Page 77 of Konstantin

This mission wasn’t supposed to get personal. I was supposed to infiltrate, manipulate, gather evidence, and walk away unscathed.

But Konstantin Marinov isn’t just anyone. He disarms me with a look. Wraps me in warmth and hunger. Makes me feel safe when I know I’m anything but.

He touches me like I matter. Holds me like I’m already his.

And part of me wants to believe it. Wants to believe the possessiveness in his voice is protection, not control. That the way he watches me, listens to me, kisses me…it’s not just a game.

But it is. Because he’s still the one who destroyed my brother. The man who plays judge, jury, and executioner behind closed doors. The Bratva king with blood under his nails and power in every word.

And I’m playing him like a violin.

Except now I don’t know who’s being played anymore.

I press the razor a little harder. Just enough to feel the cold bite of steel.

You’re stronger than this, Emilia. Don’t do it. You’ve come so far.

My other hand curls as I stare at the blade for long, drawn-out seconds.

FUCK!

I drop the blade on the floor, breathing so fast my head grows dizzy. I won’t do this to myself again. I won’t become her.

Running a hand down my face, I pick up the blade and the box with the rest and I toss them in the trash.

I can’t go back there. Not ever.

I have to believe Nate will make it. That I can resist Konstantin long enough to outplay him before the spiral pulls me under, before I forget why I’m here and let him burn away what’s left of my soul.

He may hold me like I’m his, but he’s still the man who put my brother in a cage.

And no matter how tangled my feelings get, how deep I fall, this mission doesn’t change. Iwillfree Nate.

Because love is a luxury. Survival is a choice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EMILIA

The night is silent.The kind of silence that feels heavy, pressing against the walls of my home.

I lie in bed, the soft hum of the fan the only sound. Sleep has been elusive lately, my mind a whirlwind of plans and fears. Tonight, however, exhaustion finally claims me, and I drift off.

But good things never last.

A sudden noise jolts me awake.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle with unease as I try to listen for the sound again. It was low, a creak of some kind. Hell, it could be the floorboards. The house is pretty old. Still, my hand slides beneath the pillow, fingers wrapping tight around the grip of my gun.

The bedroom is swallowed in darkness. No moonlight. No streetlamps outside. Just a void closing in from all sides.

But as my eyesight adjusts, I swear I see something.

A shape in the far left corner of the room. Broad. Motionless.

Mythumb clicks the bedside lamp on. The warm glow floods the space, and I nearly drop the gun.

Konstantin Marinov is seated in the leather armchair like he owns the place. Black dress pants, black loafers, the top few buttons of his shirt undone like he’s just stepped out of a boardroom. Except it’s midnight, according to the clock on my wall.