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“She should’ve stayed away from the Russians.” “Roman’s going to kill her.”

“Did Sergei Zaytsev just touch her?”

I don’t stop until I’m inside the washroom, locking the door behind me.

The mirror reflects the dishevelled version of me I barely recognise; chest heaving too fast, sweat clinging to my skin, hands trembling as I fumble with the tap.

Makeup is the last thing on my mind as I splash some cold water on my face to calm myself down, it doesn’t help. I’m fucking scared and not of death.

I stare back at the fire spreading, blooming inside me with vivid intensity, all because of one damn touch.

What is happening?

Why is my body reacting like this, after being shut down for years? Why do I suddenly feel as if the layers I’ve built around myself are suffocating, and all I want is to tear them away, to be free?

Sergei did something to me when he touched me, or maybe…undid something.

TWO

Elara

Sergei Zaytsev.

A computer science major. Only son of the Zaytsev family.

Their heir, a family with ties to the Bratva.

Everyone at the campus is only talking about the three big Russian dudes, as if they were Gods walking among mortals.

I even heard a girl sigh. “They are so hot, it melts my insides.”

Seriously? Melts your insides?

That’s medically concerning.

Although I’ve seen Roman and Aleksandr break hearts like people discard receipts, no one has ever approached Sergei.

Ever.

Which is fine, because what I’m doing doesn’t exactly qualify as approaching.

It’s called stalking.

Logic insists I should stop stalking a man. Unfortunately, logic and I stopped agreeing a long time ago, considering all the suicidal thoughts and everything, our relationship is rather strained.

The only consolation is that I developed a sense of humour about it.

I hate routines, they imply tomorrow matters. Yet for the past two weeks, I’ve been waking up before sunrise to watch Sergei Zaytsev run.

I wish I knew why.

I keep promising myself I’ll stop. It’s almost funny how little my own promises are worth.

At half six in the bloody morning, he’s already out of his penthouse, running—ten miles like it’s nothing—back by around quarter to eight, give or take and I already hate his schedule.

By nine, he’s at Kingsford with the others, quiet as usual. His unofficial role seems to be damage control, mainly involving Roman’s fists and Aleksandr’s hecklings.

In the past two weeks alone, Roman’s picked fights with a hundred and nine people, students, strangers, it doesn’t seem to matter. Sergei’s stopped every single one of them.