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A warm smile splits his face, and his large hand covers mine, sending delicious shivers of desire through me.
“Of course,” Konstantin says, then leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I told you. I’m here for you, Tara.”
My heart jumps, and I have to stop the urge to reach my arms around his neck and kiss him.
“We’d better hurry or you’re going to be late for an interview the dean has already rescheduled to an earlier one for you,” Konstantin points out.
After a shower, I dress in flowing black pants, a cream blouse, and my best three-inch heels. Hair slicked into a chignon. Professional as hell. When I step out, Konstantin is waiting in a crisp dark suit, looking like a Bond villain I wouldn't mind seducing, and his sexy cologne is almost hypnotic.
“You look... stunning,” he says, his gaze dragging down, slow and deliberate.
“I liked you better in jeans,” I tease, trying not to squirm under the heat in his eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says in a low, gravelly voice filled with sinful promise. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and we head out.
On the ride over, we avoid anything heavy—no Russia, no secrets, no family drama. He keeps it light, pointing out random landmarks, throwing out funny observations, making me laugh until the tight ball of nerves in my stomach starts to loosen.
When we get to UCLA, he walks me in like he's my personal security detail. Just before I’m called in, his hand brushes against mine—casual, but it sparks a bolt of warmth through me.
“You’ve got this,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “The job’s already yours. They just don’t know it yet.”
I nod, trying to hold on to that confidence as I step through the door. But as I take my seat for the interview, it hits me like a freight train—something else is waking up inside me. Dangerous. Complicated.
I’m crushing on Konstantin. And it’s the worst possible time to realize it.
15
RUSLAN
It takes five goddamn days to pry Nadia from RMSAD custody.
Five days of calls, favors, threats, and negotiations with men who operate like shadows with too much power. Five days of silence from Konstantin, too. Not a fucking word.
I don’t know which pisses me off more.
The drive south from Site 17 is long and silent. We’re hugging the coast now, where the Western Caucasus rises sharp and snow-dusted beyond the trees. Nadia sits beside me, arms folded, mouth clamped shut. She hasn't spoken since the moment she stepped into the car. And I haven’t asked her to. The silence is better. Gives me time to sort through the wreckage of my schedule, the damage she’s caused, the mess waiting for me back in Moscow... and the rising storm I’ve been pushing down for a week.
I should be in Vegas. With her.
But instead, I’m babysitting my reckless little sister.
We’ve nearly reached the outskirts of Dragunov Village when her voice finally slices through the thick air between us.
“I can understand the pain of your loss, Ruslan,” she says quietly. “But you’ve held onto it so long, it’s turned to poison.”
I don’t look at her. Just keep my eyes on the winding mountain road.
“Everyone’s lost something. That doesn’t mean they burn down the world.”
“Difference is,” I say evenly, “the world let them forget. They buried their grief, moved on. I don’t get that luxury. I have to remember. It’s my fucking job.”
“To keep it alive, or to use it?” she presses. “Because I can’t tell anymore if you're honoring the past... or using it as a weapon.”
The words hit a little too close. I inhale, hold it, let the burn settle in my chest, then release.
“What the fuck were you thinking breaking into a secure RMSAD site?” I turn to face her now. Turn the subject away from her accusations. My voice sharpens. “They already took your surgical license. Did you really want to give them another excuse to bury you?”