And he's pointing a Makarov at my head with steady hands that have probably killed more people than I've arrested.
Shit.
"Special Agent Mariana Castillo," he repeats, and his voice is like aged whiskey - smooth, dark, with an edge that burns going down.
"Drop your weapon," I order, though my voice comes out rougher than I want. Could be smoke damage. Could be something else entirely—something involving the way he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands.
He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much. "You first, little wolf."
Little wolf?The nickname sends heat spiraling through my belly that I absolutely cannot acknowledge right now. Not when we're both armed and the building is burning down around us.
Don't you dare find that attractive, Mariana.
A support beam crashes down between us, sending sparks flying like angry fireflies. The heat is getting worse by the second, the smoke thicker. My lungs feel like I've been breathing glass shards. We're both going to die if we don't move soon.
But neither of us lowers our weapon.
"You killed Viktor Orlov," I try to say, because if I'm going to die, I want answers first. I've earned that much after two years of chasing shadows. "Two days ago. Classic Ghost signature."
"Did I?"
The question hangs in the superheated air between us. There's something in his tone, some subtle emphasis that makes me pause. Not denial exactly. More like... curiosity?
"Single gunshot to the head... Clean entry wound, execution-style... No witnesses, no evidence left behind..." I recite the details like a prayer I've memorized through repetition. "Your trademark..."
"Interesting theory." He steps closer, moving with the fluid grace of someone who's spent years learning how to kill efficiently. The flames don't seem to bother him at all; like he's immune to fire and fear and everything that makes normal people run. "Tell me, Agent Castillo, what else do you think you know about me?"
"I know you're the most wanted man in the Bratva underworld," I say, rattling off facts I've memorized like gospel. "I know you've killed at least seventeen people in the last two years - probablymore that we haven't connected yet. I know you disappear like smoke every time we get close, like you've got some kind of sixth sense for law enforcement."
"And what makes you think any of that is accurate?"
The question stops me cold. There's something in his tone—not arrogance, but genuine curiosity. Like he's actually interested in my answer.
"Because I've been tracking you for two years," I say, but even as the words come out, I hear how weak they sound. "Following your patterns, your methods—"
"You've been tracking a ghost story," he interrupts, and now his voice has gone hard. Professional. "Following breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Chasing shadows of someone who may not even exist the way you think he does."
The ceiling groans again, louder this time. More cracks appear in the concrete above our heads, spreading like veins through pale skin. Dust and debris rain down, coating us both in a fine layer of grit that tastes like failure and impending death.
I point out, tightening my grip on my Glock.
"I'm here because you're in danger," he says, and something in his expression softens. Just for a moment, but I still catch it. "Real danger. Not from the fire."
"You're the danger!"
"Not to you." His dark eyes sweep over my face, cataloging details like he's memorizing them. "Never to you."
What the hell does that mean?
Before I can ask, the ceiling gives way with a sound like the world ending.
I throw myself sideways, but I'm not fast enough. The massive concrete beam comes down right where I was standing, and I know with horrible, crystalline certainty that the next one will crush me like an insect.
Then strong arms wrap around my waist and suddenly I'm flying.
We crash through what must have been a window—I hear glass exploding around us like deadly confetti. The impact drives the breath from my lungs as we roll across concrete that scrapes against my tactical vest. He takes most of the fall, his body cushioning mine as we tumble together in a tangle of limbs and momentum.
For one impossible, breathless moment, I'm sprawled across his chest like we're lovers who just collapsed into bed together. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ribs. His scent fills my lungs—leather and gunpowder, and something clean that makes me think of winter mornings in the mountains.
