Page 25

He sets the box on the counter with deliberate care. "My wedding gift. Use it or not."

He starts to leave, then pauses, looking directly at me. "Ask him why he really needed this marriage so quickly. The truth might surprise you."

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Then he's gone, his men melting away into the Saturday shopping crowd like they were never there.

The whole encounter couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, but I feel like I've aged years.

"We're leaving," Doran announces. "Now."

The words explode out of me, six days of anger and fear erupting. "I told you I needed space!"

"That was before he threatened you."

"Everything is 'before' something with you!" I'm yelling now, not caring about the stares from other shoppers. "Before threats, before danger, before you decide what's best for everyone!"

"Revna, this isn't the place?—"

"When is the place, Doran? When do I get to have an opinion that matters?" I'm shaking with fury and fear and six days of bottled emotion. "I'm not one of your subordinates you can just order around!"

"I'm trying to protect you?—"

"I don't need protection! I need a partner who treats me like an equal!"

"You need to be alive to be equal," he snaps back. "That man just threatened your entire family."

"Because of a decision you made without me!"

A crowd is gathering now, shoppers drawn to the drama like moths to flame.

Someone's definitely filming this on their phone.

Dalla steps between us. "Okay, both of you need to stop. We're in the middle of Nordstrom and security is coming."

She's right.

A uniformed guard is heading our way, hand on his radio.

The last thing we need is mall security getting involved in a Bratva-MC-Cartel situation.

Doran visibly controls himself, hands flexing like he wants to grab me and shake sense into me.

Or kiss me. Or both. "Please. Let's go somewhere safe to discuss this."

"No." I grab Dalla's arm. "We're leaving. Without you."

"Revna—"

"I said no." I start walking, Dalla beside me. "And tell your men to stop following me or I swear to God, Doran, wedding or no wedding, I'm done."

"You don't mean that." He sounds genuinely shaken.

I whirl around. "Try me. Keep pushing, keep making decisions for me, keep treating me like property, and see what happens."

I hear Mikhail murmur something, probably trying to calm him down.

Doran's response is too low to catch, but the tone promises violence.

The jewelry box sits abandoned on the counter.

I don't want to know what's inside.

We make it to the parking garage before I break down.

The adrenaline crashes, leaving me shaking and nauseous.

Dalla guides me to her car, holding me as I sob out the fear and anger, and confusion.

"He knows everything," I gasp between sobs. "Where you go, where Mom shops, where Elfe works. We're not safe. We'll never be safe."

"Shh," Dalla rocks me like when we were kids. "We'll figure it out."

"What do we do?" she asks when I finally calm down enough to stand.

"I don't know." I wipe my face with my sleeve, probably smearing mascara everywhere. "He knows everything. Where you go to school, where Mom shops..."

"Doran won't let anything happen to us."

"Doran's the reason we're in danger!" I pull back to look at her. "Don't you see? This is what my life will be—constantly in the crosshairs because of his business, his decisions, his enemies."

"Rev—"

"And the worst part? Bembe was right. He does make decisions without me. Big, life-altering decisions that affect my family, and I don't even get a vote."

We get in the car, Dalla starting the engine but not driving yet.

She knows I need a minute.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks gently.

"I don't?—"

My phone rings.

Unknown number.

I almost don't answer, but something makes me swipe accept.

"Revna."

My blood freezes.

That voice—familiar but wrong somehow. "Njal?"

"I heard you had some trouble at the mall." His voice sounds different—manic energy barely contained, words running together. "With the Culebra."

"How did you?—"

"I've been watching. Waiting. I see everything, Rev. I see how he treats you, like property. Like something he owns instead of someone he loves."

"Njal, where are you?"

"Close. Always close." He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone coming apart at the seams. "I can make this all go away, you know. Bembe, the threats, all of it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just say the word, and I'll fix everything. No more arranged marriage. No more threats to your family. Just us, like it should have been."

"Njal, that's not?—"

"I know people. People who owe me favors. People who don't like the Russians or the Cubans." His breathing is heavy, excited. "One word from you, and Bembe Reyes disappears. Doran too, if you want. Make it look like they killed each other. Poetic, right?"

My heart stops. "You're talking about murdering my fiancé."

"I'm talking about freedom." His voice drops, intense and desperate. "I love you, Revna. I've always loved you. We can run, start fresh somewhere they'll never find us. I've got money saved, new identities ready. Just say yes."

"Njal, you're not well. You need help?—"

"I need you !" He's shouting now. "Two years, Rev. Two years of loving you, and you threw it away for him. For someone who sees you as property!"

"I didn't throw anything away. We both knew?—"

"Think about it," he interrupts. "You have my number now. When you realize he'll never change, when you see that you're just another possession in his collection, call me. I'll be waiting. I'll always be waiting."

The line goes dead.

"Was that...?" Dalla doesn't finish the question.

"Njal. He's..." I don't know how to explain what I just heard. The boy I spent two years with, talking about murdering people like it's a reasonable solution. "He's not well."

"We need to tell someone."

"Tell them what? That my ex-boyfriend offered to kill my fiancé and a cartel leader?" I laugh, but it's borderline hysterical. "This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane."

My phone buzzes.

A text from Doran:

The package contained two small skull charms. He's declaring war unless I apologize publicly.

I won't let anything happen to you or your family.

I know you need space. But please come home so I can keep you safe.

Home. Like his penthouse is my home. Like any of this is my choice.

I'm sorry. For everything. Let me fix this.

Please, Revna. I'm losing my mind. Just let me know you're safe.

The desperation in that last text catches me off guard. Doran Volkolv doesn't beg.

Doesn't show weakness.

But here he is, reduced to pleading through text messages.

"We should go back to the clubhouse," Dalla says gently.

I nod, too emotionally exhausted to argue.

As she drives, I stare out the window at the familiar streets of Jacksonville.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to marry Doran Volkolv.

Take his name, join his world, accept his protection and control.

But now I have Bembe Reyes threatening my family because of Doran's pride.

I have Njal offering to solve everything by killing Doran and Bembe, clearly in the middle of a manic episode.

I have a fiancé who says he wants a partner but acts like I'm property.

And I have less than twenty-four hours to decide if I can live with any of it.

My phone rings again.

This time it's Greer. "Revna, darling. I heard there was an incident."

"Did Doran tell you?—"

"Mikhail, actually. Men are useless at explaining emotional situations." Her voice is gentle. "Are you all right?"

"No," I admit. "I'm not."

"Would you like to talk? Woman to woman, no agenda?"

I think about it.

Greer has been nothing but kind to me, and maybe she can offer perspective.

"Tomorrow?" I offer. "If there is a tomorrow."

"There's always a tomorrow, darling. The question is what we choose to do with it." She pauses. "For what it's worth, I've never seen my son like this. He's... struggling. With wanting to protect you and knowing he's pushed you away."

"He should have thought of that before making decisions without me."

"Yes," she agrees simply. "He should have. The question now is whether you can forgive him for being who he is while he learns to be who you need."

"What if he can't learn? What if this is just who he is?"

"Then you have to decide if who he is works for who you are." She sighs. "I won't lie to you, darling. This life is hard. The constant danger, the violence always lurking at the edges, the decisions made in shadows. But it can also be... extraordinary. If you have the right partner."

"Is Doran the right partner?"

"Only you can answer that. But I will say this—my son has been alone his whole life, even surrounded by people. You're the first person I've seen him actually need. Not want, not desire, but need. That's either the best foundation for a marriage or the worst."

After she hangs up, I sit with her words.

Can I forgive him for being who he is? And more importantly, do I want to?

We pull into the clubhouse parking lot.

My dad's bike is there now, along with several others.

Kirkja must have let out. I see the curtain twitch—Mom watching for us.

"Ready?" Dalla asks.

"No. But let's go anyway."

Inside, the club smells like a bakery exploded.

Mom hugs me tight, flour transferring from her apron to my shirt. "Baby," she whispers. "I'm so sorry. About everything."

"Not your fault, Mom."

"Isn't it? We raised you to be independent, to make your own choices, then took those choices away." She pulls back, eyes red from crying. "If you don't want to marry him?—"

"Then what? The cartel kills more prospects? Starts a war?" I shake my head. "There's no good choice here."

Dad emerges from his office, looking older than his years. "Rev. We need to talk about what happened today."

"I know."

"No, you don't." He guides me to the living room. "Bembe doesn't make idle threats. If Doran doesn't apologize?—"

"Then he should apologize."

"It's not that simple. Showing weakness to the cartel?—"

"Is worse than my family being hunted?" I interrupt. "Is worse than Dalla being grabbed after class? Than Mom being shot at Publix?"

He flinches. "I’m going to have escorts on every woman and child for the foreseeable future?—"

"That's not a life, Dad. That's prison with invisible bars."

My phone buzzes. Another unknown number. I almost don't answer, but Dad nods.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Volkolv?" The voice is unfamiliar, accented. "Or should I say, the future Mrs. Volkolv?"

"Who is this?"

"Someone who wants to help. Your fiancé has many enemies. Some would pay well to know about the wedding tomorrow. The time, the place, the security arrangements."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. Yet. But remember this number. If you decide you want a different life, a different choice, call me. Options exist for those brave enough to take them."

They hang up before I can respond.

"Who was that?" Dad asks.

"I don't know. Someone offering... options."

His face darkens. "Block the number. Whatever they're selling, we don't want it."