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I get up.

My legs are unsteady under me, but my hands know what to do. I change out of Zevran’s clothes and put on a sundress. I tie a plastic bag over my cast and awkwardly scrub the dishes. I move through the kitchen, and the familiar actions settle around me like I wasn’t locked in a basement for eleven days. I know this kitchen. I know how to stand at this stove with my shoulders back so I look compliant rather than cowed or defiant.

An egg goes into the hot pan. I watch the edges curl and turn white.

There is nowhere for me but here. There never was. Zevran Komarov was just a dangerous man trying to perform a job. Everything that happened between us was just a dream I wasn’t meant to keep.

The pan spits. I turn the flame down.

I’ll survive the next hour. And the one after that. It’s all I know how to do.

I slide the egg onto a plate and call softly, “Troy. Your breakfast is ready.”

15

Viktoriya

Present day

The crack of the gun is still ringing in my ears.

My eyes are squeezed tightly shut. My whole body is trembling uncontrollably. Zevran’s fingers are still inside me, their slow, possessive strokes easing now, and I can feel his broad chest rising and falling against my back, steady and unhurried.

In the heavy silence, a thought arrives that I have no business thinking.

He came for me.

It’s completely wrong, but the warmth spreading through my chest is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt. Zevran somehow knew I was suffering, and he found me. For one unguarded second, I let myself feel the miracle of it. Someone thought I was worth finding.

But I know better. He came for his car, and he came for answers. I took something from him, and he’s here to take it back.

Over the sound of my uneven breathing, I realize that Troy isn’t making any noise. No angry buzzing through his gag. No shuffling of his chair as he tries to squirm free.

Oh, God.

What if I’ve killed him?

My finger is still on the trigger. My hand is holding the gun. I fired the bullet.

“Open your eyes, printsessa.”

Zevran’s smoky, accented voice is pitched low, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. There’s an amused edge to it that makes my stomach drop. He can’t wait for me to see what I’ve done.

I squeeze my eyes tighter.

“Viktoriya.” Firmer now. His heavy arm is around my waist, holding me against his chest like a lover, but there’s steel in his grip and command in his voice. “Open your eyes.”

I don’t want to see, but not knowing is pure agony.

I open my eyes.

Troy is a few feet away, still tied to the chair, still gagged. Blood is pouring from a wound in his shoulder, soaking his shirt and dripping onto his lap. His complexion is grayish, and slick with sweat.

But he’s alive. His eyes are open and fixed on me, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.

I wait for the relief that I didn’t kill my husband.

I wait, and I wait, and it doesn’t come.