Page 53 of Dark Promise

The third will be a pair of gold cuff bracelets, a nod to her golden goddess costume from Halloween. And to her secret fantasies.

And the fourth…something more intimate. Black silk scarves. Not just for their luxury or beauty, but for the memory of the night I tied her wrists and bound her eyes. The memory of her surrender, her trust, the way she gave herself to me without hesitation. She’ll know exactly what I’m saying without a single word attached, a gift that will linger in her mind as much as she lingers in mine.

My thoughts unravel slowly as I set the pen down, leaning back in my chair. The glass feels heavy in my hand as I look out over the glittering city. Somewhere out there, she’s in a fortress surrounded by her brothers. Safe, untouchable. For now.

But no fortress is impenetrable. Not for someone like my father. Not for the chaos that follows me everywhere I go. I know she’s protected. And still, the thought of putting her on Mikhail’s radar freezes my blood. I can’t call her. I can’t show up. I can’teven send her something as innocuous as a single word without the risk that Mikhail will sniff it out.

And so I will stay away.

But staying away feels like carving out a piece of myself and leaving it behind in the snow outside that cabin. She’s with me in every step I take, every breath, every waking second. I can’t get her out of my mind. The taste of her lips. The way her nails dragged over my back. The way her voice broke when she called my name.

I miss her fire. Her laugh. Her defiance. I miss the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just my father’s shadow, like I was a man who could be something more.

The gifts are all I can give her for now. A way to touch her life without exposing her to mine. A reminder that no matter where she is, no matter how far apart we are, she’s always with me.

I close the notebook and finish my vodka in one long swallow, the burn a poor substitute for her heat. The first package will go out in the morning. Just the beginning of a conversation without words—a story told in silk and steel, leather and fire.

18

Sabina

I siton the edge of my bed, the small, elegantly wrapped box resting on my lap. It’s the fourth package to arrive this week, each one bearing no return address, no note—just the gift itself, exquisite and unmistakably deliberate. Every time, it feels like the universe is conspiring to unravel me. Just when I think I’ve steadied myself enough to breathe without aching, another package arrives, and the air is stolen from my lungs all over again.

My fingers tremble as I untie the ribbon, the fabric whispering against the glossy paper like a secret only I’m meant to hear. Slowly, I lift the lid, my breath catching as the contents come into view. Black silk scarves. Their texture is luxurious, smooth beneath my fingers, like liquid shadow. I pull one free, letting it cascade between my hands, the dark silk clinging lightly to my skin as if it knows where it belongs.

I don’t need a note or a signature to tell me who sent this package. It’s him. Always him.

The first gift had been the Ruger LCP II, sleek and deadly, the slide a beautiful polished blue. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was apromise. A reminder of the gun I’d lost and the man who hadn’t forgotten how much it mattered.

The second had been the Louboutins, perfect replicas of the ones ruined in the crash. My hands had lingered over the red soles, the glossy black leather, the familiar curves of the shoes that had once made me feel invincible. They were more than replacements—they were a memory given back to me, a fragment of who I’d been that night.

Then came the gold cuffs. Not just jewelry, but a symbol. Delicate yet unyielding. Their design whispered of restraint and power, strength hidden in elegance. When I’d held them, I could almost feel the weight of his hands on my wrists, the rough heat of his touch.

And now this. The scarves.

I press one against my cheek, closing my eyes. The intimacy of it—the message laced in its softness—sends a shiver through me. My pulse quickens as images flood my mind. His voice, low and commanding, wrapping around me like the scarves themselves. His hands, strong and certain, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The way his gaze locked on mine, holding me captive, making me feel both exposed and safe at the same time.

There’s no card, no signature, no words to tie these gifts to him, but they don’t need any. He’s in every detail, every thread, every deliberate choice. He’s in the echo of his touch that still lingers on my skin, in the spaces and the memories I try and fail to suppress. Even in his absence he’s here.

Longing swells, sharp and painful. It wraps itself around me, suffocating in its strength. I want to be angry, to scream at the cruelty of his silence, his distance, but I can’t. Because beneath the anger is gratitude. A warmth that spreads from my chest to my fingertips. He hasn’t forgotten me. He’s out there, thinking of me.

But the ache is still there, relentless and unforgiving. Because these gifts are all I have of him now—silent reminders of the man who could make me feel so much with his presence and even more with his absence. A man who can’t even include a card because it’s too dangerous. Because this connection could destroy us both. I don’t know if these gifts are his way of keeping me close or if they’re his way of saying goodbye.

The scarf slips through my hands, pooling in my lap like ink spreading across a blank page. I stare down at it, the weight of its meaning far heavier than the delicate fabric. The emotions swirling inside me twist and churn, each fighting for dominance—hope and despair, anger and gratitude, want and impossibility. They’re too much, too strong, and they leave me breathless.

He’s not here. But he’s everywhere. In every thought I can’t push away. In every memory that catches me off guard. In the silence of my sleepless nights when I wonder where he is, if he’s safe. If I’m safe, or if the next time I leave the compound, I’ll be set upon, hurt, killed.

I grew up in this world. I wasn’t there when my father was killed, but I’ve felt the weight and heartbreak of his absence every day since. And I was on the yacht. I remember the cold dread in my chest when mercenaries held my family at gunpoint, their eyes empty of mercy. I saw Leo shot, watched him fall into the ocean. For those endless moments, I thought he was dead. I thought any second, we would all be dead.

I thought I was smarter than this. I’ve always prided myself on being clear-headed, logical, even in a world that thrives on chaos. Growing up in the Russo family taught me how to spot danger, how to navigate around it, how to survive without getting consumed by it. And for years, that clarity had been my armor, my guide. I’ve always known better than to let someone like Nikolai slip past my defenses.

Nikolai Ivanov is everything I should stay away from: dangerous, unpredictable, an Ivanov—our families’ bitter history is woven into the fabric of who we are.

What the hell am I doing?

The question slices through me, sharp and unrelenting. Back in the real world, away from the isolated bubble of that snow-covered cabin, everything is clearer. And bleaker. Nikolai and I live on opposite sides of an impossible divide. Our families are adversaries. That might not have been the case when Papa and Vlasta were alive, but Mikhail Ivanovkilled my father.

How can I even think of building something with his son?

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