Page 14
Leo steered the scooter into a narrow side street, engine growl bouncing off wet brick.
Eldridge could still be tracking them. He took a deliberately circuitous route through a maze of back alleys reeking of rotting vegetables and diesel.
No tail visible, but that meant nothing.
Kat clung to him—thighs flush against his hips, chest to his back—her breath a warm rhythm on his neck.
As they crossed into Knightsbridge, the streets widened and the architecture grew more imposing.
Traffic thinned as they moved away from the busier thoroughfares toward the wealthier residential district.
Finally, they approached the private entrance of One Hyde Park, the exclusive residential complex where he maintained an apartment.
He took the service ramp down into the private garage—no CCTV, and security he’d hard-wired himself. He parked behind a concrete pillar and cut the engine. Sudden silence pressed between them. Her arms stayed around his waist a beat too long—then slipped away.
Leo dismounted. The garage stretched empty except for a green Bentley and a Porsche. Cold air carried concrete dust and motor oil, with an undertone of expensive leather.
Kat removed her helmet, revealing cheeks paler than he liked. But her eyes still blazed with determination. “That was unexpected.”
“Always have an exit strategy.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but remained silent.
He unclipped her helmet. “Eldridge is persistent.”
“And she has help. Korolov.” She shook her head. “Every time I ask a question, I get an answer and ten more questions. And not just about Eldridge. You. What is this place?”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know yet.”
Their eyes held, and something flared between them—an awareness that had nothing to do with adrenaline or danger. He reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool against his palm but steady as steel. Kat Landon didn’t fall apart. Not even now.
He paused at the elevator, pressing his thumb against the biometric scanner. The doors whispered open. The elevator ascended smoothly to the penthouse level. Leo kept hold of her hand—her closeness calming his pulse even as it jacked it higher. At his side, he could protect her.
The doors opened directly into his penthouse, revealing the expansive living space bathed in a milky moonlight now that the London rain had finally taken a breather.
He stepped out first, scanning automatically. Everything was exactly as he’d left it—pristine, minimal, secure.
“Where are we?” Kat asked, her gaze sweeping the space with professional assessment.
“My place.”
Her lips parted. Surprise or something else.
He forced himself to focus on disarming the secondary security system instead of wondering what that mouth would taste like.
She paused by the panoramic windows, instinctively keeping to the side to avoid silhouetting herself.
“Jesus, Leonid. This isn’t an apartment—it’s a fortress with a view.
” Her voice held genuine surprise as she took in the minimalist Scandinavian furniture, the clean lines, the deliberate absence of anything personal.
“It serves its purpose.” Leo crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge by habit. “Water? I’d offer something stronger, but we need clear heads.”
“Water’s fine.” Kat had already drifted to his bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines. “Interesting collection.”
Leo filled two glasses and crossed to where she stood. This was his sanctuary. No one else had ever been here. But with Kat, it didn’t feel like trespass. It felt inevitable.
He took a long swig, needing the cold shock to clear his head.
“You can tell a lot about a person from their bookshelves.” She accepted the water, fingers brushing his.
Leo leaned against the shelves.
A single strand of auburn hair had slipped free from her ponytail, curling against the vulnerable line of her neck.
“So…” His voice rasped, catching in his throat. “What do mine tell you?”
She took a slow sip, her eyes cataloging the shelves.
“Military history. Security protocols. Engineering manuals—work, not pleasure. But then…” She paused on a worn spine. “Hemingway. The Old Man and the Sea. ”
She turned to face him. Her eyes sparking bright with interest. “A man of contradictions.”
Her words landed harder than they should’ve. He pushed off the shelf, suddenly needing distance. “Aren’t we all?”
She smiled, head tilting. “The Dostoyevsky in original Russian might be showing off a little.”
“I grew up reading in Russian. ” The truth slipped out—softer than usual.
“ Of course .” Her accent was flawless, her Russian crisp and clear. It hit him low and hard—raw attraction, suddenly real.
He cleared his throat. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. Her tongue flicked across her lip to catch a stray drop of water.
Christ . He needed to get it together.
“The bathroom’s through there if you want to clean up. Towels in the cabinet.” He stepped back, needing air. “I need to call my brothers.”
Kat nodded. “Thank you, Leonid.” She hesitated, voice dropping. “For everything today.”
Her voice cracked something open in him.
“It’s what I do.” He crossed his arms.
She held his gaze, her eyes searching. “Is that all it is?”
Before he could find words, she turned and headed to the bathroom.
He dragged his gaze from her—to the black window, and the man staring back. His fingers found the swollen cut on his lip—Gage’s reminder.
He’d spent years eliminating weaknesses, building himself into a man without soft edges. The darkness of his past had convinced him he didn’t deserve someone like Kat.
Yet here she was.
Years of professional boundaries blurred with each passing moment. Had isolation and distance truly served him? He’d joined special forces to make a difference, and accepted the risks. But had those walls kept others out—or kept him locked away?
The bathroom door clicked shut.
His reflection stared back—the scar near his eye stark in the ambient light. The face they trained to kill.
Running water hissed against porcelain—an echo of another place, another lifetime
His apartment vanished, replaced by sputtering fluorescents, cracked tiles, and the coppery stench of blood.
Sangin.
His hands under freezing water in a filthy compound bathroom, blood spiraling down the rust-stained drain. Knuckles raw, tactical gear spattered with?—
Fuck.
Cramp seized his jaw.
The mission had gone to hell. One split-second decision, irreversible consequences. Children screaming—the sound still echoing in his skull.
The water stopped, snapping him back.
His knuckles were white against the sill, breath fogging the glass. He’d made peace with the ghosts—accepted a life of service without connection as penance. Fair trade for the lives he couldn’t save. But was there another way to honor the dead?
He stepped back from the window—and from his past.
He needed to focus, plan their next move. Korolov was still moving pieces. MI6 was hunting Kat. And they were running out of time.
With a deep breath, he dialed Zak’s number.
First, resolve this situation. Then, perhaps... Kat.
If he deserved her. If she could want a man like him, once she knew his truth.
Table of Contents
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- Page 14 (Reading here)
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