Author: Faye Pierce

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Chapter One

Calina

Laughter spills out of me as Milana and I stumble through the club doors into the cool night air. The bass still throbs behind us, and I so badly want to go back in there and continue dancing but unfortunately, we have to leave.

I hook my arm through my sister’s. She stumbles a little in her heels as we make our way toward the valet stand.

Darn, it’s still so early. A long queue of people snakes down the sidewalk, dressed to kill, all of them eager to get inside.

I wish we could stay longer. But we really, really can’t. Milana leans into me, giggling. “Are you drunk?”

I grin. “No. I only had one drink a while ago. I’m fine.”

“Or should we just call a cab?” she teases.

“I can drive,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Unlike you.”

Milana chuckles, the sound light and carefree. “I’m not drunk. I only had two drinks.”

I look at her and something warm settles in my chest. It’s rare to see Milana like this. Loose. Happy. Laughing without any care in the world. Out of the two of us, she’s always been the more reserved one, the quiet observer who keeps her guard up, even at home. Tonight, for a few precious hours, she got to be twenty-three instead of a Morozov princess.

The valet finally pulls up with our car, the black Porsche 911 Carrera that Artyom gave me for my twenty-sixth birthday. I tip the valet quickly, snatch the keys, and slide into the driver’s seat. My sister drops into the passenger side, still smiling.

“I wish we didn’t have to go home,” she says wistfully as she buckles her seatbelt.

“Me too.” I start the engine and pull away from the curb. “But we have to get back before Artyom comes home and realizes we’re gone.”

Milana groans. “He’d be so pissed if he found out we snuck out.”

“That’s why he’s not going to find out,” I reply, keeping my voice light even as nerves twist in my stomach. Our brother’s control has only gotten tighter since everything that happened with our father. He means well, but sometimes it feels like we’re suffocating.

Milana leans her head back against the seat, staring at the passing lights. “It was fun though… dancing, being free for once.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I know. I enjoyed every second of it.” It was her first time ever stepping foot inside a club without a million guards, and God, it was great.

Milana turns to me, cheeks still flushed. “Do you think we can do this again?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “We’ll just have to find another night when we can sneak out without Artyom finding out.”

She looks out the window for a moment, the city lights sliding across her face. Then her voice gets quieter. “We’ll really be in trouble if he finds out.”

I slow to a stop at a red light and turn to look at her. The carefree glow from the club is already fading, replaced by that familiar worried crease between her brows. I reach across the console and brush my hand over hers.

“Hey. Don’t worry. If he does find out, I’ll handle him.”

Milana’s lips twitch. “Imagine what he’ll say if he does.” She sits up straighter and drops her voice into a perfect imitation of Artyom’s cold, commanding tone. “I can’t believe you two, sneaking out like criminals. You will remain in this house until you are thirty.”

I burst out laughing. She keeps going, mimicking his stiff posture and icy glare, and soon we’re both cracking up, the sound filling the car until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

For a short while, we feel like ordinary girls. Not Morozov daughters. Not sisters trapped inside a dangerous family name. Just two girls who snuck out for one night away from our brother’s iron control.

Artyom has always been protective of us. He rarely lets us out of his sight, and when he does, his men are never far behind. But ever since he became Pakhan, it’s gotten worse. He watches us too closely now, treating us like we cannot make a decision without his permission.

Not that I can blame him entirely. The past months have been brutal, between our father’s death, the attempts on Artyom’s wife Kira, and Irina, the wife of our other brother, Mikhail. I understand why he’s so concerned about keeping us safe.

Still… I wish he would let off sometimes. Stop treating us like fragile children.

We’ve been sheltered our entire lives. That’s why, at twenty-six, I still had to sneak out to go to a nightclub. The light turns green. I press the accelerator, still smiling.

“Should we tell Kira about this?” Milana asks, still grinning.

I shake my head immediately. “No way. She might tell Artyom.”

Milana snorts. “You’re right. That woman cannot keep a secret from our brother to save her life.”

We both burst into laughter again. I have never seen my eldest brother so completely whipped in my entire life. He and Kira are madly in love, and honestly, I’m happy for him. After everything he’s been through, he deserves that kind of happiness. We are close, but still, she’s loyal to him first.

My smile disappears when bright red and blue lights suddenly flash in the rearview mirror.

Milana’s laughter cuts off. “What’s going on?”

I ease my foot off the gas and pull over to the side of the road. I’m annoyed more than anything. We’re so close to home.

“Stay calm,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “I’m sure it’s just a normal traffic stop.”

“What if they arrest us?” Milana whispers, her earlier lightness gone.

“Why would they arrest us? We didn’t do anything wrong.” I glance at her and force a small smile. “Just stay calm and act normal. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”

In the rearview mirror, I watch one officer step out of the patrol car and walk toward us. He’s huge, built like a tank, broad shoulders straining against his uniform, thick arms swinging at his sides. The sheer size of him unsettles me.

Another figure remains inside their vehicle. I roll down my window, pasting on a polite expression.

“Good evening, officer.”

“Ladies,” he replies, his tone flat. “Where are you coming from tonight?”

“We were just leaving a club downtown,” I answer honestly. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t respond to my question. “License and registration, please.”

I reach into the glove compartment, pull out the documents, and hand them over. He studies them for a long moment under the beam of his flashlight.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, but only one drink at the start of the evening. Nothing to worry about.”

He looks at me for a beat, then says, “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

My heart kicks harder. “Officer, I’m fine to drive—”

“Out of the car. Now.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and push the door open, still trying to explain as I step onto the asphalt. “I’m really not intoxicated. We just—”

The second officer gets out of the patrol car and moves straight to Milana’s side. He’s just as built as his companion, massive, and muscular.

“Ma’am, you need to step out as well,” he orders her.

The night air suddenly feels colder. I glance at Milana through the windshield and see the same flicker of fear I’m trying to push down in her eyes that.

The second officer yanks open Milana’s door and hauls her out before she can even unbuckle properly.

“Take it easy with her! I just told you we’re not drunk.”

This doesn’t feel like a normal traffic stop anymore. I notice immediately that they aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What is your name and which precinct do you work for?”

They don’t answer.

That’s when the unease settles. I look around the empty street, we’re the only ones here. The officers are too tense, their hands hovering way too close to their weapons.

“What is this about?” I ask again, louder this time.

Still no real answer. The officer beside me suddenly grabs my arm in a bruising grip. At the exact same moment, the other man seizes Milana.

“Get your hands off me!”

I twist hard, slamming my elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength I have. He grunts but doesn’t let go. Milana screams and starts kicking wildly at the man holding her, her heel connecting with his shin.

“Get your hands off her!” I snarl, fighting like hell. I manage to wrench one arm free and strike the officer across the face. For a second, I almost reach Milana, our fingers brush, but I’m yanked back by my shoulders. Just then two more men pour out from the shadows. And they don’t have police uniforms on.

That’s when it hits me. These are not real cops. My blood turns to ice as they overpower us, dragging both of us away from our car, past the police car and toward a black limo waiting further down the shoulder.

“Milana!” I shout, still struggling, still clawing.

But it’s useless. They are too many, and we are completely alone. I shouldn’t have stopped; I should have kept on driving.

I scratch, claw, and swing with everything I have, nails raking down the arm of the man gripping me. Milana is right beside me, screaming and kicking, her heel connecting with someone’s knee hard enough to make him curse.

We twist and buck, trying to break free, trying to run back toward our car.

It’s useless.

My shoulder slams into the side of the black limo. “Get off me!” I snarl, still fighting as they shove the back door open.

Milana’s scream cuts through the night again, but they’re already forcing her inside ahead of me. I keep struggling, heels scraping the ground, until one of them lifts me off my feet entirely and pushes me forward.

I tumble into the cool, leather-scented interior. “Who are you guys and what do you want…” my words die in my throat as I see the man sitting across from me.

He’s sitting inside, one arm resting along the back of the seat, legs spread with lazy authority. He is not dressed like the fake officers or the other men who grabbed us.

Instead, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored black coat over a crisp black shirt, open at the collar, the fabric stretched across broad, powerful shoulders. Dark blond hair cropped short. Sharp, aristocratic features that look like they were carved from ice and stone. He is devastatingly good-looking in the most terrifying way possible.

Power rolls off him in waves. His presence fills the entire limo, thick and suffocating. Tattoos peek from beneath his cuffs and collar. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s the kind of stillness that feels dangerous, like a predator conserving energy before it strikes.

I know instantly that he’s in charge.

He looks at us, first at Milana, who is pressed against me, chest heaving, then slowly, deliberately, at me.

His gaze drags over my face, my disheveled hair, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. There is no heat in it. No obvious lust. Just cold assessment, like he is deciding exactly what exactly he’s going to do with me.

He doesn’t seem like some low-level thug or hired muscle. He seems like something far worse.

I hold his gaze, breathing hard. My arm aches where the man grabbed it, and I can already feel bruises forming. Milana is trembling beside me, but I refuse to let whoever these men are see me break.

I lift my chin and glare straight at the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice comes out a little shaky. “What are you doing? What do you want with us?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Those cold dark eyes slide from me to Milana, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. Then he leans back slightly, the movement elegant and predatory at once.

“I’m here to collect a debt.”

Chapter Two

Calina

I stare at him, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. No. This has to be a joke. Who the hell is this man? And what kind of debt is he talking about? How does any of this have anything to do with us?

“Debt?” I snap. “What are you talking about? We don’t even know you—how could we possibly owe you anything?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, slow and unimpressed, like I’ve said something painfully naive.

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. You’ve got the wrong people. So how about you let us go, and we can all pretend this never happened?”

His mouth curves, barely. Not quite a smile.

“Nice try,” he’s calm as ever. “But I don’t make mistakes.” His gaze flicks between us, deliberate. “I’ve got the right girls. Your family owes me.”

A beat.

“And I’m here to collect.”

It doesn’t take long for the pieces to click into place. This has to be about my brothers. Some old grudge, some unfinished business with Artyom or Mikhail. He probably couldn’t get to them directly, so he decided to strike at the easiest targets, us. Their sisters.

Who is he? When he spoke, I caught the faint Russian accent. What could have possibly transpired between him and my brothers?

My mind races with worst-case scenarios. What is he going to do to us? My pulse is frantic, slamming against my ribs. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to stay clear-headed.

I glance around the limo, at the two stone-faced men flanking us on both sides, and the other two sitting next to the dangerous looking man. Every single one of them looks dangerous. Lethal. There is no easy way out of this car.

I turn to my sister. She is shaking beside me, small tremors running through her body. Tears glisten in her wide hazel-gray eyes. I slide my hand onto her thigh and squeeze gently. When she looks at me, I mouth the words slowly: Calm down.

She tries. She really does. But the fear in her eyes is so raw it makes my chest ache.

This is all my fault. I never should have pushed her to sneak out with me tonight. We should have listened to Artyom. We should have stayed safely inside the house like good little Morozov princesses.

We wouldn’t be here, if only we had listened. Now look at us, dragged into a stranger’s limo in the middle of the night because I wanted one taste of freedom.

I tear my gaze away from Milana and snap it back to the man watching us. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“You won’t get away with this,” I say, forcing my voice to stay strong even though my hands are trembling. “Our brothers will come for us. And when they do, you’re going to regret ever laying a finger on us. You and every single one of your men will be sorry.”

He slowly crosses one long leg over the other, the movement relaxed, almost bored. The expensive fabric of his trousers shifts smoothly.

My gaze betrays me instantly, dragging lower before snapping back up. His hand curls around his knee, large and veined, the sleeve of his black shirt riding up just enough for dark ink to peek from beneath the cuff. My stomach tightens.

I can’t stop staring at his hands. At the tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric. At the slow flex of his fingers. And suddenly, horribly, I’m imagining those same hands on me, sliding over my waist, gripping my thighs, pinning me…

My eyes widen as the sensation spirals lower, soaking me through with heat. Jesus Christ, am I seriously turned on right now?

“Is that so?” his voice is low and steady.

I lift my chin higher. “Yeah,” I reply, trying to clear the fog in my head. “It’s not too late. Let us go right now and we’ll forget this ever happened. We won’t tell our brothers about this.”

“Nah, I want your brothers to know I took you.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not sure you want that, you really don’t want to know what my brothers are capable of.”

Something like dark amusement flickers across his sharp features. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth tilts just slightly, like I’ve said something mildly entertaining.

“How about we wait and find out what your brothers are going to do, huh?” He shrugs one broad shoulder, completely at ease. “I’m curious.”

His calm certainty is terrifying. And I realize with a sinking, icy dread that this man is not bluffing. He doesn’t look even slightly scared.

And it terrifies me. The dangerous aura rolling off him is unmistakable, but his complete lack of reaction confirms this man is in a completely different league. He isn’t some hot-headed thug acting on impulse.

I swallow hard. “Maybe you don’t know who we are,” I say, trying to sound intimidating. “I’m Calina Morozova. This is my sister, Milana Morozova. Our brothers are Artyom and Mikhail Morozov. You really don’t want to mess with them.”

He rubs his temple with two fingers like my voice is physically painful, eyes half-closed in irritation. “I know exactly who you are,” he says flatly. “And I’m not even a little scared of your brothers. Now shut up. Your voice is giving me a migraine.”

The casual dismissal stings. Anger flares hot in my chest. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken us in the first place,” I snap. “You wouldn’t have to listen to my voice if…”

The look he gives me is deadly. It cuts straight through me and steals the rest of my words. I clamp my mouth shut instantly.

I turn to Milana instead. She’s breathing hard, jaw clenched tight, and her free hand is fisted in her lap like she’s fighting the urge to swing at someone. I squeeze her hand tightly, trying to offer some comfort I don’t even feel. She grips me back, eyes begging me to do something. I wish I could.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Milana grits. But he ignores her completely.

I look out the tinted window, searching for landmarks, trying to figure out where he’s taking us. We’re still inside the city. That’s something, at least.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

He ignores me completely.

I glance at my watch. Almost midnight. Artyom or the night guards will notice we’re not home soon. They’ll start searching. The thought gives me a small spark of hope.

But then the limo turns onto a familiar road. As I continue to look out the window, I realize this is the private access road that leads straight to Artyom’s office building.

What the hell?

I consider screaming for help the second we get close enough, maybe one of the guards stationed outside will see us through the window. But before I can even open my mouth, the limo glides to a smooth stop right in front of the office building.

He’s taking us to Artyom? This guy does really have some nerve. I turn to look at him, and still he’s as relaxed as ever.

The man beside Milana opens the door, and steps out. The man across from us tilts his head toward the exit in a silent command.

“Get down,” one of the fake police officers commands.

We obey and step out on shaky legs. The cool night air hits me. Two of Artyom’s guards patrolling the grounds immediately spot us and start walking over, confusion clear on their faces.

“Miss Calina? Miss Milana? Are you okay? What are you doing here at this—”

“Help us!” I scream, voice cracking with desperation. “They took us against our will! These men kidnapped us!”

Everything explodes in a single heartbeat.

Weapons are drawn on both sides, Artyom’s guards raising guns toward the limo and the men, the ones who dragged us here, instantly aiming right back.

One man clamps onto my arm, yanking me backward as another grabs Milana. Before I can even react, cold metal presses against my temple. I stand frozen between the two sides, heart in my throat.

And the dangerous man steps out of the limo behind us, like he’s arriving at a business meeting, completely unfazed by the dozen guns now pointed in his direction.

“Let the girls go,” one of the guards says, now pointing the gun at his head.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Everyone calm the fuck down,” he drawls, his voice low and bored, carrying that faint Russian accent. He looks at Artyom’s guards with mild irritation. “Put your guns down.”

My brother’s men don’t move an inch. “Let the girls go,” one of them repeats.

The man mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like stupid. Then he sighs. “Instead of acting like idiots, why don’t you call your boss and tell him Maxim Orlov is here to see him?”

Maxim Orlov.

The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. I search my memory, but nothing surfaces. Whoever he is, he’s clearly someone who expects doors to open when he says his name.

The guards hesitate, eyes darting between us and him. I can tell they know him. Maxim snaps his fingers impatiently. “Are you deaf?”

One of the guards finally pulls out his phone, while keeping his weapon trained on Maxim. He speaks rapidly in Russian into the phone. There’s a long pause on the other end. Then he ends the call and gives a stiff nod.

“Inside,” he says.

They march us into the building, still pointing guns at each other. Thankfully, the guns are no longer pointed at us.

We arrive the elevator, and only six of us go in: Maxim, one of his men, Milana and me, and two of the guards. The rest stay behind outside, still facing off with Maxim’s people, guns still raised.

As the doors slide shut, Maxim glances at the armed men and says calmly, “Try not to shoot each other’s heads off while I’m gone.”

The doors close. The tension inside the small metal box is suffocating. No one speaks. The air feels ready to ignite.

As we ride up to my brother’s office, that’s when I realize, what this abduction might be about. Him bringing us here instead of taking us to an abandoned warehouse, or somewhere far where our brothers can’t find us.

Maxim didn’t want to kill us or torture us in some dark warehouse. I think he needed a way to meet with Artyom. If he had simply asked for a meeting, my brother could have refused him. But he knows Artyom can’t ignore a man who shows up with both of his sisters in tow.

But what of the debt he was talking about? What does that mean?

Milana’s hand is ice-cold in mine. I can feel her trembling. Maxim stands relaxed against the wall, looking almost bored, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

When the doors open on Artyom’s floor, we’re greeted by even more guns. At least six of my brother’s men are waiting, weapons raised and aimed directly at Maxim and his guard.

Maxim doesn’t even blink.

“Get those out of my face and lead the way to Artyom,” he says, voice smooth and commanding.

The guards exchange uneasy glances but comply, keeping their guns trained on him as they escort us down the hallway toward my brother’s office.

My heart is still racing.

Whatever this debt is, whatever Maxim Orlov wants… we’re about to find out. And my brother is about to get so pissed at us for sneaking off to a club.

It’s not long after we step into Artyom’s office and he arrives from home looking worried. His steel-gray eyes lock onto Milana and me first, scanning us from head to toe, checking for injuries.

“Calina, Milana, are you okay?”

“Yes,” we both answer at the same time.

The relief that flickers across his face is brief, and gone in less than a heartbeat. Then his expression hardens into pure ice. He draws his gun in one smooth motion and points it straight at Maxim’s head.

“Give me one good reason not to put a bullet in you right now,” Artyom says, voice deadly calm.

Maxim doesn’t look even a bit bothered. He drawls, “That would be a very stupid thing to do, considering I currently have your sisters.”

“They’re here now,” Artyom replies coldly, finger steady on the trigger. “I could end you before you even blink.”

Maxim lets out a low, almost bored sigh and walks straight past the guns pointed at him. He drops onto the leather couch like he owns the room, crossing one leg over the other with casual arrogance.

“Why don’t you and your men put your toys away so we can talk about why I’m really here?”

Artyom’s jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. I can see the fury rolling off him in waves. He wants to shoot Maxim. Badly. His knuckles are white around the grip of the gun.

“You have some fucking nerve coming in here like this, Maxim,” Artyom growls.

Maxim waves a dismissive hand. “You talk too much. Now I see it runs in the family.”

Artyom looks like he’s about to burst an artery. He takes a threatening step forward. “You have one minute. Start talking.”

Maxim leans back against the couch, completely relaxed, and finally speaks without emotion, like he’s discussing the weather.

“Vladimir Morozov owed my family a blood debt. He killed my adoptive father, Oleg Orlov. After the murder, a contract was signed between Vladimir and my father’s remaining allies. The debt was to be paid whenever the Orlov family decided to collect it. That contract is still valid. The debt was never settled.”

Artyom’s brows pull together in genuine confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? My father never mentioned any blood debt with the Orlovs.”

Maxim’s dark eyes narrow slightly. “Because your father was a coward who preferred to bury inconvenient truths. The contract was signed in blood. It states clearly that the Morozov family owes the Orlovs one bride as payment. I’m here to collect.”

The words land like a bomb in the room. I feel the blood drain from my face. Milana’s hand tightens painfully around mine.

Artyom stares at him, gun still raised, but I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t insult me Arytom,” Maxim replies flatly. “The contract is ironclad under our laws. And I have chosen my bride.”

Everything is happening so fast. What blood debt is he talking about? Why would our father have gotten into a blood debt with him without letting Arytom know?

“The youngest one will do,” Maxim drawls, his cold gaze shifting from Artyom… straight to Milana.

The room goes dead silent for half a second.

“What?” Did I just hear correctly? No. This has to be some sick joke.

“No,” Artyom snarls, the single word sharp enough to cut glass. His gun stays locked on Maxim’s forehead, finger twitching like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to pull the trigger right now. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Maxim shrugs. “That can be arranged.”

Shock slams into me so hard my knees almost buckle. Marriage? He wants to marry Milana? My younger sister, who we’ve all spent our lives trying to shield from exactly this kind of monster?

Milana makes a small, broken sound beside me. Her hand squeezes mine so tightly I feel the bones grind together. I can feel her terror vibrating through her fingers, raw, choking panic.

I expect Artyom to do something. To shoot Maxim. To throw this bastard out of his office in pieces. He’s the Pakhan. He’s supposed to be untouchable. He’s supposed to protect us.

“Get yourself off my couch and out of my office!”

But instead doing that, Maxim reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a folded document, holding it up between two fingers.

“I came prepared. Here’s a contract signed after my father’s death. Between Vladimir Morozov and the remaining Orlov allies. Just as I already said, it states the blood debt between our families will be paid whenever the Orlovs choose to collect. The payment is one Morozov bride.”

He pauses holding Arytom’s gaze. “You dismiss this and you risk open war… your choice.”

Artyom snatches the document and unfolds it. I hold my breath as I watch him read it. I’m dying to know what it says. Do we really owe his family a blood debt?

I watch as Artyom’s face twists with fury, and I catch the exact moment something shifts behind his eyes. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver, but his jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.

He looks up and our eyes meet. I don’t see victory in his gaze. The realization crashes over me like ice water. My brother, who has ruled this city with an iron fist since our father died, is trapped. And Milana is the one who will pay the price.

Fear for my sister claws up my throat until I can barely breathe. Milana is only twenty-three. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to be handed over to a man like Maxim Orlov, a man who looks at her like she’s a chess piece instead of a person.

I can’t let this happen.

“Artyom,” I say, my voice cracking with desperation as I step forward, pulling Milana half behind me. “Do something. You can’t… you have to stop this. Please.”

My brother’s eyes flick to me for a split second. I see the storm of rage and helplessness there.

Maxim watches the whole exchange with that same bored, predatory calm, and he knows he’s already won.

My heart is pounding so violently I feel sick at the thought of Milana being forced to marry this man, of her being taken away, locked in his world.

I take another step forward, positioning myself directly between Maxim and my sister.

“You can’t marry Milana.”

“Calina, stay out of this,” Arytom drawls, his tone dripping with annoyance.

“I’ll take Milana’s place,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even think them through. “I will marry you instead.”

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Chapter One

Irina

Mexico, six months later…

The humidity in Cancun doesn’t just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle. Outside the tinted glass of Oasis del Sol, the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise. Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.

It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.

Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.

I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn’t end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.

I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.

“Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready,” Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.

She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my “firm hands” and the fact that I don’t gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.

“I’m on it, Sofia!” I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.

“Don’t give me that look,” she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You look like you’re plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business.”

“I am smiling,” I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. “On the inside.”

I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.

I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby. Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow. He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records. “Mateo,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. “Please tell me you have something.”

He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can’t light it in here. “Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end. I checked the registries in Mexico City. I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago.”

Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…

I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine. “The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn’t lose things. He doesn’t make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn’t find it. Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?” Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “The Russians in this territory… they don’t play, chica. They don’t have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You’ll be right next to me.”

I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. “I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them.”

“I will try,” he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. “But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”

He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my “freedom,” looking for any trace of what I lost.

I will find what I am looking for. I must.

The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.

A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don’t like.

“Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago.”

I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. “I know, I was just… I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We’re running low.”

“Forget the inventory,” she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. “Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn’t want anyone else. He asked specifically for you.”

I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. “Specifically? I don’t have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time.”

“He said he heard you have the ‘firmest hands’ in Cancun,” Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily. My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash. “He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him. He didn’t seem like the type of man you say no to.”

My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. “I don’t do ‘special’ requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me.”

“He didn’t ask for that,” she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. “He just… he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena. And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime. Think of it as a bonus for being so popular.”

I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don’t have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I’m going to find him.

“Fine,” I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. “But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don’t care how much he paid.”

“Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.”

I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4. The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass. The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn’t particularly like. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.

I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, his skin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.

I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.

Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.

What in the world is a man like this doing… here?

Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins. I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months. They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars. But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one… this one is different.

Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.

I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.

Scars.

Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren’t from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.

Oh my goodness, what is going on?? I start before I immediately stop myself. Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.

I tell myself it’s just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with “firm hands.”

“Are you going to stand there all night, señorita? Or are we going to begin?”

The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow. A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven’t felt in… ever.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can’t run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.

“I apologize, sir,” I say, my voice steady, my “Elena” mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. “I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?”

“I like it deep,” he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding. The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch. “I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don’t be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don’t mind a little struggle. That you’re… efficient.”

I want to ask him who told him that, but I can’t because customers are Gods and you don’t question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.

I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can’t control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.

He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.

My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact. It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me. I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

My hands move down his spine, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk. My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way. I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.

Stop it, Irina. He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.

But the “Elena” in me doesn’t care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven’t felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.

“Y-Your muscles are very tight,” I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. “You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight.”

“I carry a lot of things,” he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. “Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company… stressful.”

My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.

What in the world is wrong with me??

God, I’m pathetic.

I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.

A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.

But goodness. The way he smells. Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he’s one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.

Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?

Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.

He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.

“How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?” he asks.

The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.

“J-Just a couple of months,” I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. “It’s a good place to work. People are generous.”

“Are they?” He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can’t see his face. I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian. “I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were. Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn’t forgotten them.”

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. “I just prefer the sun to the New York winters.”

I freeze. I didn’t say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.

“New York,” he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very… unforgiving.”

My skepticism about this “client” is turning into genuine alarm.

Is he a debt collector? One of Boris’s men?

“Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience.”

“I’ve heard many things about you,” he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they’re made of wax. “I heard you had a certain… fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true.”

The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent. He isn’t here for a massage. He’s here for me. I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow. The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.

I need to get out of here.

“Rumors are just talk,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m just a girl working a shift.”

I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.

He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp. His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic. The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s a deliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.

Of course, it’s just one of those stupid men who don’t take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.

The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.

I don’t think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn’t take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?

I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.

“I told you,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. “I don’t tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn’t care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?”

The man doesn’t flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home, dorogaya,” he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. “We would have been the perfect match.”

The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don’t understand. I can’t breathe.

No, no, no, no.

“Back home?” I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. “What are you talking about?”

I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.

He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.

“New York, Irina,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.

My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.

“I want what should have been mine for six months now,” he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. “I’m done playing, I want my wife.”

Chapter Two

Irina

No no no no… please no. This can’t be happening.

The air in Room 4 is 90% eucalyptus oil and 10% my impending cardiac arrest.

Mikhail doesn’t move. He just watches me with those dark blue eyes, his hand still clamped around my wrist like a shackle. I can feel his pulse against my skin—steady, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm. Mine, however, is a mess, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs that feel too small for the amount of oxygen I’m failing to pull in.

“L-Let go,” I whisper. It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out as a plea. My throat is so tight I’m surprised any sound escaped at all.

“You’ve had six months, Irina,” Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating through the small space between us. He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, drawing me an inch closer to the heat radiating off his bare chest. “That’s enough of letting go.”

I yank my arm back with a surge of desperate strength, and to my surprise, he lets me go. Not because I won, but because he’s already decided the game is over. He sits up fully on the massage table, the white sheet sliding dangerously low. I see the hard, tanned expanse of his thighs. I should look away. I’m a Petrov; I was raised with a sense of propriety that is currently being set on fire by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the man in front of me.

But I can’t look away. My eyes trace the ink on his skin, the scars that tell stories of a life I tried to leave behind, and the way his dark golden hair falls over his forehead. He looks like a god of war who took a wrong turn and ended up in paradise.

Goodness.

“Put some freaking clothes on,” I snap, trying hard to maintain my composure. I gesture vaguely at his lack of clothing. “Or is being a public nuisance part of the Morozov charm these days?”

Mikhail lets out a low, dry laugh as he stands up. He’s six-foot-three of pure, predatory grace. Even naked, he’s the one in control. “The only nuisance here is the wife who thought a fake passport and a bottle of coconut oil would be enough to hide from me.”

“I am not your wife!” I hiss, backing toward the door. “We never signed the papers. We never finished the ceremony. You’re just a man I left standing in a room full of expensive flowers.”

He reaches for the knot at his hip, and with a flick of his wrist that is unnecessarily graceful for a man with shoulders that wide, the towel hits the floor with a soft, mocking thud.

What the hell?!

My gaze is currently locked onto a very specific, very safe mole on his left shoulder blade. I am staring at that mole like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“We’re going,” he says, ignoring my jab. He reaches for a pile of clothes I hadn’t noticed in the corner—a sharp, Italian suit that probably costs more than this entire building. He pulls on his trousers with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go dry. “Move, Irina. Unless you want me to carry you through the lobby.”

“W-What?! I’m not going anywhere with you! I have a life here. I have… things I’m doing!”

“You have a boss who just sold you for the price of a mid-sized sedan,” Mikhail says, sliding into a crisp white shirt. He doesn’t look at me as he buttons it, but I can feel his attention fixed on me like a laser. “Your ‘life’ ended the second I walked through that door. Now, move.”

Fuck no!

I reach for the door handle, intent on sprinting for the back exit, but Mikhail is there before my fingers can even touch the metal. He looms over me, one hand resting on the door above my head, his shadow swallowing me whole.

The scent of him wraps around me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and that traitorous tingling returns to my fingertips. I want to hit him. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I bite my lips hard to stop the tears from rolling.

“Don’t create a scene, dorogaya,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “It would be such a shame for Sofia to have to explain to the police why she allowed a kidnapping in her establishment. Especially when I’ve already paid for her silence.”

“You- You’re a monster!” I breathe, glaring up into those dark blue depths.

“I’m a Morozov,” he corrects, his eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. “And you’re mine. Let’s fucking go.”

He opens the door and steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. I walk out, my spine stiff, my head held high despite the fact that my knees are shaking. As we walk through the lobby, I see Sofia. She’s standing behind the desk, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor. She won’t look at me. She won’t help.

This is really happening!

Mikhail doesn’t say a word. He just gives her a single, sweeping look that makes her shrink further into her chair. His posture, the set of his broad shoulders, the way he moves—it all screams power. He doesn’t need to create a scene. He is the scene.

Fucking madman.

No one interferes. No one calls out. I am being stolen and the world is letting it happen.

“You won’t get away with this,” I mutter as he steers me toward the door, his hand firm on the small of my back. “The second I get a chance, I’m calling my father. He’ll have your head.”

I know I’m literally grasping at straws but I’ll do anything.

“Your father is the one who gave me the coordinates, Irina,” Mikhail chuckles. He is lying—or maybe he isn’t. With Boris Petrov, you never know.

We step out into the humid Cancun night. The strip is alive with neon lights—pinks, blues, and yellows reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent sun-shower. A black SUV is idling at the curb, its tinted windows looking like two voids in the middle of the neon chaos. A tall scary looking man stands by the door, opening it the second we approach.

“Get in,” Mikhail says.

“I have rights, Mikhail! I have… I’ll scream! I’ll tell everyone who you are!”

“Go ahead dorogaya,” he says, leaning down so his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “Scream. Let them know the Morozovs are in town. See how fast this street empties out.”

His arrogance is infuriating, but the way his eyes drop to my mouth makes my heart skip a beat. I want to bite him. I want to slap the smirk off his face. I climb into the car, mostly because I don’t want him to see how much he’s affecting me.

The door thuds shut, sealing us in the cool, leather-scented interior. The driver pulls away immediately, the lights of the street blurring past the windows. I sit as far away from Mikhail as possible, hugging the door, trying to stop the tremors that are finally taking over my body.

My life is officially over.

“You’re a coward,” I say, because I need to find something to say before I start crying. “Hiding behind your family name and your thugs. Is this the only way you can get a woman to stay in a car with you? Kidnapping?”

Mikhail leans back, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s watching me with a predatory intensity that makes my skin itch. “You stopped having choices the moment you humiliated me in front of both families and vanished.”

“I saved us both!” I snap, turning to face him. “You didn’t want me. You were probably relieved I ran.”

“I was many things,” he rumbles, his voice turning into ice. “Relieved was not one of them. My pride doesn’t like being a punchline at the social clubs. You made me look weak. You made my family look weak. And in our world, weakness is a death sentence, you know that.”

“Oh, please. Your pride is fine. You just wanted a reason to go on a hunt.”

“And look how well it turned out,” he mocks, his hand reaching across the seat to trail a finger along my jawline. I flinch, but I don’t move away. The touch is electric, a spark of heat that makes my breath hitch. “You’re sitting in my car, going to my plane, to live in my house. You’re exactly where you were supposed to be six months ago. Only now, the terms have changed.”

“The terms haven’t changed! I’m still the woman who hates you!”

Mikhail’s hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back until I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are dark, a storm of blue. “Then you’ll hate me in New York. Because you’re never leaving my sight again.”

The drive to the airport is an agonizing blur. We arrive at a private hangar where a sleek, white jet is waiting. Mikhail leads me up the stairs, his hand firm and possessive. The moment we cross the threshold and the heavy door seals shut, the full reality of what is happening settles into my bones.

We are alone.

The cabin is a temple of excess, cream leather, polished mahogany, and a bar stocked with enough liquor to drown a fleet. The flight attendant gives Mikhail a quick nod and disappears into the cockpit, leaving us in a silence that is anything but peaceful.

Mikhail heads straight for the bar, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. He doesn’t offer me any— bastard. He just stands there, swirling the glass, his eyes fixed on me. I pace the length of the cabin like a trapped animal, my sneakers silent on the thick carpet.

“How did you find me?” I demand, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. The roar of the engines matches the roar in my head. “I was invisible. I didn’t use the name. I didn’t use the cards. I was gone.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ve been looking for you from the second you touched the grass outside that hotel, Irina. Did you think I’d just shrug and move on? That I’d let the insult stand?”

“I thought you were too busy being a Morozov to care about one runaway bride.”

“Once I decided to stop letting the world laugh at me, there was nowhere in the world you could truly hide,” he says, his voice low and absolute. “You could have gone to the moon, and I would have found a way to drag you back.”

I let out a dry, sassy laugh. “Is this really about the alliance? Or is your ego just that fragile? Did your pride really not survive a woman leaving you at the altar?”

“Both.”

Bastard!

“You should have been grateful I ran,” I scoff, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. “I saved you from a wife who would have hated you every day of your life. You could have married someone who actually wanted the Morozov name.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I don’t want a wife who wants my name, Irina. I want a wife who fears it. And as for hating me? Hate is just love with a different coat on. You were never indifferent to me. Even back in New York, when you were supposed to be Artyom’s, you couldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Are you crazy? I was looking at you because you were a train wreck!” I lie, my heart rate spiking. “You were the volatile brother who couldn’t stay out of trouble. You were the madman, I didn’t want to be anywhere near you! I was looking at you to make sure you didn’t set the curtains on fire.”

“Oh? Is that what you were doing in Room 4 tonight, dorogaya?” he asks, stepping toward me. He moves with that same slow, predatory grace, pinning me against the bulkhead without even touching me. “Were you checking for fire when your fingers were trembling against my skin? When you were digging your thumbs into my shoulders like you wanted to climb inside me?”

The memory of the massage, of the tingling in my fingers and the heat in my belly, rushes back, making my face flush. “I was doing my job.”

“You were hungry,” he murmurs, stopping inches away. He smells like whiskey now, sharp and sweet. “You’ve been starving yourself for six months, trying to pretend you’re someone else. But I felt it, Irina. I felt the way your body reacted to mine. You can lie with your tongue all you want, but your touch? Your touch is very honest.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest to push him away, but they just stay there, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his expensive shirt. “You’re just doing this to humiliate me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have run,” he says. He reaches out, his hand covering both of mine, pressing them harder against his chest. “Artyom is the Pakhan, and he’s soft for his nurse. You were supposed to be the balance. And you ran.”

“I ran because I wanted a choice!” I shout, my stubbornness finally breaking through the fog. “I don’t want to marry someone like you!”

Mikhail’s expression hardens, the amusement vanishing. “The world doesn’t care about your choices, Irina. It cares about power. And right now, the power is in this room.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the small space between us. “You want to know how I’m going to punish you? I’m going to make you stay. I’m going to make you stand by my side at every gala, every meeting, every dinner. I’m going to make you play the perfect, devoted wife until your jaw aches from smiling. And every night, when the doors are closed, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

“Y-You think you can force me to love you?” I ask, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a heat I can’t name. I refuse to let him see the fear—or the arousal—fluttering in my chest.

“I don’t need your love,” he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, dragging it down until I’m forced to part my teeth. “I need your submission. I need the world to see that a Petrov tried to run, and a Morozov brought her back to her knees.”

I feel the heat of his body through my thin tunic. My fingers are tingling again—that same traitorous attraction I felt at the spa. I want to push him away, but I also want to see how far he’ll go. My stubbornness, however, is the one thing I have left.

“I’ll never do that,” I hiss, though the nearness of him is making it hard to think. “I’ll never be on my knees for you.”

“We’ll see,” he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a promise of fire. “You’ve spent six months escaping me, Irina. Now, you’re going to learn the difference between escaping me and belonging to me. And I promise you, the second one is much, much harder to survive.”

He pulls back, leaving me breathless and reeling against the bulkhead. He finishes his drink in one swallow and walks toward the back of the jet where the bedroom is hidden. He stops at the doorway and looks back, his dark blue eyes glinting with a terrifying, beautiful light.

“Try to get some sleep, wife. We land in four hours. And the second we touch the ground, the ‘Elena’ act is over. You’re Irina Morozova now. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

He disappears into the room, leaving me alone in the cabin. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my legs finally giving out. I look out the window at the dark expanse of the Atlantic, the stars mocking me with their distance.

I’m back in the cage. Only this time, the hunter is right next to me.

I touch my lip where his thumb rested, the skin still tingling, still burning. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing, I hate what he represents, and I hate my father for starting this. But as the jet screams toward New York, I realize the gravity of his words. He doesn’t want a bride. He wants a conquest.

I close my eyes, the hum of the engines a low-frequency vibration that matches the thrumming in my own blood. Mikhail thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s brought me back to the board as his pawn.

He has no idea that the second we land, I’m going to start playing my own game. And if he thinks I’m going to be a “dutiful wife” after what he just threatened, he’s clearly got the wrong person.

I lean my head back against the leather, a slow smile spreading across my face despite the tears prickling my eyes.

I hope you’re ready for the fire, Mikhail. Because I’m going to burn your entire world down before I let you own mine.

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Chapter One

Gia

Why the hell did I come back here?

The leather seat is cold under my legs, even through the fabric of my dress. I keep my hands folded in my lap, watching the countryside roll past the tinted window like the answer to where we’re going is written somewhere in the trees. Fields give way to tall oaks and then forest thick enough to block the late afternoon sun, throwing shadows across Laura’s face.

My baby sister sits beside me doing the thing where she grips the seat edge so hard her knuckles go white, like if she holds on tight enough she can control where we’re going. She’s nine years old and she already knows how to make herself small in our father’s presence, how to keep quiet until spoken to, how to fold into herself when the air gets heavy.

I hate that she knows this.

I hate it so fucking much.

And even worse, I hate it so much because she learned it from watching me.

I reach over and cover her hand with mine, working my fingers between hers and the leather until she lets go. Her palm is sweaty. She looks up at me with those wide brown eyes that haven’t learned hardness yet, and I squeeze once, trying to talk to her without words.

Hey Sweetie Pie, I’m here, I’ve got you, whatever this is I’ll stand between you and it. I’ll always protect you.

God, I hope she understands me.

“Where are we going, Gia?” Her whisper is barely heard over the hum of the car’s engine.

I smile sweetly, “A wedding, Sweetie.”

“Whose?”

Good question.

“Father?” I glance toward the front seat where our father sits beside his driver, his profile sharp against the window.

At fifty-eight, Salvatore De Luca looks like something carved from marble, all the softness eroded away. Silver threads through his black hair now, combed back with the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.

Hardness and violence.

He doesn’t turn around. “An important political union. The whole family’s presence is required.”

Which in itself is weird, but I don’t comment.

But there’s something underneath his words, something that makes the base of my spine go cold. And I’m definitely not trying to figure it out. Years of knowing my father taught me it’s better not to know anything at all.

I’ve only been back a week after years away and I still haven’t readjusted to the weight of his voice, the way every syllable feels like it’s been calculated three moves ahead.

I’ll never get used to it.

“Especially after your brother’s passing,” he continues. “We must prove we’re strong.”

Laura’s hand tenses under mine. She barely remembers Vittorio. She was five when I left, too young to have known him at all. She spent most of the last four years with me in Paris, tucked away in our apartment in the Marais. My safe haven after… Stop, Gia. Don’t think about it.

Marais feels so far away already.

Then, six months ago, father decided it was time for her to come home. I couldn’t stop him. I tried. God, did I. But Salvatore De Luca doesn’t negotiate with his daughters. Or anyone for that matter.

I didn’t even come back for my brother’s funeral three months ago. The truth is we were never close. I barely knew him, and standing over his grave pretending to grieve a brother who was practically a stranger felt dishonest in a way I couldn’t stomach.

But when father called last week telling me to come home, I came. Because Laura is here and I will crawl through broken glass before I leave her alone in that damned house.

Being back feels like wearing a coat that doesn’t fit anymore even though it was tailored to my exact measurements. It feels wrong. Constricting. Like I’ve stepped back into a version of myself I spent four years trying to bury.

It doesn’t feel okay at all.

“Will there be cake?” Laura asks, and there’s so much hope in her voice it makes my chest hurt.

“Probably,” I tell her, making myself smile. “Those fancy ones with too much frosting.”

“The kind that makes your teeth hurt?” She giggles.

“Exactly that kind.”

She settles back against the seat, satisfied for now. I wish I could find comfort in something as simple. I wish I was still young enough to believe weddings meant celebration instead of transaction, that marriage was about love instead of leverage.

But I learned better at nineteen. I learnt so much that I know that I want nothing to do with it anymore.

Father shifts in his seat. “You will comport yourself appropriately.”

He’s talking to me, not Laura. “Of course.”

“No scenes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Father.” I drawl but we both know that’s a lie.

I’m dreaming of several, actually.

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror and the warning there is clear.

Pfft.

The memory tries to claw its way up but I shove it down hard. Not here. Not now. Not with Laura sitting beside me vibrating with nervous energy because this is her first real public appearance and she doesn’t understand yet what it costs to be Salvatore De Luca’s daughter. Most people don’t even know she exists.

I think happy thoughts, like the YouTube therapists teach.

Bunnies, pink fluffy bunnies, chocolates and pizza….

The car turns onto a smaller road. Gravel crunches under the tires. Trees press close on either side, their branches forming a canopy overhead that turns the sunlight into scattered coins of gold. This isn’t the suburbs. This is countryside, remote and quiet, the kind of place you go when you don’t want witnesses.

Okay, where the hell are we going? Seriously, where? Because this looks less like a wedding venue and more like somewhere they bury the bodies.

My stomach drops. What the heck is happening?

“Where is this church?” I keep my voice level. Curious, not confrontational.

“Does it matter?” Father still doesn’t look back.

“Just making conversation.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous habit, Gia.”

So is raising daughters like chess pieces, but here we are.

I almost say it. The words line up right at the back of my teeth and I can taste how good it would feel to let them out. I glance at Laura instead. She’s watching me with those careful eyes, reading my face the way she always does when she’s trying to decide if she should be scared, and that’s what stops me. Not obedience. Not fear. Her.

I swallow it down and go quiet, chewing the insides of my mouth.

Laura’s hand finds mine again and I hold it, her pulse jumping against my palm. She’s scared. I don’t blame her.

The trees thin and suddenly we’re pulling up to a small stone church, weathered and ancient, surrounded by cars that most people will never see in their entire lives because… why the hell not? Black sedans. Dark SUVs. Lambos. All of them screaming money and violence even in their stillness.

My pulse kicks up hard. I know this feeling. The way my chest goes tight, the way my breathing wants to speed up and I have to force it to stay even. It’s fear wrapped in expensive fabric, terror wearing pearls.

The car stops. The driver gets out, opens father’s door, then comes around to ours. I take what I hope is a deep, steadying breath and step out into the cool air, and immediately I feel it.

Eyes.

So many eyes.

Goodness.

They’re watching from the church steps, from beside the cars, men in dark suits and women in designer dresses, all of them turning to look at us. At me. Four years is a long time to disappear. Long enough to become a ghost story. Long enough that my return feels like an event people will gossip about for months.

The Ghost Heiress is finally back.

I keep my gaze forward, my shoulders back.

Laura stays glued to my side as we walk toward the church entrance. I can feel her trembling and I want to scoop her up and run, want to tell her it’s okay, that nothing bad will happen. But I stopped making promises I can’t keep the day I learned what men like our father are capable of.

As if I summoned him, his hand settles on my shoulder, heavy as a threat. “Head high.”

I don’t respond. I just walk.

The church doors stand open. Inside I can see pews already filled, ceremony preparations centered at the far end. Flowers everywhere, white and pale pink, the kind of arrangements that cost a fortune and say nothing about the people getting married.

We step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Stone walls. High ceilings. The smell of incense and wood polish and something older underneath, like centuries of prayers that went unanswered.

Guests go quiet as we enter. I keep walking, Laura beside me, father’s hand on my shoulder steering me like I’m a car he’s driving.

And then I see him.

At the altar.

Waiting.

Rafael Caruso.

I know him. Not well. I’ve seen him maybe half a dozen times over the years, always from a distance, always beside Matteo Romano or one of the other Brotherhood men. Older than me by more than a decade.

But I’ve never seen him this close. And up close, Rafael Caruso is a problem.

He’s over six feet of pure, rogue sex on legs, in an Italian suit, the kind of body that doesn’t come from a gym but from a life where violence is just a normal Tuesday. The suit is black, tailored so precisely it looks grown rather than made, white shirt open at the collar because he clearly doesn’t care enough about this event to bother with a tie. Dark blond hair worn a little too long, like he cut it himself with a knife six months ago and hasn’t thought about it since. There’s a scar that cuts through the left side of his jaw, thin and pale and old, the kind of mark you only get when someone means it.

He’s sexy the way a loaded gun is beautiful. You don’t want to touch it, but you can’t stop looking.

And then there are his eyes.

Green. Not soft green. Not kind green. The flat, calculating green of someone who has looked at a man and decided what to do with him before that man even opened his mouth.

They’re brutal and sexy and—

They’re fixed on me from across the length of that church. The weight of them hits me somewhere low in my core, something I haven’t felt in four years, something I do not want to feel right now, something I am furious at my own body for producing.

Absolutely not. No. We are not doing this.

This man looks like violence, roughness, and uncivilized sexuality wrapped in one. The way he stands is the thing that gets me most, perfectly still, no shifting weight, no checking his watch, no performing patience the way nervous men do. He just stands there like he has already decided how every single thing in this room is going to go. Like he decided before he walked in.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

Then I push myself back to reality.

Because there’s a man at the altar and he’s looking at me like I’m expected and my father’s hand is on my shoulder and the church has gone silent and something is very, very wrong.

I drop my gaze fast and hate myself for the heat that follows me down, crawling up the back of my neck and spreading across my collarbones like I’ve been caught doing something weird. I spent four years in Paris deliberately unlearning this, teaching my body that men are not something to want, that attraction is just your nervous system lying to you. Four years. Now one look at Rafael Caruso and apparently all of that work means nothing.

Useless. Absolutely useless. Well, thank you Mrs Youtube Therapist.

I assume I’m late. That we interrupted something. That the bride is somewhere in the back waiting for guests to sit down so the ceremony can start.

I move toward the pews on the right but father’s hand tightens on my arm. “The seats are in front.”

Front seats are for family. Immediate family. Parents and siblings of the bride and groom.

So why the hell are we supposed to sit there??

I don’t question him as he steers me toward the aisle not wanting to draw attention.

I look back for Laura and that’s when I see it. Two women in dark dresses have appeared from nowhere, taking her by the hands, guiding her gently but firmly toward a pew near the back. Laura lets them, because she’s learned to not make scenes, and my chest cracks open watching it.

“Wait!” The word comes out before I can stop it. I pull against my father’s grip, turning back toward her. “Laura comes with me.”

Father’s fingers close around my arm like a vice. Not painful enough to be obvious. Painful enough to be a message. “She’ll be fine.”

I glare at him. “She doesn’t know anyone here. Why would she stay separately?”

“She’ll be fine, Gia.” His voice drops half a degree.

Laura looks back at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide and its obviously she’s trying to read my face to know if she should panic or not. I make myself look calm. I make myself smile at her, small and steady.

It’s fine, Sweetie, nothing is wrong.

Only, everything is wrong, I just don’t know exactly why.

One of the women says something to her and Laura turns back around, and they guide her into a pew, I watch her small shoulders settle.

I will burn this entire world down before anything touches her.

But I let father steer me down the aisle because making a scene right now helps no one, least of all her.

The church is silent except for the click of my heels on stone.

Every step echoes.

Every face turns.

Whispers move through the room, barely audible but unmistakable. I can feel them picking me apart. The ghost daughter who disappeared and came back different. The girl who left at nineteen and returned at twenty-four with harder eyes and better posture.

I get it, hot gossip, but look the fuck away. Save the ogling for the bride.

I feel exposed walking this path, ridiculous in my dress and heels, my father’s hand on my arm like I’m being delivered somewhere. Like I’m being escorted.

Like I’m the one getting married.

The thought slips in and I shove it out immediately because it’s paranoid and absurd and the kind of thinking that happens when you’ve spent too many years looking over your shoulder.

But the dread in my stomach doesn’t care what I call it. It spreads anyway, cold and slow, up through my ribs and into my throat.

We’re halfway down the aisle. Rafael is twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked away. Just stands there watching me approach with an expression I can’t read, somewhere between calculation and recognition, like he can see into the darkest depths of my soul.

Stop looking at me like that.

I can see him clearly now. Every line of him. The scar on his jaw. The set of his shoulders. The way his hands hang loose at his sides, relaxed, ready. He looks like exactly what he is. A man who has put people in the ground and slept fine after.

A widower. An executioner. A man who buried his wife and never replaced her.

Until now.

That thought hits like a fist to the sternum.

I stop walking. Father doesn’t. He keeps moving and I have no choice but to stumble forward with him or rip my arm free and cause the kind of scene that will get my sister hurt.

“Father.” My voice comes out steady. I’m proud of that. “Whose wedding is this?”

This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.

He doesn’t answer right away. We’re five feet from the altar now. Close enough that I can see the exact shade of Rafael’s eyes, that flat, unreadable green, close enough to catch his cologne cutting through the incense.

He smells expensive and dangerous and I need to stop noticing things about this man immediately.

Father leans in. His breath is warm against my ear.

“Yours.”

Chapter Two

Gia

I’m sorry, what?

The word is still bouncing around my skull when my father releases my arm and steps back, smooth and unbothered, like he just handed over a coat at a restaurant instead of his daughter’s entire life.

He leaves me there.

Standing beside Rafael Caruso.

At the altar.

And then the priest starts speaking.

“No.”

The word comes out before I even decide to say it. It hits the stone walls, the high ceiling and ricochets back to me in the sudden, suffocating silence of three hundred witnesses.

I don’t fucking care.

“No.” I repeat, stepping back from the altar, my heels sharp against the stone. “Absolutely not. This is not happening!”

My father immediately returns to my side, grabbing my arm. “Gia, do not—”

“Don’t!” I yank against his grip and something in my chest has snapped clean, something that had been holding for the entire drive and the whole walk down this aisle and it is gone now. “You do not get to do this. You dragged me to a church in the middle of nowhere without telling me a single thing and you expect me to just stand here and —”

“You will lower your voice, Gia.”

“I will not lower my voice.” I turn to face him fully. My hands are shaking. I can feel it. “You are literally selling me to a man I don’t know. Without telling me. So no, I will not lower my voice, I will not comport myself appropriately, and you will have a scene.”

The church is absolutely silent.

Three hundred people look like they’re holding their breath.

My father’s face goes cold, internal calculation behind his eyes, and I hold his gaze because I am so angry right now that I cannot feel scared.

How dare he do this to me, again?!

Then he takes a breath.

“Are you sure? Think about your sister.”

I go still. He wouldn’t…

I look back before I can stop myself. Back down the aisle, to the pew near the rear of the church where Laura was guided minutes ago. She’s standing now. On her feet, small and rigid between the two women in dark dresses, her eyes locked onto me across the length of the church. Even from here I can see the panic in her face, the way her hands are gripped together in front of her.

My chest cracks open.

No. Not her. She has nothing to do with this —

I make myself breathe.

I look at Laura and I hold her gaze and I smile again, reassuring her with my eyes.

It takes a moment. Then her shoulders drop half an inch and she sits.

I turn back to the altar.

The anger is still there. It doesn’t go anywhere. It just folds itself down into something flat, cold and patient that sits in the bottom of my chest and waits. I am aware that this is probably not what my YouTube therapist would call healthy processing, but she is not here and I am.

I walk back to the altar because what else can I do?

Movement beside me. Rafael shifts his weight and turns slightly toward the priest.

The priest opens his mouth.

“A moment, Father.”

The priest slams his mouth shut for the second time.

Rafael turns to my father. “Salvatore. Now.”

The words are delivered with the complete certainty of someone who has never had to wonder whether they’ll be obeyed.

The church goes so still I can hear my own breathing.

And my father walks over.

What. The. Hell?

I watch this happen. I watch Salvatore De Luca, who built an empire on making other men small, cross the floor of this church because Rafael Caruso said so.

Since when does my father do what anyone tells him?!

They step to the side but they’re still close enough that I can actually hear them.

“She didn’t know?” Rafael’s voice is flat. “Your daughter had no idea this was her fucking wedding?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Like hell it isn’t. I won’t marry someone who didn’t even know she was being married off.”

“She’s not against the wedding.” My father’s voice drops. “This is important for this alliance and you know that as well as her, Mr. Caruso.”

Silence.

Then Rafael leans closer and says something too low for me to catch. Whatever it is, it is brief. And when they turn back around, my father’s expression has done something I have never seen it do in fifty eight years of hard living.

It has gone careful.

Which in my father’s world is very close to fear. He returns to the front pew without another word.

Rafael comes to stand beside me.

His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. He is angry, genuinely angry, and that alone is disorienting because men in this world do not get angry on behalf of the woman. They get angry about the deal, the optics, the inconvenience. Not this.

I don’t even know what to think.

He turns and looks directly at me, green eyes staring deep into my soul. “Do you want me to stop this?”

Yes. God, yes, obviously yes!

Every functioning part of me is screaming yes.

“You’re supposed to be my bride.” He tilts his head to watch me. “Which means you can tell me what you want right now and no one in this building has a say in that.” A glance toward the pew where my father sits. Then back to me. “So answer me honestly, Little Gia. Do you want me to stop this wedding?”

Little— Little?! I bristle.

I glare up at him.

Say yes. Gia, for the love of everything, say yes.

“If I say yes,” I bite. “What happens to my sister.”

Something flashes across his eyes.

“That’s not a yes,” he grunts.

“No. It’s not.”

He steps close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze, close enough that I catch his cologne again before I can stop myself.

God, he smells so good, I want to push my nose into his neck and inhale deep.

“Then understand what you’re agreeing to,” he says, quiet and even and completely serious. “Not a marriage on paper. Not separate rooms and polite distance. You become mine. Fully.” His eyes don’t move from mine. “Do you understand what that means for a man like me, Little Gia?”

Oh, if he calls me little one more time, I’m going to jail and my YouTube therapist is getting sued.

“Stop calling me little.” I snap and he just blinks, a small twitch at the side of his lips as if waiting for my answer.

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I frown at him.

“I’m making sure you know what you’re walking into.” A pause. “So, tell me, Little… Gia.”

Fucking bastard.

I hold his gaze. I think about Laura sitting back down in that pew. I think about my father’s face when he threatened me and the complete absence of any option that doesn’t end with her getting hurt.

“I know what I’m walking into,” I say.

He looks at me for one more beat.

“Tell the priest,” he nods toward the man.

I turn. “We can proceed, Father.”

The elderly man looks between us one more time and clears his throat before picks up where he left off.

The ceremony begins.

I hear my own voice saying the words from somewhere slightly outside my body, which has decided that a full dissociative response is the most reasonable thing it can do right now and honestly, I agree with it completely. My YouTube therapist did an entire video on this. Dissociation as a trauma response. She said to try to stay grounded when it happens, find something physical to focus on, breathe into the present moment.

She did not account for this specific situation. I will be leaving a strongly worded comment on her channel at my earliest convenience.

Vows are spoken. I hear them leaving my mouth. Rafael’s responses are even and unhurried, like he has decided to treat the whole thing as a formality to get through.

The ring comes.

I watch it happen from a slight distance, this gold band sliding onto my finger, cold at first and then warming against my skin. Heavy and uncomfortable.

Then the priest says the words. The ones about kissing the bride.

Rafael turns to look at me again and every dissociated, floating part of me slams back into my body all at once.

Oh! Shit! I forgot this part existed! Shit! Shit! Shit!

His hand doesn’t go to my face. It goes to my jaw first, thumb beneath my chin tilting it up, and then his fingers slide to my throat.

A little gasp leaves my lips at that.

Strong, rough hands wrap around my throat, and squeeze. The pressure is light enough to breathe through but firm enough that I can’t think about a single other thing in the world.

Oh lord.

His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back up. Then his lips meet mine.

I think my spirit leaves my body at some point.

His mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world and the rest of the room can wait, the hand at my throat squeezes once, just slightly, and I feel it light up every nerve from my jaw to my collarbone, straight down my spine. It flows down my core, into my panties, hot, wet, throbbing.

Aching. What in the world is going on?

This is a performance, I am enduring it and I will stand here completely locked down until it is over.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is small, completely involuntary and it goes directly into his mouth.

Shit.

He freezes for a second at that, growls and deepens the kiss.

I am dimly aware that I am kissing him back, aware that my hands have found the lapel of his jacket, aware that this is happening in front of three hundred people and I cannot make myself stop, and then finally, slowly, he pulls back.

He looks at me.

I gape at him, breathing hard.

My face is burning. My throat is still wrapped in the warmth of his grip. There is something in my chest that is not fear and not relief and I am absolutely not going to name it or look at it or acknowledge it in any way whatsoever.

I need a real therapist.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest announces, voice slightly unsteady, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Mr. and Mrs. Caruso.”

Applause fills the church.

I stand there with gold on my finger and the warmth of his hand still sitting on my throat and the absolute certain knowledge that I have no idea what I just agreed to.

And just like that, I’m married to a stranger.

Again.

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