Page 3

And how far out of my depth I’ve fallen.
Zasha reaches for his phone and calls my father. His voice is clipped as he speaks into his phone, one hand gripping the wheel while the other holds the device to his ear. He gives him a brief summary of what just happened and ends the explanation with, “We’re on our way. She’s fine.”
There is a pause.
I can’t hear what my father is saying on the other end, but I don’t need to — I can sense it through the phone, and that feeling makes me flinch even from here.
Zasha doesn’t flinch.
“Understood.” His jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening again on the steering wheel.
I squeeze my eyes shut and sink lower in the seat, wishing — desperately — that the ground would just open up and swallow me before we reach the house. Before I have to face him.
No such luck.
The gates of the Delgado estate swing open as we race up the long driveway, the mansion looming ahead, its stone walls dark against the stormy sky. Lights blaze at the entrance, with figures waiting at the top of the steps.
Zasha slams the car to a stop, flinging his door open with one smooth motion. He yanks mine open a moment later, reaching in to pull me out without a word. My knees wobble as my feet hit the ground, and his hand clamps down hard around my arm to steady me.
I almost hide behind my rescuer's broad back when I see my father, Thiago Delgado, storm out of the front doors like a force of nature, his suit jacket flaring, his face etched with fury and — beneath it — something that nearly resembles fear.
“Mara.” His voice is a whipcrack, slicing through the air. “What the hell were you thinking—”
Zasha’s cold voice cuts in, smooth and matter-of-fact. “Viktor had me on surveillance duty. We suspected something was going down at that club tonight. I was surprised to see your daughter and her friend arrive.”
My father’s eyes swing to Zasha, his jaw working, his fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out at him, too — but Zasha stands like a wall, calm and steady, not even looking at me, his gaze fixed on my raging father.
“Mara.” My father’s voice snaps my attention back, sharp and unforgiving. “Inside. We’ll talk later.”
I nod, swallowing hard, my throat dry. I take a shaky step toward the house, glancing once — just once — over my shoulder.
But Zasha’s already moving, striding back to the car, his broad shoulders tense, his head held high.
He doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t say goodbye.
Just slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and pulls away without a second glance, leaving me standing there on the wet stone steps, drenched and shaking, staring after the man who saved my life —
And knowing, somehow, that I’ll never forget him.
Alone in my room, I peel off my wet clothes with shaking hands, letting them drop in a soggy heap on the floor.
My skin is cold, goosebumps prickling across my arms as I pull on a sweatshirt, crawl into bed, and collapse onto the pillows.
For a long moment, I just stare up at the ceiling, my heart still thudding faintly in my chest, my mind spinning in a dozen directions at once.
I should be grateful to be alive.
I should be terrified of the punishment waiting for me in the morning.
But all I can think about… is him.
Zasha.
The gun in his hand.
The sharp, cold commands he gave.