Page 82 of Imperfect Desires

Us.

He keeps saying that word like it means something. Like there’s a future where he and I exist as anything other than predator and prey.

I keep quiet and don’t say anything because I don’t trust what might come out if I open my mouth.

He walks closer, adjusting his cufflinks. “Once we know how far along you are, we’ll take care of it. You’ll feel better, lighter. Ready to start your real life.”

His gaze slides down to my stomach. “There’s no room for mistakes in our story, Alina. No baggage. No bastard child from some ghost you won’t even name.”

My fingers curl into my palms.

“I told you,” I whisper, “I’m married.”

He doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head like he’s humoring a child.

“Ah, yes. A hasty decision made in rebellion. But don’t worry—I’ll find the record. And I’ll have it erased. Nullified. That marriage is as good as if it never happened. But us? We’ll be flesh. Forever.”

His eyes gleam with something darker than lust—something fanatical. And I can see he believes every twisted word coming out of his mouth.

“You were meant for me,” he says. “Fate just needed a little push.”

I want to scream. To claw his face open and stick the truth into him like fire—but I can’t.

Because he holds all the power.

He straightens his cuffs again and gestures toward the hall. “Get ready. You’ll want to look your best when we leave. Maybe wear your hair down.”

He walks out without waiting for a reply, leaving the door wide open behind him for the guards to step in.

One of them moves toward me, but I lift a hand, stopping him.

“I’ll get ready,” I say.

He nods and backs off.

I walk to the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, bruised but standing. Pale but not broken.

“Viktor, please find me.”

As we leave Mendes’s compound for the hospital, the car jostles over a pothole, and my stomach lurches—not from the movement, but from the dread coiled deep in my belly. The atmosphere smells like leather, smoke, and fear.

I sit rigid beside Mendes in the back seat, my body pressed against the door as if I could vanish into it. The driver doesn’t speak. Neither does the man up front with the gun resting across his lap. Outside, the gray streets of New York blur past the tinted windows, the city moving without knowing what’s about to happen.

Mendes is too close.

His arm rests lazily on the shared leather divider, fingers tapping in a rhythm that scratches at my spine. His sharp, cologne-heavy scent clings to the air between us.

“You can fidget all you want, princesa,” he says, his voice hard like polished steel. “But this is happening, and you should be grateful I’m handling this quietly. No blood. No screaming. Just... a necessary adjustment.”

I say nothing, but my stomach clenches. I turn my face toward the glass to hide the tears burning behind my eyes. Every bump in the road rattles my bones. The silence between us is thick—until his phone rings.

He answers without hesitation, placing the call on speaker. I hear a low male voice on the other end, frantic, Spanish bleeding into his English.

“Jefe, word’s going around. The Russians are sniffing around heavily. They are seriously mobilized.”

Mendes goes still.

“Who?” he asks, his tone suddenly razor-sharp. “My intel informed me that Viktor is abroad, so who is leading the search?”

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