The image isn’t crisp, but it is clear. And so are the feelings. My throat has closed with fear, I’m alone. There’s a flicker of images.
A bathroom door. A blond man with a knife.
My heart races and I try to scream. I try to yell no, that I don’t want this. I plead.
“It’s okay.” Strong arms pull me to a warm chest.
I’m choking, sobbing, and tangled in the sheets, held firmly but gently. Other memories appear, in a wash. My head going light and heavy at the same time. Relief as powerful arms gather me up, limp as a ragdoll, and a deep voice murmurs that I’m safe. Soft words as I’m carried away from danger.
Someone saved me. Cared for me.
The kingpin of Rotherhithe. He saved me from my date gone horribly wrong.
Opening my eyes, I see Voronov regarding me in dark shadows, and my pulse slows. I stop fighting. The room is almost black, only a hint of dawn creeping in through the windows, so it takes me a moment to realise I’m in his bedroom, under smooth white sheets.
“You were having a bad dream,” he tells me in a rough low tone. “It was just a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t a dream…” Everything from the past day flows back. How kind Voronov was. The answers to my questions, even when I could tell he didn’t want to say anything. The way he listened to me, and made me feel like the centre of his attention. Our first date that was perfection.
His expression goes droll. “It’s possible I hallucinated that you were screaming, and all mixed up in the bedsheets. Just not very probable.”
The mattress feels even more comfortable, and his arms snugger and stronger. I’m in the right place.
But still… “No, that happened. It was a memory.”
His brow furrows.
“I’ve remembered what went on the night of the date. Not perfectly clear.” I couldn’t identify the knife in a lineup, but I know for sure Howard had one. And I remember our conversations. And most of all, I recall Voronov’s voice coming through the door straight after I made that plea for help. “He lured me to his room saying he had a sick puppy.”
Voronov smooths a hand on the small of my back soothingly.
Realisation dawns. “You were my first kiss.”
“I know I was,” he replies patiently. “I’m glad he didn’t kiss you, but I’m the first you chose. That’s all that matters.”
Sudden awareness slams into me. I’ve kicked off the covers, but Voronov’s lithe, muscled body is close to mine in bed, and my leg brushes cool denim. He hasn’t been here for long. We’re both on our sides, in bed, and he has his hand on my upper arm, caressing me slowly. My nightgown is white silk that skims my bottom and caresses my nipples. He’s naked to the waist.
He’s big, and intimidating, and I’m his captive.
Was.
He told me I could leave when I recovered from my amnesia. And there’s one thing I’m certain about with this kingpin—he’s a man of his word.
I was getting rather used to being here with him. I know it sounds unhinged, but I want to stay. All the fantasies I’ve had are about a man exactly like him, taking exactly what he wanted from me. Chasing me down and making me his.
I close my eyes and wish, wish, wish myself back to sleep. To deniability. Maybe I pray for Voronov to have amnesia?
Could I sneak out of bed and hit him on the head? Could I fall back asleep and pretend this didn’t happen?
“Jenna,” he murmurs.
Voronov isn’t asleep. He’s reached up and is stroking my hair, his massive biceps a protection against the world. I could cry for how nice it is. But this situation is like waxing. It will hurt and be so messy if I delay or try to do it gradually. I have to rip it off. Immediately.
I sit up and steel myself. “You said I could leave when I got my memory back. I want to go.”
He blinks slowly. “When?”
“Right now.” Before I bottle it. Before these memories begin to eat me alive. Before I beg him to let me stay.
Before I fall in love.
My heart squeezes painfully. Too late.
Voronov reaches over and flicks on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in yellow light and making the outside seem pitch black. He lays back on the bed, revealing a chest covered with tattoos and looks up at me, brow furrowed. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” I choke out the lie as I take in the tattoos that cover his arms and pectorals. At his left wrist there are fir trees pointing up to his elbow, then hills that give way to more trees, and higher-peaked mountains. At his shoulder a sun shines around the clouds. Roses and thorns climb over his back and down his chest, merging the design into the forest and cliffs.
He’s sharp and lyrical, this Russian mobster. He’s beautiful. A work of art. And then the parts without tattoos are just as compelling. A smattering of hair over his solid muscles, and a trail that leads down to the waistband of his partly-buttoned jeans.
He was sleeping naked, and threw them on when he heard me having a nightmare and came to comfort me, I realise.
My stalker is the kindest man I know. The only person to be generous and understanding to me in years, or maybe my whole life.
And I have to uphold my part in this, and leave as I said I would.
Voronov rolls out of bed.
“Shoes,” he orders tersely as he tugs on boots.
I scramble to slip on the little sneakers I wore yesterday. He snatches up my bag and phone and is out of the room before I can ask what’s going on.
He’s obviously annoyed. By the time I catch up with him, he’s outside, the front door swinging wide, and he’s chucked my bag into an SUV.
But he slams the door shut on it, and calls, “This way, zayka, if you want freedom.”
Nerves curl in my stomach as he strides towards the garden that leads to the wood where we walked yesterday. Why are we heading away from the car?
He comes to an abrupt halt at the top of a slight slope of grass.
I stand next to him, goose pimples raising the hairs on my arms in the cool of the morning.
“You remember the path?”
I nod.
“Good.” He pulls out his phone from his pocket and holds it out.
“Boss?” a sleepy voice answers, coming from the tinny speakers.
“Arkadi. Take my car from out front of the house to the corner of the drive. I’ll send coordinates in a moment. Remain in the vehicle and keep your eyes to yourself. When someone gets into the back of the car, you are to leave. Immediately. Take her wherever she requests and defend her with your life. You will continue in my employment but answer only to her. Do you understand?” Voronov gives the commands quickly, and I’m struggling to keep up.
“Yes, boss.” There’s a note of confusion in his tone, and frankly I don’t blame him. I am also baffled.
“Good. You’re not to take any more orders from me, only her.”
“Yes, b—” He cuts himself off. “I understand.”
Voronov hangs up and with a few taps has a map up and sends a dropped pin. Then he pockets the phone and stares down at me, grim faced.
“Here’s the deal. If you want to leave, I’ll let you go. Arkadi is the most trusted of my men. He will guard you until I find that svolach. You’ll be safe.”
There’s a “but” coming, I can hear it. His Russian accent has thickened with emotion. How do I know that after only a day together? I look up, and his expression is full of barely-repressed feelings.
“If you reach the end of the drive, Arkadi will be waiting.”
“If?” I snag on the word.
“You don’t think I’ll just let you go, without a struggle, do you?” His brows lower further.
I stare at him, surprise rendering my brain a mush.
“What’s your safeword?”
“Red,” I squeak.
“Red,” he repeats, nodding. “That stops everything, zayka. Orange if you need to rest. The game is chase.”
My heart bounces with excitement. Oh my god. That idyllic wood we walked through yesterday? Where I imagined him holding me down? He’s going to hunt me.
“All you have to do to be free is get to where Arkadi is waiting,” he continues. “But I’ll be chasing you. And every time I catch you, I can take something from you.”
The air thickens to the point that I can’t breathe. I said I wanted to leave, and this is what I have to pay to escape.
“What will you take?” It’s a burble. I’m speaking from underwater.
“Oh, no.” The corner of his mouth tugs into a feral smile. “You’ll find out when you’re captured.”
A tremor goes through me. It’s fear, but the delicious, safe sort of fear. It’s tingling and alive. He’s a wolf taunting soft little prey: me.
His bunny.
“You get a head-start after every time I catch you. And I only get to take one thing.”
A kaleidoscope of possibilities gleams in my mind of what he might take from me, so quick and spectacular I can’t even specify them all. Anticipation floods my veins and warms me between the legs.
He smirks, looking me up and down with barely leashed relish. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” But my voice isn’t my own. It’s breathy and excited and deliciously conflicted. I want to flee, my nightdress streaming behind me. I want to be followed. I want to win and be seized.
What will this dangerous mafia boss do if—or when—he catches me?
“I’m coming after you, zayka. Ten, nine.”
It takes me that long to realise that this is all the notice I’ll get. I turn on my heel.
“Eight, seven.”
And run into the darkness.
