Page 122 of Dangerous Beginnings

I know he has done terrible things, I have been there, and I have seen it.

I take a seat on his lap, cutting him off, needing to bridge the space between us, needing to make him hear this. “I know. I know you’ve done terrible things. But I also know you’ve suffered, you’ve been broken, you’ve been betrayed. You’ve built walls around yourself to protect that broken boy inside you. I see him, Aslanov. I see him every time you let your guard slip. You’re not as untouchable as you think. And I care about you—more than I should, maybe, but I care.”

“Is this how you’re going to end it?” he asks, his voice rough, barely a whisper. “Is this what you want? To tear it all apart?” His eyes fall to the floor where the contract is torn in pieces.

“No.” I shake my head, my breath catching in my throat. “This isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning. I’m not running anymore.”

My heart is beating faster than it should, but I push forward anyway.

“I think I could love you,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. It’s not what I meant to say, not exactly. But it’s the truth.

His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he goes still, his eyes not meeting mine, as if he’s afraid of the weight of what I’ve just admitted. My hands find his shoulders, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt as I search his face. “I already do,” I add, more quietly, the confession hanging between us like a fragile thing.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it’s not the smirk I’m used to. It’s softer, almost... relieved. His gaze never leaves mine, and I see him—really see him. Not the monster, not the ruthless man, but the person who has been buried beneath all the pain and fear.

Without saying a word, he reaches out, his large hand finding the back of my head. His touch is gentle, but it carries an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. He pulls me toward him, bringing my face to his chest with a tenderness that seems so out of place for him, so fragile against the hardness I’ve always known.

His fingers gently weave through my hair, his touch tender but laced with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. I press my face deeper into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the fabric, each thud vibrating through me, grounding me in this moment. His warmth surrounds me, making me feel like I could stay here forever, caught between what we’ve been and what we might become.

“You’re…the last thing I expected,” he murmurs, his voice rough, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything, trying to untangle the feelings that have been building between us. His touch is gentle, but there’s something beneath it, something raw, a side of him that he’s never shown before.

I don’t pull away; instead, I cling to him, my fingers gripping his shirt as if it’s the only thing holding me to this world. I don’t want to let go of this connection, of this moment where everything feels real. I feel his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek, and the vibrations from his body send a warm, calming ripple through me.

His words hang between us, lingering in the air, heavy with something unspoken. Then, with a deep breath, he presses his forehead to mine. “I think I could love you too,” he says softly, his words so quiet it’s as if he’s afraid to say them too loudly.“And I think I already did…for months now. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

A flutter of something powerful stirs in my chest, and for a moment, I just stay there, clinging to him, feeling the weight of his confession settle deep inside me. I want to say the same, to tell him everything I’ve been feeling, but before I can, the door bursts open with a loud crash. One of Aslanov’s men rushes in, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Boss,” he says, his voice low but sharp, “We’ve got incoming. Multiple trucks. Armed.”

Aslanov his muscles tense, the warmth from moments ago replaced by a deadly calm. His grip on the back of my head tightens as he turns to the man, his movements precise and controlled. “How many?”

“Six vehicles, at least a dozen men. More could be following,” the man replies, his voice steady despite the panic in the air. “We’ve already positioned outside.”

Aslanov’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking to me. “Stay here,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. He lifts me off his lap and stands tall, placing me back on the chair.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice rising, my heart pounding.

“Do not move, Isabella,” he snaps, his eyes locking onto mine for a brief, intense moment. Then he’s gone, following his man outside.

I get up and move to the window, my breath catching as I see the scene unfolding. His men are lined up around the cabin, armed to the teeth, their stances rigid and ready. The forest beyond the clearing is alive with movement, headlights cutting through the darkness as the trucks draw closer.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel grows louder, and my chest tightens. The vehicles stop just short of the cabin, their doors flying open as figures in tactical gear pour out, weapons raised. The air is electric with tension, and I feel like I’mstanding in the eye of a storm.

Then, from the shadows, another wave emerges—more figures, more weapons. I squint, trying to make sense of it, and my stomach drops. FBI. SWAT. Police. They’re everywhere, surrounding the cabin, their rifles trained on Aslanov’s men.

A voice booms through the night, amplified by a loudspeaker. “This is the FBI! Drop your weapons and step away from the cabin! Now!”

The chaos is deafening—shouts, the click of safeties being disengaged, the rustle of movement as everyone holds their ground. I can’t breathe, can’t think. My gaze snaps to Aslanov, standing at the forefront of his men, his shoulders squared, his gun at his side but ready.

Inside, I hear the door slam open again. “Isabella!” It’s one of the agents, his voice firm, and slightly recognizable, “Stay where you are! Do not move!”

I freeze, my body trembling as I see multiple red laser sights dancing across the room, settling on me. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as panic grips me.

Outside, I hear Aslanov barking orders, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos. His men are reluctant, their stances shifting as they glance between him and the overwhelming forces surrounding them.

I want to scream, to run, but I can’t. My feet are rooted to the floor, my heart hammering in my chest as the weight of it all crashes over me. I step away from the window and press myself against the cold wood of the wall behind me, hoping it might ground me.

This isn’t just a raid. This is the endgame.

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