Emma
Sleep doesn’t settle me down, not for one moment. Every tiny sound in the massive house jerks me awake again.
Footsteps in the hallway. A distant door closing somewhere downstairs.
The indistinct murmur of voices I can’t make out through the walls.
By three in the morning, I’m lying rigid beneath expensive sheets, staring at the ceiling, fully dressed because some deeply paranoid part of me thinks I may need to run again at any second. Although…these aren’t my clothes.
Surely a man like Russ Smith, even if that isn’t his real name, could find something in one of his many warehouses? Instead, I’ve been given a luxurious t-shirt several sizes too large for me and sweatpants. Clearly his.
I still can’t fully reconcile the two versions of this man in my head.
Russ: the elegant billionaire with expensive glasses and a wicked smile who fed me dessert with his mouth against my skin.
Ruslan: the man who hunted me through Santa Barbara with cold eyes and a terrifying calmness that made me understand exactly how dangerous he really is.
There’s violence in him. Not rich-man violence, but real violence. The kind I used to want to hunt down and put away. Only now, I seem to be a prisoner to it, toeing a thin line between temptation and punishment.
I can’t risk running again.
By dawn, I’ve officially spiraled into exhaustion. I must finally fall asleep sometime after sunrise because the next thing I know, a soft creak jolts me violently awake.
My body reacts before my brain does.
I sit upright instantly, heart slamming against my ribs hard enough to hurt. For one disoriented second, I genuinely think Ruslan finally decided to stop pretending and drag me downstairs to some horrifying mafia interrogation room.
Or show up to take “what he wants,” as he so eloquently growled in the café. The thought sends a shot of heat to my core, and I push away the traitorous feeling of want, staring in surprise at…
A girl.
She’s leaning around the door, light hair swaying. We blink at each other.
She can’t be older than eleven or twelve, dressed in a school uniform with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks equally startled by my reaction.
“Whoa,” she says slowly.
My pulse continues thundering wildly while I try to recover enough dignity not to look completely insane.
“Sorry,” I croak. “You scared me.”
The girl tilts her head curiously. “Why?”
Good question, honestly. Before I can figure out how to answer that, her expression brightens suddenly with realization.
“Oh!” She steps fully into the room. “You’re Uncle Ruslan’s guest.”
Then it hits me—this is the girl I heard calling for him the morning after we—
I feel my cheeks heat and shut down the thought quickly. I hadn’t seen the girl when I’d run out of the house.
So this is his niece.
The little girl stares right back, completely unbothered, like finding random women sleeping in her terrifying uncle’s guest room is a normal Thursday occurrence.
Which somehow feels worse.
“You’re Kate,” I realize aloud.
Her face lights up instantly. “He told you about me?”
“Sort of.”
Mostly I remember the way his entire demeanor changed when she interrupted us the morning after. Right after Ruslan saw my reaction to Andrei on the television.
The rage, the distrust in his features had melted away.
Like someone had flipped a switch inside him.
The sharp edges disappeared immediately.
And his warning the other day—not to go near Kate.
She must be important to him. My heart pounds out a warning beat.
What will he do if he finds her here chattering away while I sit in bed, stunned?
Kate drops her backpack onto the floor carelessly and studies me with alarming intensity. “You look tired.”
I laugh weakly. “Thanks.”
“You also look prettier than the girls Uncle Russ usually dates.”
I choke. “Oh my God.”
She shrugs like this is objective fact. “Most of them are mean.”
“That’s…probably not something you should say out loud.”
Kate ignores that completely and wanders farther into the room instead, peering curiously at the half-packed suitcase near the bed. It’s mine, although I don’t know when or how it appeared—had someone been in the room?
“So, are you staying here now?”
“No,” the answer comes way too quickly. And it’s more of a wish than the truth.
Her eyebrows lift.
“I mean—I don’t think so.”
“Hm.”
Something about the sound is deeply familiar. My stomach drops as I realize she somehow has the exact same judgmental little hum Ruslan does.
Terrifying.
Kate climbs onto the edge of the bed without invitation. “He likes you.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Uncle Russ.” She says it like it’s obvious. “He never lets people stay here this long.”
Stay here. As if it’s voluntary.
“This long?” I repeat faintly. “It’s been like…one day.”
Her eyebrows draw in, mouth pursed as if she can sense a lie. “Weren’t you here the other day, too?”
The bedroom door suddenly opens, and every muscle in my body tightens instantly.
Ruslan leans casually against the doorway, wearing dark slacks and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His pale eyes move over me once—assessing, unreadable—before settling on Kate.
“There you are,” he says calmly.
Then his gaze slides back to mine. And just like that, all the fear I managed to forget for thirty seconds comes rushing back.
Kate watches me and Ruslan look at each other for approximately three seconds before grinning.
Not a normal grin, either. A dangerous little grin.
“Oh,” she says slowly. “There’s definitely something weird happening here.”
“Kate,” Ruslan warns.
She ignores him completely and slips off the bed, grabbing her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder again. I become painfully aware that I’m sitting in his guest bed wearing one of his shirts while his niece studies me like she’s trying to piece together a crime scene.
“So,” I say quickly before she can ask anything more traumatic, “you live here with your uncle?”
“Mhm.”
Ruslan is staring at me over the top of Kate’s blonde head, but I ignore eye contact. She’s already in the room; I might as well get as much info as I can out of her. Even if it is against his rules.
“And he…” I hesitate awkwardly. “Brings a lot of guests home?” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
Because Kate’s expression changes instantly. Her eyes, which I notice now are brown, not pale like his, light up. “Are you jealous?”
I choke on what might be a laugh, but is definitely mortification.
Ruslan does, in fact, laugh—warm, low, the sound creating a pull in my belly that I try to ignore.
A male voice sounds out in the hallway, and Ruslan glances over his shoulder in irritation.
He gives me one fleeting look, as if to say, behave yourself, and steps out.
“No,” I snap, irritated at the mix of desire and embarrassment I’m feeling just now. At the hands of a preteen, no less. “I just didn’t realize he was was…hosting so many women, is all.”
“Mhm,” Kate says, sounding exactly like him again.
This family is horrifying.
She swishes her shirt, gaze distant, as if she’s already bored with the conversation. “Uncle Rus mostly brings home business people.”
Something ugly and relieved unwinds slightly in my chest before I can stop it.
Then Kate adds, “Usually men.”
I blink. “Men?”
“His scary work friends,” she clarifies. “They talk downstairs forever and drink gross coffee and swear in Russian.”
Okay. That somehow feels both better and infinitely worse. Because now my brain is trying to process what kind of “fashion billionaire” spends his evenings hosting mysterious Russian men in tailored suits.
Ruslan. The only option is that, inexplicably, I’ve stumbled onto the Bratva. Again.
Hearing it confirmed by a twelve-year-old somehow makes it more real.
Kate goes to the door, opening it wider and looking over her shoulder. “Come on. Breakfast.”
“I should probably—”
“Mrs. Alvarez made cinnamon rolls.”
She says it with the solemnity of someone presenting life-changing information. My stomach betrays me immediately with a tiny growl.
Kate gasps dramatically. “See? You’re starving.”
“I’m not starving.”
* * *
Five minutes later, I’m following Kate downstairs despite every survival instinct I possess screaming that becoming comfortable here is a terrible idea. The house feels different in daylight, now that I’ve been let out of the guest room.
Less predatory.
Still massive and intimidating, but warmer somehow. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the ocean while music plays softly somewhere deeper in the house. The kitchen smells like coffee and vanilla and something buttery enough to make me instantly emotional.
This should not exist alongside the man who hunted me through Santa Barbara yesterday. That’s the unsettling part.
Ruslan automatically pulls out a chair for me when we reach the dining area. I eye him suspiciously while sitting down.
“You look confused,” he murmurs.
“You’re confusing.”
His mouth twitches slightly.
Kate immediately launches into a story about school fundraiser drama while Mrs. Alvarez sets plates in front of us. I barely hear half of it because I can’t stop watching Ruslan move around the kitchen.
Domestic Ruslan should not be attractive. And yet.
The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled to his forearms again, exposing tattoos that disappear beneath his watch. He moves with quiet confidence, occasionally answering Kate without even looking up from the espresso machine.
Like this is normal.
Like he isn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Almost literally.
“Emma,” Kate says suddenly.
“What?” I almost drop the cinnamon roll that is, in fact, sinfully delicious.
“You’re staring.”
My face bursts into flames. Ruslan smirks into his coffee cup.
A few minutes later, Kate gets distracted by a call from one of her friends and disappears toward the living room with her phone glued to her ear.
The second she’s gone; I look across the table at Ruslan.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Who are you, really?”
His pale eyes lift to mine slowly. Dangerous eyes.
“My name is Ruslan Smirnov.”
The Russian pronunciation sounds heavier coming from him. Sharper. My eyes go wide at the surname.
“Yes,” he continues calmly, “Andrei and I are related. He is my younger half-brother.”
A part of me is disgusted by the fact that I have a type, apparently. Not Russian mobster—Andrei is too polished for that, too perfect. He campaigns on lower taxes for the rich and the right to protect yourself against the government.
And Ruslan… even in a perfectly tailored business outfit, he looks like he could ruin lives. The glasses he has on slide down his nose. The frames have a hint of purple in them, drawing light to the silver of his hair. It’s attractive and charming.
That’s it; they have the same confidence. The same charisma.
“When we met, you told me your name was Russ.”
“It’s easier for Americans.”
“It’s also a lie.”
“It is.”
At least he admits it. Is that better?
I lean back slightly, studying him carefully. “So what now? You keep me hostage in your mansion forever?”
A dark chuckle leaves him. “You would become exhausting very quickly.”
“Wow. Rude.”
His gaze drags over my face for one long second before settling again. Then his expression shifts subtly; more focused. It sends a shiver up my spine because I recognize that look. I’ve seen it on the face of half a dozen white-collar criminals smart enough to get away with literal murder.
“There is something we should discuss,” he says quietly.
Instantly wary again, I fold my arms. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is a business proposition.”
Everything in me screams in protest. Not again; never again.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“I know enough.” I’m half-standing, my breath catching in my throat, heart pounding. Dizziness makes it feel like the top of my head is missing, and then there’s a firm pressure at my elbow.
Ruslan is holding me there, his pale eyes behind the glasses concerned. “Breathe,” he orders in a murmur.
His chest rises in a slow inhale. I copy the movement, momentarily distracted by the pale chest hair peeking out from the “v” of his shirt.
A slow smile curves his mouth.
“Emma,” he murmurs, “you are going to want to hear this.”