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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Revna

The wedding dress hangs on the back of my childhood bedroom door like a beautiful ghost, mocking me every time I look at it.

Greer had it delivered yesterday even though I did protest, insisting it needed to be properly stored before tomorrow's ceremony.

The garment bag is unzipped just enough that I can see the delicate beadwork catching the morning light, each crystal a tiny reminder of what I'm supposed to become in less than twenty-four hours.

Tomorrow. My wedding day.

The day I become Revna Volkolv whether I've forgiven him or not.

It's been six days since I walked out of Doran's penthouse.

Six days of ignored calls, deleted texts, and my mother stress-baking so much the kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off.

The counter is covered in cookies no one's eating, three different kinds of bread, and what appears to be her fourth attempt at a wedding cake.

The sweet smell of vanilla and desperation permeates the entire house.

"You need to talk to him," Dalla says from my doorway, holding two cups of coffee.

She's still in her pajamas—old UNF sweats and a tank top with a coffee stain.

"No, I don't." I accept the coffee gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "I need space. Which I specifically asked for."

"Rev, the wedding is tomorrow."

"I'm aware."

"So what's the plan? Show up and pretend everything's fine? Run away at the altar? Give me something to work with here."

I stare into my coffee, wishing I had answers.

The truth is, I don't know what I'm going to do.

Every time I think about forgiving him, I remember how easily he made that decision without me.

How quickly he dismissed my anger with that stupid note about my "sour attitude."

The cupcakes are probably still smeared on the front door—Mom hasn't had the heart to clean them off.

"I keep thinking about what Everly said," I admit quietly. "About how Dylan broke her. How she had to rebuild herself from nothing."

"Doran isn't Dylan."

"No, he's not. He's worse in some ways." I set down my coffee, pull my knees to my chest. "Dylan was obviously a monster. Doran... he makes me feel things. Want things. Then he reminds me I'm just another asset to control."

"You're not just?—"

"Aren't I? He watched me for five years, Dal. Decided I was his before I even knew his name. And now he's making decisions about our life without even pretending my opinion matters."

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Another text from Doran.

I delete it without reading.

"We need to pick up your shoes," Dalla says, changing tactics. "Even if you don't go through with it, you need them."

"I have shoes."

"Not the ones that go with that dress. Come on." She pulls me to my feet. "Fresh air, retail therapy, and maybe some clarity."

"Fine. But if anyone from his side tries to approach me?—"

"We'll handle it."

I shower quickly, throwing on jeans and a simple t-shirt.

My engagement ring sits on the dresser where I left it six days ago.

I stare at it for a moment—that perfect sapphire surrounded by diamonds, probably worth more than most people's houses.

Such a beautiful chain.

"Ready?" Dalla calls.

I leave the ring where it is.

An hour later, we're at the mall, specifically Nordstrom's shoe department.

The normalcy of Saturday shopping should be calming—mothers with strollers, teenagers trying on ridiculous heels, the soft jazz playing overhead.

But I notice them immediately—two men in black suits trying to blend in with Saturday shoppers.

They're about as subtle as a heart attack.

"We have company," I mutter to Dalla.

She glances around, spots them.

One pretends to examine men's dress shoes, the other lurks by the handbags. "Mikhail's men?"

"Probably. So much for needing space."

"At least he's protecting you from a distance?" she offers weakly.

"That's not the point. I specifically said?—"

I stop mid-sentence, a prickle of awareness running down my spine. Someone's watching me. Not the obvious security detail, but someone else.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, that primitive warning system that's saved humans for millennia.

I scan the store, trying to pinpoint why I feel so uneasy.

There—by the jewelry counter.

A man in an expensive suit, younger than I expected, handsome in a dangerous way.

Dark hair slicked back, gold watch catching the light, everything about him screaming money and menace.

He's pretending to look at watches, but his eyes keep finding me.

There's something about him that screams predator, even though he's doing nothing overtly threatening.

"That guy's giving me the creeps," Dalla whispers, following my gaze.

Every time I glance his way, he's watching.

Not leering, not obviously staring, but aware.

Too aware for my liking.

Like a cat tracking a mouse.

He moves closer, now examining cufflinks just one counter over from the shoes.

"Let's go," I say quietly. "Something's wrong."

But as we turn to leave, I realize we're boxed in.

Another man blocks the path to the escalator, a third by the main exit.

They're not obvious about it, just strategically placed shoppers, but the trap is clear.

My heart starts racing.

"Rev," Dalla's voice is tight with fear.

"I see them. Stay calm."

My skin prickles with warning as the man from the jewelry counter approaches.

He's carrying a small gift box, movements casual but purposeful.

His shoes—expensive Italian leather—barely make a sound on the marble floor.

"Miss Peerson?" His voice is smooth, accented. Not quite Spanish, but close. Cuban, maybe.

I don't confirm or deny, but he smiles like he knows exactly who I am.

"You look just like your photos." He stops a polite distance away, but it doesn't feel safe.

Nothing about this feels safe. "I'm Bembe Reyes. I believe we were supposed to meet at your wedding."

Dalla's face drains of color. My heart hammers against my ribs.

The Culebra cartel leader.

The man who ordered Erik and Anders' deaths.

The man whose invitation Doran took back because of our fight.

"Shopping for wedding shoes?" He glances at the display. "How optimistic."

"What do you want?" I'm proud my voice doesn't shake.

"Just to talk. It seems my invitation was... revoked." He looks genuinely regretful, but his eyes are cold as winter. "Your husband-to-be insulted me. Rescinding my invitation after I agreed to peace."

"I didn't know about the invitation until after," I say carefully.

"No?" His eyebrows rise. "He makes many decisions without you, doesn't he?"

The words hit like a slap because they're true. So true, it hurts. I stay silent.

He holds up the gift box. "I brought this for your wedding. Seems a shame to waste it."

"I don't want?—"

"Please." He sets it on the counter between us. "Do you know what disrespect costs in my world, Miss Peerson?"

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a question." His smile never wavers, but his eyes are cold. "Two prospects died because your father refused to negotiate. What do you think happens when your fiancé insults me?"

My mouth goes dry.

Beside me, Dalla reaches for her phone.

"Please," Bembe says without looking at her. "Let's keep this civilized. No need to disturb anyone."

Dalla freezes, phone halfway out of her purse.

"Here's what concerns me," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather.

"I know your sister's class schedule the same way I know yours.

Dalla is pre-med, Tuesday and Thursday labs that run until ten PM.

I know your parents' routines—your mother's weekly grocery trip to Publix on Wednesday mornings, always parks in the same spot.

Your father's Sunday rides with the club, the route they take up the highway. "

Each detail is a bullet, precise and terrifying.

He's showing me exactly how vulnerable we are.

"I know your friend Elfe works the late shift at Bubba's on Wednesdays and Fridays, walks to her car alone at 2 AM." He adjusts his cufflinks. "Pretty girl. Trusting. Always parks under that broken streetlight."

My voice cracks. "You're threatening my family?"

"I'm having a conversation about respect." He straightens his tie. "And consequences. Your fiancé seems to think his name protects you. That his money, his men, his reputation make you untouchable."

He leans closer, and I smell expensive cologne mixed with cigar smoke.

"Bulletproof glass is impressive," he muses. "But everyone has to leave their car eventually. Everyone has patterns. Weaknesses. People they love."

"If you touch them?—"

"What? What will you do?" His mask slips for a moment, showing the killer beneath. "You have no power here, little girl. Only what men like your father and fiancé allow you. And they've made a mess of things, haven't they?"

"Reyes."

The voice cuts through the department store like a blade.

Doran appears between the racks of designer shoes, Mikhail at his shoulder.

The very air seems to shift, predator recognizing predator.

Even the other shoppers sense it, unconsciously moving away from the sudden tension.

Doran looks lethal in his black suit, eyes locked on Bembe like he wants to kill him, right here, right now.

He moves like he can barely contain the violence in his veins, each step measured and dangerous.

Bembe's smile widens. "Volkolv. Just meeting your lovely bride. She's even prettier than surveillance photos suggest."

Doran moves to my side in three quick strides.

I step away before he can touch me, still angry, but I can't deny the relief flooding through me at his presence.

My body betrays me, wanting to lean into his protection even as my mind rebels against it.

Doran's voice is deadly calm. "You have something to say to me?"

"I said it to her." Bembe picks up the jewelry box, offers it to me again. "Twenty-four hours for a public apology, or I collect on the insult."

"Touch her and?—"

"And what?" Bembe's mask slips completely now. "You'll start a war over a woman? How very... romantic. And how very stupid."