Chapter Two: Aleksei

She didn’t look back.

Most women did. Some glanced over their shoulder, hesitant and frightened, hoping for reassurance.

Emilia Volkov walked into the storm with her spine straight and her chin high.

Interesting.

The snow had begun to fall heavier. Thick flakes clung to her dark hair like ash. I moved ahead of her, opening the back door of the black SUV. She slid inside without a word. No protests. No dramatics.

But I could feel the weight of her silence like a blade between us.

I took the driver’s seat. I didn’t trust anyone else with her. Not tonight.

Not with the scent of blood still fresh on the city’s underbelly.

We pulled away from the estate, the iron gates shutting behind us like the end of a chapter. She didn’t speak, and I didn’t fill the silence. I wasn’t here to make conversation. I was here to protect a girl who had no idea how close death was creeping.

Not just hers.

Mine.

Or maybe that was too optimistic.

Her voice broke the quiet first. Soft. Controlled. "You don’t talk much, do you?"

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes met mine—gray and defiant. Her brother’s eyes, but colder. Smarter.

"I talk when there's something worth saying."

"That’s convenient." She looked back out the window. "Is this how it works? He gives you a name, and you shadow them like a ghost?"

"Only when the name matters."

She went still.

She knew what I meant. Knew she wasn’t just another asset. She was his weakness—and now, by default, mine.

I didn’t like liabilities. But I’d seen the photo before the meeting, and it hadn’t done her justice. The girl in that picture was all fragile beauty. The woman in the back seat was steel-wrapped in silk.

“You don’t trust me,” I said.

“No.”

“Good.”

She arched a brow. “That’s it?”

“You shouldn’t trust men like me.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

I took the next turn sharper than necessary, the tires crunching through the snow. The question hung in the air. I didn’t answer it. Not directly.

Instead, I said, “The kind of man who’s killed for less than the look you gave me back at the house.”

Silence again. I expected fear. Maybe some trace of retreat. But when I checked the mirror, her gaze hadn’t dropped.

“You don’t scare me,” she said softly.

That was a lie. But a brave one. And I respected that.

I pulled up to the safehouse two hours later—an isolated lakefront property surrounded by woods, hidden by both geography and power. Mikhail’s men had swept it earlier, but I’d sweep it again myself before I slept.

I stepped out, walked around, and opened her door.

She stared up at the house. “Looks like a prison.”

“That’s the point.”

She didn’t move for a second like she was deciding whether to fight. Then she grabbed her bag and climbed out, brushing past me. The scent of her hit me—clean skin, soft perfume, and something sharper beneath it. Determination, maybe.

Inside, the lights were low. Firewood crackled in the hearth. Warmth. A false comfort.

I showed her to the guest room at the end of the hall. Clean. Secure. One exit. My room was directly across. That wasn’t a coincidence.

“You’ll stay here,” I said. “There’s a panic button under the left side of the bed. You use it if anyone steps through that door who isn’t me.”

“And what happens if you’re the one I need protecting from?”

A quiet pause. A smirk. Then, she added, “Don’t bother answering. I’m too tired to be scared of you tonight.”

She stepped inside and closed the door without another word.

I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, listening to the soft sound of her footsteps inside.

Then I turned away.

Because the truth was, she should be afraid of me.

And not because of what I might do to her.

But because I was already thinking about her more than I should.

And in my world, feelings were the first crack before the collapse.