Page 21 of Stalk Me

The gallery’s silence wraps around me like a familiar blanket as I catalog new acquisitions. A Degas bronze needs authentication, and these quiet evening hours let me focus without interruption.

A sharp crack splits the air. My head snaps up, my heart stuttering. The sound came from the back entrance.

Another crack, louder this time. The security panel near my desk flashes red—someone’s disabled the alarm system. My fingers curl around the heavy bronze paperweight on my desk.

“Check the office.” A rough voice carries down the hallway.

I slide behind the door, pulse thundering in my ears. Heavy footsteps approach.

The door swings open. A man in dark clothes steps through, and I bring the paperweight down hard on his shoulder. He curses, stumbling. I kick his knee, remembering those self-defense classes I took.

He goes down. I bolt past him, but his partner blocks the hallway. My gallery. My life’s work. Like hell am I letting them take it from me?

I feint left, then dodge right, ramming my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over with a grunt. The first man lunges for me, but I’m already moving.

Glass shatters somewhere behind me. New footsteps pound across the floor—more of them? My stomach drops.

But these newcomers slam my attackers against the wall with military precision. Three men in tactical gear appear out of nowhere, subduing the burglars with practiced ease.

“Ms. Henley.” One approaches me, hands raised. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, adrenaline still coursing through me. “Who?—”

“Private security firm. We monitor this area.” He speaks into a radio while his colleagues zip-tie the would-be thieves. “Police are en route.”

I lean against my desk, legs shaky now that the danger’s passed. These men moved like professionals, appearing exactly when needed. Something about their efficiency nags at me, but relief floods my system too strongly to question it right now.

The police take statements and then leave, and I’m gathering my nerves when the gallery door opens. Nikolai Ivanov strides in, his presence filling the space. Too convenient. Way too convenient.

“Are you hurt?” His gray eyes scan me with predatory intensity.

“I’m fine.” I cross my arms. “Interesting timing. Those men who saved me—professional security, they claimed. Would you know anything about that?”

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I told you I’d handle the protection.”

“I researched you like you suggested.” The words come out sharper than intended. “Ivanov Holdings. Import/export. Realestate. Banking. But there’s more, isn’t there? Things that don’t show up in official records.”

He moves closer, and I force myself not to step back. His cologne—expensive, subtle—wraps around me.

“And what conclusions did you draw from your research?”

“That you’re dangerous.” I look into those stunning gray eyes “That the rumors about your connections to organized crime might be true. That people who cross you tend to disappear.”

“Yet here you stand, confronting me directly.” His finger traces my jaw. “I can’t decide if you’re fearless or reckless.”

“The men who attacked you—” Nikolai’s fingers linger on my jaw. “Your previous protection service didn’t appreciate losing their income stream.”

“You mean the thugs who demanded monthly payments?” My hands clench. “They did this?”

“A foolish move.” His eyes darken. “One they’ll regret deeply.”

“You make it sound like—” I pause, processing the implication. People who cross him disappear. A shiver runs through me.

“Your response to the attack interests me.” He circles me slowly. “Those moves weren’t basic self-defense. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

I freeze. The memory flashes—training sessions I can’t quite place, muscle memory I shouldn’t have.

“I took some classes.” I know that’s not the whole truth. How I moved was pure instinct; I don’t really understand.

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