shaking so badly items keep falling to the floor. Flight? Bus? Cargo ship to Iceland? I don’t know. I just need distance between myself and Vladimir Angeloff’s kill list.
Halfway through cramming toiletries into a zip pouch, I freeze. If I simply vanish and don’t show up for work, he’ll know I saw something. A hunted animal runs; a smart one lays a scent trail in the opposite direction. I grab my phone, thumb out a text.
Mr. Angeloff, apologies for the hour. I’ve come down with some sort of stomach virus. Managed to get a last-minute doctor’s slot tomorrow morning. I’ll need to take the day.
Polite, vague, overshare-y enough to be plausible. I hit send, then mute the phone so I can’t hear any buzzing death sentences in all caps.
I step into the living room, clutching the carry-on.
My apartment is tiny—exposed-brick walls, thrift-store rugs, various succulents on the sill.
It smells of peppermint tea and the vanilla candle I left burning too long.
Not much by New York standards but it’s mine, earned one brutal paycheck at a time after my former father-in-law blacklisted me from real finance work.
Now I’m about to abandon it with less ceremony than taking out the trash.
I sink onto the sofa. Tears hit, hot and humiliating. A week ago, my worries were over Vlad’s mixed signals and Maxim’s ghost. Tonight, I’m planning a midnight jailbreak because the man who sets my skin on fire could also be obligated to put a bullet in my skull.
I sob until my chest aches, until the ugly sound gives me a headache. I tally realities: four-hundred and twelve dollars in checking, fifty-nine in savings, one half-maxed credit card. A bus ticket west will eat half of that. Motel rooms and food the other half. No plan beyond keep moving.
If Vlad wants me dead, state lines won’t save me for long. Still, motion feels safer than staying static. Predators know where to find sleeping prey.
An hour later, I’m ready to go.
Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I unzip a second duffel and toss in my laptop, passport, and the small wooden jewelry box that holds Mom’s wedding band and Dad’s fountain pen.
My whole life, condensed to this. I shoulder both bags and click off the lights.
The candle’s still flickering, and I smother it with its lid—no need to burn the place down on my way out.
The hallway air is sharp with disinfectant. I lock up, heart pounding so loudly in my ears I barely hear the bolt slide. I turn and stop dead.
A tall figure detaches from the shadows beside the stairwell. Black coat, dark eyes. The corridor’s single overhead bulb halos him like an angel of death.
Vlad.
My pulse implodes. The duffel slips from my shoulder and down my arm, landing on the floor. My breath stalls halfway up my throat.
He takes a step closer. “You don’t look sick to me,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, which makes it worse.
My heartbeat finally kicks back in to fight or flight, a panicked rabbit scramble. But my feet stay rooted, caught by the fatal gravity of his gaze.
Is this it? Has he come to kill me?
He reaches me, one hand settling lightly on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door I just locked. “Inside, kotenok. Let’s talk where the neighbors can’t eavesdrop.” Vlad doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to.
My knees threaten to buckle, but I move anyway.
I pick up the bags. Keys rattle as I unlock the door.
I step over the threshold and set the bags down.
He closes the door behind us with a soft click, scanning the tiny living room, the half-packed chaos, the tissues on the coffee table, the life I’d planned to abandon.
“Tell me,” he says, tone gentle yet simultaneously sharp as a blade. “Why are you running?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I cross my arms to keep from shaking. “I—” The words knot in my throat. “I went into your office to get the Zurich file. I spilled coffee and knocked over a folder. It was your Christmas list.” My voice breaks. “My… my name was on it.”
All the fear I’d been holding back erupts, hot tears spilling before I can stop them. “You’re going to kill me,” I whisper. “I thought you… I don’t know what I thought.” My shoulders heave. “I have nowhere to go.”
I feel like I’m giving too much away. But it doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing else I can do. If he’s here to kill me, then these are my last moments.
For a breath, he’s unreadable. Then his features soften. He steps forward, hands rising slowly, as if calming a spooked horse. Fingers brush my cheek, wiping tears with unexpected tenderness.
“Put that list out of your mind tonight,” he murmurs. “You’re safe here.”
The certainty in his voice lands like a warm blanket. He draws me closer and I don’t resist. My forehead presses against his chest and his arms wrap around me—strong, protective, and terrifyingly comforting. I melt, tears soaking into the dark wool of his coat while he strokes my hair.
“Breathe, Teresa.”
I follow the cadence of his own breathing until the tremors ease. I look up at his face and our eyes meet. His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, pausing at the corner like a question.
I answer by leaning in. He responds by closing the distance, mouth capturing mine in a kiss that starts soft—testing, tasting—then goes deeper.
Slow heat unspools through every vein. His palm cups the nape of my neck, guiding me until my world shrinks to cedar, whiskey, and the slide of his breath against mine.
I lose the words hit list, escape, danger somewhere between heartbeats.
Right now, there’s only the shelter of his arms and the promise blooming behind his kiss—complicated, impossible, but real.
Vlad’s kiss is a slow inferno, his lips firm and steady. My fingers dig into the coarse wool of his coat, anchoring myself. He pulls back, dark eyes blazing, pinning me in place.
“You’re shaking, kotenok,” he says, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my cheek. “Let me show you what a real man does for his woman.”
My breath hitches. His woman. Vlad’s gaze is intense and unhurried. I nod, and his lips curl into a smile.
He steers me to the bedroom, his hand warm at the small of my back.
The room’s dim, streetlight slicing through the blinds, casting jagged shadows over the pile of jeans and sweaters left on my bed.
He doesn’t even glance at the mess, his eyes are locked on me.
His fingers brush the hem of my sweater, pausing.
I raise my arms and he tugs it off, knuckles skimming my ribs, leaving a trail of goosebumps. My bra follows, then my jeans, sliding the denim down my thighs along with my panties. I’m naked in seconds, the heat in his eyes making me feel like a queen.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he growls, voice thick with want.
He steps closer, hands gliding over my hips, palms electric against my skin.
When he drops to his knees, my pussy clenches, anticipation spiking.
His lips press to the soft skin below my navel, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that sends a jolt straight to my core.
I sway, grabbing his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt.
“Vlad,” I gasp, voice shaky, half-begging.
“Quiet,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, breath hot against my skin. “I’ve got you.”
His tongue parts my folds, slow and deliberate, lapping at my clit with a precision that makes my head spin. I moan, loud and raw, my fingers knotting in his thick hair. He’s relentless, sucking gently then flicking, teasing until I’m dripping, thighs trembling.
He grips my hips, holding me steady as he devours me, humming low in his throat like he’s tasting something divine. Vlad reads every twitch, every gasp, slowing when I’m close, dragging out the torture until I’m whimpering.
I come hard, my vision whiting out as I scream his name, legs giving way. He holds me up, licking me through every pulse until I’m a quivering mess.
He stands, lips slick with my arousal and kisses me hard. I taste my own juices on his tongue, mingled with his heat, and it’s filthy, perfect. His hands roam my back, pulling me against him. I feel his cock, hard and thick through his trousers, pressing into my hip.
“We’re not done,” he says, a wicked glint in his eyes.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me on the bed among the scattered clothes. I watch, pulse racing, as he shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his shirt, revealing a broad chest, dark hair trailing down to a scarred abdomen. His fingers tremble slightly as he pulls a condom from his pocket.
“Do you want this?” he asks.
“Fuck, yes,” I breathe, reaching for him.
He strips off his pants, cock springing free, thick and hard, precum dripping. It makes my mouth water. He rolls the condom on, then crawls on top of me, his body warm and solid. His kiss is slow and deep, his tongue stroking mine in perfect rhythm.
He nudges my thighs apart with his knee, his cock teasing my entrance. He pushes in slowly, stretching me, filling me until I gasp, my nails digging into his back.
We move together, hips rocking. His eyes stay on mine, intense, like he’s seeing straight into my soul. It occurs to me that what we’re doing isn’t just fucking. It’s something deeper, a connection that scares the shit out of me but feels so damn right.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, and he groans as he sinks into me, a low, primal sound that makes my walls clench around him.
He pulls out and sits back on his heels. “On your knees,” he says, voice rough with desire.
I roll over, ass up, and he grips my hips, sliding his cock back in, deeper this time. I moan, fisting the sheets as he fucks me, each thrust hitting just right. His hand slips around, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles until I’m shaking, pulsing around him.
“Teresa,” he growls, “come with me.”
I nod, breathless, and he pulls me up, my back against his chest, his cock still buried deep.
His arm locks around me, hand splayed across my stomach, lips at my ear, whispering my name.
His fingers work my clit relentlessly, and the intimacy—his breath hot on my neck, the way he’s holding me like I’m his—sends me over the edge.
The orgasm hits like an explosion, my walls clamping down, screaming his name as pleasure tears through me. He thrusts deep, groaning, his cock pulsing as he comes, our bodies locked together, riding the high as one.
We collapse, tangled in the sheets, his cock still inside me, his arms a vise around my waist. His lips brush my shoulder softly, almost reverent.
“You’re mine,” he says, not in a possessive way but a certain one.
I turn my head and meet his gaze, his eyes raw with multiple emotions. My chest aches, the weight of the moment heavier than the fear that drove me here. I reach back, fingers threading through his damp hair.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, meaning it.
The kill list, the danger, the world outside—it’s all gone.
For now.