Page 28

Back in the car, I leaned into the leather seat, a strange mix of satisfaction and anticipation settling in. I was waiting for her reaction, her next text, the next time I'd see her.

The car glided toward the estate, back to my world of power and blood. But that day, my mind wasn't on the game.

It was on her.

And that scared the shit out of me. But it was also fucking thrilling.

Chapter 8

Cassie

Night had settled over the kindergarten, and the place was finally still. The day's work was done, and I let out a long, slow breath, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders.

But my eyes—they kept wandering to the corner of my desk. To those roses. Twelve perfect blooms, their deep red petals so rich they seemed to drink in the light, hiding secrets in their velvety folds. Their sharp, sweet scent snuck into every breath, tugging at something soft and burning deep inside me. My fingers grazed the card, his sharp, commanding handwriting practically searing my skin.

"To my rose, you deserve every beautiful thing. —G"

He had actually sent me flowers. Gennady Sokolov, the man who turned my world upside down, had done this.

That morning, when the delivery guy rolled up to the school with that bold-ass bouquet, I thought I was still lost in the previous night's wild, blurry dream. My coworkers' stares—nosy, envious, judging—had hit me like a spotlight. I mumbled somebullshit about a friend's gift, my face on fire, but there was no hiding the truth.

He wasn't just a friend, was he? After the previous night, everything had changed. We had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

All day, I had been floating in a warm, giddy haze. Those roses felt like a vow, a sign that he was out there, thinking about me, giving a damn about me. My heart raced just thinking about it, and I couldn't help myself—I grabbed my phone, needing to share that rush.

Me: Thx for the flowers. They're gorgeous. Still at school, working late, staring at them and thinking of you.

His reply came fast, like he had been waiting.

G: You're still at school? It's late, Cassie.

Me: Yup, prepping tomorrow's lessons. Plus, it's quiet here. Perfect for texting you.

G: You're making me wanna come find you right now.

My heart stumbled, heat flooding through me. He had wanted to come here?

Me: Then why don't you?

My fingers trembled as I hit send, bold and reckless. What the hell was I doing?

Minutes dragged—long, tense minutes—then his reply landed.

G: You sure, Cassie? If I show up, I'm not sure I can keep it together.

Keep what together? His words carried a threat and a promise, setting my skin on fire.

Me: Maybe I don't want you to keep it together.

I sent it, my pulse hammering. Was I really inviting him to the school?

G: Wait for me.

Short, commanding, and it lit me up. Memories of the previous night—his hands, his lips, that overwhelming rush—flooded my mind.

He was coming.

I was up, pacing the classroom, restless energy buzzing through me like electricity. I caught my reflection in the corner mirror—a woman with flushed cheeks, bright eyes, her light blue sweater clinging to her curves, black A-line skirt swishing against legs that wouldn't stay still. Beneath the professional shell, there was a fire, waiting to be sparked.