Page 7

Six months later

MATVEI

I sip my beer, not paying attention to my cousins.

“You alright, brother?” Semyon is not one to observe emotions, but he doesn’t miss details either. I’ve been keeping to myself, not talking to anyone.

It’s been six fucking months since she slipped through my fingers, leaving me caged like an animal. Six months, while I swore that I would find her, make her pay, and make her pay dearly.

Six months, while I’ve lost sleep trying to find her, while I’ve fallen into a dismal routine of work, hunt, lift, sleep. Prowl.

She’s still out there. Running. Hiding. Thinking she’s safe.

My woman.

She’s mine, and she’s nowhere to be fucking found.

Rafail shit bricks when he found out she’d escaped. Fun times. He may be happily married and forgiven the fuck you she gave him, but he doesn’t forgive disloyalty to the Bratva. None of us do.

Her contract with the Irish has long since expired.

At first, I thought she could be anywhere in the world. A woman like her, with her skill set—she’s a chameleon. Easily managing to evade capture, she’ll become anything she wants to be.

In the past six months, I have watched the members of my Bratva group form their alliance. None of them knew I was after her, but they know why I’m on a vendetta now. Maybe she thinks she’s safe out there, running, hiding.

Maybe she gets a thrill out of running. Maybe her kink is the chase.

Maybe mine is, too, as long as it ends up with a capture.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling as I study the map spread across the worn table in front of me. Red strings, pins, notes scribbled in Russian—my obsession laid bare. Every lead, every sighting, every whisper of her presence documented and analyzed.

I should have found her by now. I should have her on her knees, begging for mercy I have no fucking intention of giving.

But Anissa Laurent is a slippery little ghost.

And the truth is… I miss the whole game.

I looked forward to listening to the little sounds she made in her sleep. Stroking my cock to the image of her licking a spoon dripping with ice cream. It’s not the same when it’s sheer memory. And that one day, I finally had her in my clutches, her snark and banter…

I want her back.

I need her back.

And worst of all, if she isn’t with me—if my woman isn’t with me—that doesn’t keep her safe from any other fucking predators out there. Who knows what enemies she’s made?

When I lie in bed, I imagine her lying beside me. It’s too cold. I don’t sleep; I just lie there, remembering the way her breath hitched when I touched her throat, the way her pulse jumped between my fingers. The wicked gleam in her eyes when I said I was a kinky motherfucker.

Even now, I can still smell her, just a hint, nothing too floral, but a soft hint of citrus and spice. My sweet little ghost. My venomous, little, traitorous thief.

I need to find her again. Break her. Crack her open and teach her the consequences of her actions. Cage her in my sheets, wearing nothing but my marks. My teeth in her skin, my hand on her throat, my cum dripping from her hot, sweet cunt, my name on her tongue.

She’s not safe out there—not from the Irish, not from the Bratva, and especially not from me. Because I’m not just going to take her back—I’m going to make sure she never even dreams of running again.

I’m the only man who sees her for who she truly is. And I’m the only one who can destroy her for good… or worship her forever.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Aria

Hey. I’ve got something.

I’ve been working with Polina’s sister-in-law Aria Romanova, the best hacker in the damn world. Anissa is slippery as fuck, and I called in every favor I had.

My pulse kicks up. If it’s what I think it is…

I tap the speaker. "Finally."

I stand, muscles coiled, barely restraining the anticipation clawing at my spine. "Where?"

"Little village outside of Paris. Forged documents flagged at customs. She’s careful, but she fucked up." Aria pauses. “She’s too good for something like this. A part of me wonders if she wants to be caught. Maybe she’s tired of running…”

A slow smile spreads across my face. Got you, little ghost. This time, when I get her, I’m not going to play so nice.

"Send me everything you’ve got."

I get a good cut of my family’s wealth being a member of the Bratva, but I’ve spent thousands tracking her down and paying Aria. I’ll take it out of Anissa’s ass and enjoy every fucking second.

The call disconnects. I glance at the single photo pinned to the center of the board. Anissa. Smirking. Defiant. The same look she had in her eyes when she locked me in that fucking cage. The cage that I’ve now moved into my bedroom and decorated with pink fairy lights and luxury bedding. Just waiting for her.

I shake my head, running a thumb over the image. "Hope you had your fun. Enjoy your last little croissant, you stunning little bitch.” I shrug on my coat and slip my gun into its holster. "My turn."

Now it’s time for me to don a disguise. I can’t hide my broad shoulders or my bulk, but I’ve learned how to blend in when I have to. A different coat. Slight limp. Lowered gaze. Details matter. I tweak them just enough to pass unnoticed.

Lucky for me, the Irish want nothing to do with her anymore. No allegiance. No ties. There’s a reason why none of them would touch her romantically. Rumor has it they like their women submissive.

Heh.

I land in Paris at two o’clock in the morning, and I’m going to take my fucking time—just like I did the first time.

This time, instead of sneaking from one place to the next, offering her services, she’s actually settled down a little bit. She bartends at a local pub.

Oh, this is too rich.

I’m not going to grab her right away. No. That would be way too fucking easy. Instead, I’ll study her. Watch her. I’m going to?—

There she is. There’s that little birthmark right above her lip that I want to bite. She almost crumbled the last time I had her, all her cleverness unraveling under the weight of my hands. Psychological warfare? She’s a natural victim for it.

And I’ll do it again.

What’s the fun in swallowing your prey whole? Nah. You bat them around a little first. Tear off little pieces. Scrape them with your teeth before you bite. Let them think they’ve escaped, just to remind them they haven’t.

She’s my favorite little game.

I’ll wait until she’s walking home one night, her grocery bag in hand. And this time, I have everything planned… down to the last detail.

I watch her as she goes to work. She looks almost happy. Normal. Like she’s moved on.

Even now, after six months of chasing her, my pulse kicks up when I see her, the way that red wig frames her sharp jawline. My fists clench—anger or desire, I can’t tell anymore; they’re almost one and the same.

I’ve memorized the way she lifts her chin when challenged, the way she smirks like she knows exactly how to drive me crazy.

She’s too fucking smart. Too slippery. And damn if I don’t respect that, even as I plan exactly how to make her regret what she did.

She was in trouble before. Now? She has no idea.

She makes me furious. She makes me reckless. And worst of all… she makes me want .

The red wig bobs around her shoulders, and my blood boils watching her. She thinks she’s free. That she’s not going to suffer for what she’s done.

But I watch her.

I want her to feel me before she sees me.

I watch her for weeks. I want her to think she’s free. I want her looking over her shoulder.

Humans are ritualized creatures. Even the most unpredictable tend to walk the same way, buy the same things, and eat the same foods. So it doesn’t take long for me to memorize the way she heads home from tending bar, how she doesn’t cook for herself but manages to somehow subsist on bread, cheese, and wine and some quirky little foods.

I know what makes her relax—the few occasions she lets her guard down—when she laughs at something, takes a sip of whiskey at the bar in a rare moment of relaxation, how she runs a hand through her hair.

I want to know everything about her, the kinds of things I have to dig beneath the surface to find out.

I want to know what makes her laugh. What makes her cry. I want to know how her eyes look when she comes and what makes her toes curl in bed.

I brush past her in a crowded place, literally rubbing elbows, but never look back. Just enough to make her wonder.

I make a shadow move in an alley when she’s coming home from work, making her question her own sanity. But this time, I’ve already marked her as mine.

I try to listen in on her conversations… but she has none. She has no friends. She doesn’t use her real name at work, of course, and spends no time with anyone outside of the bar.

I wonder if she’s lonely.

Why do I care?

I walk past her window, over and over, just to make her look. I think she sees me on the third day, but I could be wrong.

I want her. I fucking want this woman.

Then one night, I unlock her door while she’s sleeping, and in the morning, when she checks, she does a double take.

Good.

Keep her guessing.

I pick the lock of her apartment and leave a cabinet door open before she comes home. But instead of leaving it vacant, I stock it with her favorite little foods. Pain au chocolat—buttery and flaky, layered with dark chocolate. Gummy bears—she chews on them when she’s thinking or watching TV. She picks out the yellow ones and leaves the red. Instant coffee because, despite being in Paris, she’s too practical for the whole French press thing. And a tin of sardines in olive oil because she’s weird like that.

That night, I’m rewarded with some good old-fashioned cursing. She’s on to me. I know she’s been looking over her shoulder, and I’m afraid if I don’t make my move soon, she’ll slip away again, just like she did before.

I watch her from the shadows. Her habits, her routines, her weaknesses—I know them all. And I want her to know by now that I’m watching her. Finally, it’s time. This time, she is not getting away from me.

I follow her one night, staying just out of sight, close enough to hear the sound of her breath quickening when she feels me behind her. When she looks, I’m wearing a hat pulled low to cover my eyes and a long coat.

She goes to the bar for work, and I help myself into her apartment. I sit on her bed and run my fingers over her sheets. Inhale her scent. God , she’s addictive.

I go through her closet, feeling the fabric of her dresses, breathing in her scent. She has a tiny place tucked away where nobody would ever suspect she’s here. And I steal things—a half-open jar of pink lipstick, a silky black hair tie, a small pair of ivory panties that easily fit in my pocket. And I watch her.

I watch the way she moves. I note that the only thing she does for fun is watch videos on her phone when she’s alone in bed, the same way she did before. She laughs at silly jokes and reads a few books, but lately, she’s been agitated. Nervous.

Time to move in.

The second I get there, I send her a message at the bar.

handwritten noteYou look beautiful tonight. You can change your name, your face, your voice even—but I still love the way you bite your lip when you lie…

I watch the way her fingers tighten around the paper, but when she looks in my direction, she only sees an empty chair. I’m waiting in the hallway. When it rains, I stand just outside beneath the glow of a streetlamp, knowing she’ll look out the window—but she won’t see who’s there.

I plan on controlling her before I take her.

I’m the one steering her exactly where I want her. This isn’t like before, when I went after her and drugged her. No.

This time, I’m going to punish her.

This time, she’s not going to get away.

The next night, I watch her from the far end of the bar, nursing whiskey, my eyes locked on her every movement. She’s still sharp, cautious, but there’s a softness about her now. And then I see it. Some drunk asshole leans over the bar, too close, slurring something in her ear. I know the second it makes her uncomfortable because she stiffens and pulls away—but he grabs her wrist.

And the words I wrote in blood, the ones I texted her, the ones I whispered to her, surge into my mind. I’m half blinded by red-hot fury.

Mine.

I watch as she forces a polite smile as if trying to de-escalate the situation, but he doesn’t let go.

I don’t think. I move. Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is locked around the asshole’s throat, slamming him against the bar. The glass rattles. Conversations stop. Anissa’s eyes widen.

“You’ve got a problem?” I keep my voice calm, even—but there’s no mistaking the threat in it. I press a knife where no one else can see, just below the hollow of his collarbone. He gasps, his hands scrambling at mine, but I don’t let go. I want him to feel it, to understand the cost of putting his hands where they have no fucking place.

“Leave now,” she says. “Before I have to call the police.”

“Why don’t you do that, doll?” I tell her. Interpol’s got a file on her an inch thick, and I’ve already paid off locals. I’ve thought of everything before I came here.

“Let me go,” the guy says, smacking at my hands. I pin him down and whisper in his ear.

“Stay the fuck away from her. You touch her again, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

He nods frantically before bolting out of the bar. The room is silent as she watches me, her blue eyes unreadable. I lean in just enough for her to hear.

“You need to be more careful, little ghost.”

I hold her gaze. I have every exit monitored, everything I need on my person.

“Close the bar. Send everyone home.” I lean in. “Do it now.”

* * *