Page 81

As soon as I turned eighteen, I left Russia and came to America, and I haven’t looked back.

Then I pulled a woman out of a basement and handcuffed her to me, not realizing until I was too far gone that I’d shackled my own heart and handed her the key.

Now I’m standing in her former kitchen with plaster on my shoes, unable to eat, unable to sleep, driving my fist through walls.

I’ve completely lost my grip on the person I decided to be all those years ago.

I look down at my hand. The knuckles are bleeding where they caught the edge of the wood frame.

Cora will want to put something on that.

The warm, fierce thought overtakes me before I can stop it, and suddenly all I want is to get home to her.

Even the drive home angers me, because I’m not driving my Mercedes-AMG. Troy is.

As I enter my home, I hear laughter coming from the kitchen. Cora’s, and underneath it, the low, respectful rumble of several of my men. I stand in the hallway for a moment with my jacket still on and my bleeding knuckles at my side, listening to the sound of Cora’s voice moving through my house.

I will kill to ensure she always sounds this happy. I’ll do whatever it takes.

In the kitchen, Cora is standing by the island in jeans and a soft white T-shirt, her blonde hair pinned up in a messy twist with a smudge of flour on her cheek. She’s holding a baking sheet, and there’s a scatter of white chocolate chips and spilled flour on the marble counter.

Ruslan is sitting at the island dunking a cookie into a glass of milk. Demyan is at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a mixing bowl.

Cora sees me in the doorway.

“Zevran.” Her face lights up. “Perfect timing. This batch just came out of the oven.”

She’s completely at home in my kitchen in a way that stops me dead. I have spent the last six days turning this city inside out to protect her smile, and I would spend six thousand more without a second of hesitation.

She has no idea the ruin I would cause to keep her safe.

Ruslan sets the glass down, his posture snapping straight. Demyan shuts off the faucet and dries his hands immediately.

“Out,” I order, my voice carrying down the corridor. “Every single one of you. Outside. Secure the perimeter gates. Nobody comes inside this house until I tell you.”

Both men don’t hesitate. They melt out the back door silently, shutting it tight behind them.

Cora sets the baking sheet down on the counter. She looks at my tense jaw, my hollow eyes. Anxiety flares in her expression, but she steps toward me instead of away.

“Zevran, please, don’t be angry with them,” she whispers, reaching out, her small hands pressing flat against my chest. “They were just keeping me company. I asked them to stay. It was my idea—”

My uninjured hand tangles into the hair at the back of her neck, tilting her head up as I trap her against the edge of the marble island.

Before she can draw another breath, I crush my mouth to hers.

I claim her lips without mercy. She tastes like sugar, vanilla, and pure comfort, and the broken glass behind my eyes begins to dissolve.

For a fraction of a second, she freezes. Then, with a whimper against my mouth, her arm loops tightly around my neck, pulling me closer until I can feel her softness against my chest.

“Your men,” she manages between kisses. “I was just baking for them—”

I kiss her again to stop the words, my hand tightening in her hair, and she makes that sweet, helpless sound against my mouth that I’ve been craving all day. When I finally let her up for air, she’s flushed.

“Cookie?” she offers breathlessly.

I press my lips to the corner of her mouth. Her jaw. The soft place beneath her ear. “What kind?”

“White chocolate chip.”