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Then she was in my arms.

Her body trembled when she folded into me, legs nearly giving out beneath her. My hands moved instinctively—one at her waist, the other at the back of her head, holding her close, tighter, tighter, like I could press her heartbeat into mine.

She let out a soft, shuddering sound, half sigh, half sob.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice more growl than whisper. “I’ve fucking got you now.”

CHAPTER 39

Sloane

Every inch of my body ached. My throat was raw, my wrists burned, but I held my head high because that’s what a queen would do. With a deep breath, I took a step back and looked back at Nikolai.

His eyes locked on mine.

It was like nothing else existed. His gaze was hot, unblinking, and torn wide open in a way I’d never seen. His jaw clenched once. Twice.

He was focused on me like the rest of the world had already been burned to the ground, and I was the only thing left in the ashes.

And then Stillwell spoke.

His voice was hoarse, thick with blood and ego.

“I wasn’t going to touch her,” he sneered, eyes flicking over me as he lied. “She’s not my type.”

The shift in Nikolai was instantaneous.

He reached down, grabbing his holstered gun, pulled it back out and pressed it against Stillwell’s forehead.

His finger hooked around the trigger.

His entire body was tense, shoulders braced for action, breath almost silent, that dangerous, electric quiet that only came before violence. His stare pinned Stillwell like a nail through the chest, his body leaning forward like he was already imagining how far the blood would spray across the concrete.

I saw it in him.

He was going to do it.

He was going to kill him right there for thinking he could put his hands on what belonged to a Morozov and walk away breathing.

I would have let him. I wanted to.

But if Stillwell died here—on the floor of some back-alley warehouse in Southie, blood pooling at his feet—there would be no justice. Only headlines, rumors, and we’d be the ones hunted for it. That was letting Stillwell off too easy.

I shook my head and cleared my throat. Nikolai’s stare seemed frozen, but I knew he saw me. My voice cracked, but the words came anyway.

“Stillwell can’t die. Not like this. It would be too messy—not for him, but forus.”

He blinked, just once, as he cocked his head. His eyes narrowed, confusion and curiosity evident on his rugged face.

I took another breath, chest constricted, ribs aching. My hands curled into fists at my sides, and when I spoke, I didn’t raise my voice.

“He’s not just some guy; he’s a politician, a public figure. His death would make headlines. You kill him here, and his people make him a martyr. They’d turn you into a violent Bratva thug, me into a silly rich girl who got involved with the wrong crowd. Then they’ll come for us. Maybe they’ll throw us in jail, if we’re lucky, or maybe worse.”

Nikolai didn’t answer for a long moment, but then he nodded once with understanding before taking a deep breath and holstering his weapon once again.

I stepped closer to him, held out a hand.

“Give me your phone.”