Ruslan
By the time my security team alerts me that Emma is gone again, I am already irritated. A little surprised, but mostly irritated. How the hell did she manage to get out?
Not that I had a full security team on her; she’s just a girl.
That had been my thought all day yesterday, after dragging her back to the house and barricading her in a room. Just a girl, despite what my instincts shouted at me.
Too bad one of the hotels that the escorts work out of decided to try and threaten me. It took a few hours of investigating, twisting the right joints, to find out that the threat came from one lowly sous chef who happened upon my operations.
Now he’s several miles off the coast, sunk further than anyone will ever find him. There are several dozen lives depending on discretion and my protection. I don’t mind taking one out to save theirs.
But that gap in time, in supervision, gave Emma an opening. One I hadn’t expected her to take, but she must have realized that I was distracted.
I stand in the kitchen, staring at the untouched espresso Mrs. Alvarez left beside my laptop while one of the guards speaks through my earpiece.
“She exited through the south gate twenty minutes ago.”
I close my eyes briefly.
The girl has exactly one instinct when cornered: run.
Unfortunately for her, I spent most of my life hunting people far smarter and far more dangerous than Emma Pierce.
“How, exactly, did she get by unseen?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause, and the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. Something is coming… a shift in the game.
“She punched Ray in the throat. Hard. He’s just getting his voice back now.”
Ray, the guard in the south gatehouse. He’s been working for me for eight years now; young, but not untried. The fact that Emma somehow got the better of him, enough to get a punch in, makes the corner of my lips twitch.
Who is she?
“She alone?” I ask calmly.
“Yes.”
“Armed?”
A pause. “Unknown.”
Interesting answer. I don’t write off the possibility; there’s still something about Emma… even though she acts like a prey animal, there’s a sharpness and calculation in her eyes that I can’t forget.
I disconnect the call and set the earpiece down carefully before shattering it under my fist.
The house is quiet this morning. Kate left an hour ago with Mrs. Alvarez for school, blissfully unaware that her uncle spent half the night orchestrating an underwater grave and a revenge plot at the same time.
I shrug into a dark coat and head for the garage.
One more chance, Emma.
After this, I stop being patient.
* * *
Santa Barbara is crowded today. Tourists flood the sidewalks near State Street while musicians play somewhere near the waterfront. The late morning sun warms the city in gold, making it deceptively peaceful.
Peace makes people careless. The good thing is, if Emma is panicking the way she did at the airport, she should be easy to spot.
My SUV crawls slowly through traffic while updates feed steadily through my phone.
Southbound.
Foot traffic.
Last seen near Carrillo.
Emma moves unpredictably. I noticed that immediately.
She does not think linearly once fear takes over; but is that emotion or calculation?
In anyone else, I would think this kind of running thoughtless.
But something about Emma tells me she might be trying that old trick of running in zigzags when being chased by a predator.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve done a lot of chasing.
People run toward crowds when they feel hunted. Instinct says there’s safety in numbers, but I’ve been in California for a decade now. I’m practiced at hiding just how twisted I am beneath tweed and cotton, leather and lace.
The farmer’s market appears three blocks later in a riot of white tents and moving bodies.
There you are.
I park illegally without a second thought and step out into the noise. Voices overlap everywhere. Vendors shout prices, the scent of citrus and flowers and fresh bread mix thickly together beneath the California sun.
And underneath it all—Emma.
I spot her almost immediately. It’s as if a compass tugs something hard in my chest, drawing me toward her.
She’s wearing one of my hoodies, and that makes something tighten inside me.
Possessive, hot. She’s mine. It’s large enough to cover her curvy ass and her thighs.
Curly hair is tucked beneath sunglasses much too big for her face.
Certainly not anything she owns. Did she steal them from a stall?
The thought makes me grin as I picture her corrupted, though not quite the way I want to corrupt her.
She moves quickly through the crowd, carrying a paper coffee cup in trembling hands, glancing behind herself every few seconds. Fear radiates off her now. Real fear. The kind that turns muscles tight and breathing shallow.
Something ugly twists pleasantly in me at the sight.
I crack my neck slowly while watching her disappear deeper between vendor stalls.
Ruslan Smirnov surfaces easiest during hunts.
Russ Smith wears tailored suits and hosts charity galas, and pretends civilization cured him. But this? The tracking. The stalking pulse of adrenaline. The certainty that prey belongs to me the second I set my sights on it.
That belongs to the man I buried years ago in the Colorado snow and blood.
A woman carrying flowers bumps my shoulder accidentally. “Sorry.”
I barely hear her.
Emma reaches the far end of the market and finally realizes, the same way she did at the airport. I slow to a stop, because as delicious as it is to see her scanning the crowd, tension buries itself between my shoulder blades.
This feeling that we’re tied together, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know her beyond her body, but the way her eyes lock with mine feels like fate.
There it is.
That sharp flare of panic in her expression when she understands that she’s mine.
Beautiful.
Her coffee slips slightly in her hand as she backs away one step. Then another.
“Don’t,” I say evenly, stepping sideways through two stalls, only feet away from her now.
She runs. Of course she does.
People curse as she shoves through the crowded walkway, nearly colliding with a bodega stand. I move after her at a much calmer pace because panic wastes energy and Emma is already trapped. I don’t want someone to call the cops; I’m not Russ Smith today, not in chinos and an open button-down.
When she rounds a corner that leads to a blocked-off alleyway, I catch her wrist hard enough to stop her momentum instantly. There’s a chain-link fence ahead with signs in several different languages. A dumpster, a propped-open restaurant door, but nowhere for her to go.
Emma gasps sharply as her body slams back against my chest. I can feel the heat from her easily through the thin, sleeveless shirt I have on.
“Let go of me,” she breathes.
“No.”
The single word comes out rougher than intended.
Anger coils beneath my skin now—not because she ran, but because I can’t decide whether I want to shake answers out of her or drag her somewhere private and devour her again.
It’s impossible to ignore the press of her ass against my hips, the way her waist pinches inward when I place a hand on her belly and hold her still.
Emma tries to twist in my grip, curls wild around flushed cheeks. The sunglasses clattered onto the pavement. “You can’t keep doing this!”
“And yet,” I murmur near her ear, tightening my hold slightly, “you continue making me.”
“This is psychotic.”
“Mm.” I’m not arguing that point.
I turn her toward me fully at last.
God, even terrified, she is gorgeous. The oversized hoodie slips down one shoulder slightly, exposing soft skin I remember biting only yesterday morning. Just the curve of her collarbone is infuriatingly sexy. My body reacts instantly despite the fury burning through me.
Emma sees the shift in my expression and goes very still, but not before swaying forward on her tiptoes.
Interesting… does she feel it, too? The heat between us? The draw?
I lower my voice. “Now,” I say softly, “you’re going to calm down, walk down the street with me, and let me buy you another coffee.”
Her dark brows knit, eyes narrowed. Good girl. I’m not someone to be trusted.
“I think you know, Emma, that I’m not quite what I seem. I don’t believe you are either; but you understand that I’m a man who gets what I want. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathes, the word almost a stutter. Her hand grips my forearm as she sways slightly, eyes unfocused. Worried, I open my mouth to ask her if she ate the food sent to her, if the heat is too much, if she needs to sit—but her eyes drop to my lips and I understand.
She wants this, too.
“We’re going to sit somewhere quiet. And I’m going to ask you questions. If you give me answers… if you’re a good girl…” she shivers at the words, and I lean closer, nose brushing her jaw, “I might let you ask a few of your own.”
* * *
Emma’s shoulders droop the second we enter the café. Not because she trusts me, but because she’s exhausted.
I can see it now that we’re out of the chaos of the market and tucked into the corner of a quiet little place smelling of espresso and cinnamon. Fear burns hot for only so long before the body starts shutting down under it.
She looks wrung out, and sits stiffly across from me at a small table near the window while I order for both of us without asking. Cappuccinos. Fresh pastries she barely touches once they arrive.
Her eyes flick toward me warily over the rim of the oversized mug. I notice she relaxes slightly after the first sip.
Cute.
“You’re glaring at me,” she mutters.
“You ran again.”
“You hunted me through a farmer’s market like a serial killer.”
A dark laugh slips out before I can stop it. The older woman at the next table glances over disapprovingly.
Emma looks almost offended by the sound. “See? That. That’s not normal behavior.”
“No,” I agree calmly. “It is not. But don’t you know? If you run in front of a predator, it triggers their instinct to chase.”