Page 14 of No Longer Mine

The mask slipped free.

A cascade of crimson hair spilled into my hands, wild and unbound, catching the dim light like a burning ember.

I barely registered the sharp inhale, the way she turned just enough for me to catch the shape of her face, the fierce, narrowed eyes that burned with something unreadable.

A woman.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t curse or lash out. Instead, she simply shook her head before spinning on her heel and launching toward the open window.

I took a step forward, instinct telling me to grab her, to stop her—but I hesitated. This time, I was the one taken off guard. The last thing I was expecting was a woman and a woman who could best me.

She was already moving— gone—her body twisting with effortless grace as she disappeared into the night.

She left me standing in the middle of my room with my pulse still hammering and the ski mask still clenched tightly in my fist.

Who the hell was she?

And why did she look so damn familiar?

Chapter Seven

Scarlett

Dimitri Cristof caught me.

Not only did he catch me, but he saw me.

This was bad.

I ran, my breath steady despite the adrenaline burning through my veins. The night air stung against my skin as I vaulted over the next rooftop, landing in a crouch before pushing forward again. The city below blurred into neon streaks, but my mind stayed razor-sharp.

Escape first. Panic later.

The moment his fingers had yanked off my ski mask, I knew I’d fucked up. I should have disappeared the second I heard his car pull up. I should have played it safe.

But no.

I had to linger.

I just had to test him.

I had to let my arrogance get the best of me.

Now, Dimitri Cristof had seen my face.

And worse? I saw how he looked at me—the sharp flicker in his icy blue eyes. Not just recognition, but curiosity.

That was dangerous.

I wasn’t here for fun. I was hired for a reason. Get in, get dirt, and take a few things for myself. Dismantle him, piece by piece, for someone else. And if I hadn’t been hired? I would have gone after him anyway.

I’d been watching him for years.

Four years ago, I saw him at a party, stumbling drunk while his father humiliated him in front of powerful men. I watched from the shadows as Sinclair Cristof all but denounced his own son. The way Dimitri’s posture shifted under scrutiny had caught my attention. He went from sloppy to composed in an instant, scanning the room like a predator scenting danger. It was the first time I’d wondered—was the drunken mess just an act?

I followed his brothers on social media, studying their friends and their habits. Dimitri was always there, always in the background—the wild card. I wanted to know if he was as reckless as he made himself out to be.

Clearly, he wasn’t.