hree days.
Three sleepless, breathless days since she'd seen him—since that alley, that gunshot, that stare.
Aria hadn't gone home. She'd switched hotels twice, used cash only, and deleted every trace of the photos from her camera. But she could still feel him. That cold, invisible presence at her back.
She sat in a corner booth at a dim café, nursing cold coffee, trying to steady her shaking hands.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her editor, Where are you?
She typed Can't talk. Something's wrong. Then deleted it.
When the door opened, a gust of air followed—and her stomach clenched.
Demian Volkov stepped in.
He wasn't supposed to know where she was. He wasn't supposed to find her this fast.
But there he was, tall and composed, every inch the predator. His suit was black, rain glistening across his shoulders. His men spread out quietly behind him, blocking the exits.
Aria's breath hitched. She stood too quickly, knocking over her coffee cup.
Demian's gaze found her instantly.
Cold. Sharp. Possessive.
"You run well," he said, voice low. "But not well enough."
Aria bolted for the back door.
He let her get halfway.
Then, like smoke, he was there—catching her by the wrist, spinning her back. Her camera bag fell to the floor with a thud.
"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling.
Demian leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear.
"You saw something you shouldn't have," he murmured. "And now, you belong to me."
The last thing she remembered was his eyes—icy and unblinking—as the world faded to black.