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A smart woman might turn on the light, but a stealthy one moves in the dark. I tiptoe toward one of the shadowed pieces of furniture against the wall and start feeling around for a clothes drawer. As I pull open the topmost one, I rattle whatever sits on top of the dresser, knocking invisible objects over. One such thing rolls to the edge and thumps to the floor.
To be honest, I don’t care about a few broken baubles as long as I find some freaking pants. Goosebumps race down my bare thighs as a chill settles over my skin, and I paw around in the drawer for the first scrap of clothing I can find.
Except, there’s only knickknacks and cold glass somethings in here. I close the drawer and move on to the next, rattling the shit on top of the dresser again as I push the first drawer shut and pull open the second.
This drawer proves more promising as my fingers snag on fabric, thank god. Snatching a handful of garments from the drawer, I turn around and head toward the window to see what treasure I’ve found.
Please be pants. Preferably a size 18.
On my way over, I kick whatever object fell from the dresser, and it clanks against something else in the dark. I freeze in place, waiting to hear footsteps from above or shouting from the next room to indicate I’ve been caught.
Nothing happens. I can breathe again.
Once beside the curtains, I draw them back one small inch for some sunlight, silently cheering once I realize I’ve grabbed not just one pair of pants, but two. Thick, black denim with a million shiny, silver zippers—the kind of pants that give off emo vibes.
I don’t care as long as they fit.
I’ve got one leg in the air when I catch movement in my peripheral, and my head snaps to the side just in time to see a glowering mountain of a man barreling toward me.
We collide, the sheer wall of muscle body-checking me into the window. A large, calloused hand wraps around my throat, squeezing tight enough to cut off most of my air supply.
As my fight-or-flight responses kick in, my hands sink into the curtain and rip it down. The rod clatters to the ground noisily, alerting everyone in earshot of my presence.
So much for being stealthy.
Warm sunlight floods into the room, and I finally get a glimpse of my soon-to-be murderer. Panic and adrenaline mix, giving me a sudden rush of anticipation as I imagine the same handsome face I grew to love five years ago.
My eyes focus, andinstead of finding my ex glowering at me, I see someone else. Dark hair thrown haphazardly over midnight eyes. A scar cutting down the corner of his lips and over the curve of his clenched jaw. .
It’s not my ex-fiancée. It’s my ex-bodyguard.
Relief washes over me as I expect him to let me go. Out of all the men from my past, Ezra’s the one who would never hurt me. He vowed to always protect me — and all men within the Bratva take their vows seriously.
My relief is short-lived as his grip tightens, cutting off my air supply completely. He swallows hard and pins me under his heavy gaze. A rumble reverberates through his chest as he damn near growls out my name in thickly accented English.
“Valentina Baranova.”
Heat floods my system all the way from my head down to my toes. I know that voice, and the man behind it, very well.
Ezra Reinoff wasn’t just any bodyguard, he was mine. My personal bodyguard for years, up until the day I left.
A heated shiver runs down my spine as he repeats my name, the low rumble reverberating through my bones. All members of the Bratva make a point to learn American English, but Ezra always struggled to kick his Russian accent the most.It gives his voice a harsher tone — one I never minded. In fact, I begged him to teach me a few Russian phrases just so I could hear him speak.
I may have been engaged to Andrei, but I had a one-sided love affair with Ezra’s voice.
He mutters something under his breath, and a traitorous trill sends goosebumps rolling down my arms.
Time hasn’t changed that little detail one bit.
I try to say his name, but my lips part and no sound comes out.
Oh yeah, probably because I’m dying.
His dark eyes narrow and take a slow drag down my body, and I try, in vain, not to get all hot and bothered about it.
He was off limits five years ago. But now?
We’re making the rules up as we go.
