Page 48 of Vendetta Vows

"My phone," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I'd like to text Hannah. Let her know I'm safe."

"Artyom, my head of security, is already on his way to retrieve it. Along with your backpack of belongings."

He takes another step closer, and I back up instinctively until cool glass presses against my shoulder blades. My breath trembles as I realize how closely this mirrors my fantasy. Trapped between Ruslan and the glass, his powerful presence overwhelming my senses.

Up close, I can smell him. That intoxicating blend of mahogany and cedarwood scent that's becoming so familiar in such a short time. His eyes flick briefly to my lips before returning to meet my gaze.

"You're safe here, Aurora," he murmurs.

My fingers curl against the glass behind me. "Am I?"

Ruslan notices my retreat and stops advancing. He raises both hands slightly. A gesture of peace rather than surrender. His restraint brings unexpected comfort.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to crowd you."

This acknowledgment of my boundaries loosens something tight in my chest. The consideration is unfamiliar.

Kristofer never stopped when I backed away, and nobody has ever cared about my comfort like this since I became Aurora Castellanos.

I'd be lying if I said that I'm not finding this just a little comforting.

"I understand you must have questions," Ruslan continues, maintaining his distance. "What would you like to know about me?"

I swallow hard, gathering courage. "What are you, really? Clearly you're not just a producer."

The statement hangs between us like smoke. His eyes flicker with something—relief, perhaps—at not having to maintain the pretense.

"You're right." His voice drops lower. "I'm not just a producer. I'm a member of the Dragunov bratva."

My stomach lurches, but surprisingly, I don't feel scared. After witnessing him kill a man to save me, this revelation feels almost... expected.

"Just a member?" I ask, surprising both of us with my boldness. "The way those men out there look at you... it seems like more."

A shadow passes over his face. "My brother Lev was the pakhan. The boss."

"Was?" I ask softly.

Ruslan's eyes meet mine, and a ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Very good catch,zarechka."

The praise shouldn't affect me, not when I'm standing in a fortress filled with armed men, not when I've just witnessed a murder, not when my entire world has collapsed again. But my heartbeat quickens traitorously all the same.

"Yes, was." His gaze drifts away, focusing on something beyond the window. "Lev was killed today. Not long before Mikhail."

The words land like stones in still water. Two deaths in one day. Both from the same family.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, and I mean it. The platitude feels hollow, but what else can I offer? "I can't imagine what you're going through."

He mutters something under his breath, the Russian words soft and melodic despite their weight.

"What was that?"

"It's Russian," he explains. "My grief alone is left entire. Pushkin."

A sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Still think the real bratva don't wear suits and quote Pushkin while holding guns?"

My heart skips a beat when I recognize the echo of my own words.

"You remember what I said that night." The familiarity of those words spreads through me like a slow sunrise.

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