Page 8 of Obsessive Vows

But he's stronger, professionally trained, and now enraged. His fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in an explosive gasp.

The first man recovers, approaching with murderous intent. I assess my options with clinical detachment despite the pain radiating through my side. The second man's grip remains firm but his posture has shifted, weight now centered incorrectly. I prepare to drop my weight again, to twist and strike at his knee—when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness at the alley's entrance.

In one heartbeat, the two men are advancing on me. In the next, the newcomer is among us, moving with lethal grace that makes my mother's training look like a child's game.

My first assailant flies backward, skull connecting with the stone wall with a sickening crack. The man holding me releases his grip instantly, turning to face the new threat. Too late. Silver eyes flash in the darkness—the stranger from the boulevard—as he executes a precise combination of strikes that drops my second attacker to the ground, gurgling through a crushed windpipe.

Just like that, it's over. Fifteen seconds of contained violence, executed with chilling precision.

The silver-eyed stranger stands motionless,not even breathing hard, assessing the fallen men with clinical detachment. Meanwhile, I assess him. He is handsome, to say the least. And when I catch a longer glimpse of his face, it makes my heart jump in my chest. Wicked thoughts of that face leaning in to mine… those lips pressing against my own… startle me. I am a Markov, not allowed to give in to passing fancies.

Then those unsettling eyes lift to mine, and something electric passes between us—recognition of kindred darkness, perhaps. Or perhaps that lingering gaze on me means he is into me as much as I am into him.

"You're bleeding," he says, voice deep and accented with what I recognize as St. Petersburg refinement beneath careful neutrality.

I touch my temple where pain pulses steadily, fingers coming away red. "I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have." Something like respect flickers across his face as he retrieves my knife from the ground, examining its quality before offering it back to me, handle first. "Good choice of weapon. Poor choice of allies."

"They weren't my allies." I accept the knife, our fingers brushing momentarily. Unexpected heat blooms from that brief contact, startling in its intensity.

"Evidently not." He glances at the men on the ground. The first is unconscious, the second still struggling for breath. "They'll live. Unfortunately."

Rain begins to fall, fat droplets quickly becoming a deluge, typical of Paris in spring. Within seconds, my hair is plastered to my face, blood diluting to pink as it trickles down my cheek.

"We should go," he says, suddenly urgent, gripping my elbow. "Their associates will be looking for them soon."

I should pull away. I should thank him politely and return to my hotel. I should call my father and inform him of the incident. I should do anything except what I actually do: allow this dangerous stranger to guide me away from the scene, his hand firm against the small of my back.

"You know who I am," I say as we emerge onto a boulevard, rain sheeting down around us.

He flags down a taxi with imperious confidence. "Yes."

"And you know who they were."

"Yes." He opens the cab door, gesturing me inside.

"But I don't know who you are." I remain on the sidewalk, rain soaking through my dress.

Something like amusement touches his lips. "No. You don't."

"Why should I go anywhere with you?"

The rain intensifies, thunder rumbling overhead. He steps closer, close enough that I can see droplets clinging to his eyelashes, can smell the subtle notes of his cologne beneath the rain-washed air.

"Because whoever sent those men will send more," he says, voice low and intimate despite the thundering storm. "Because you're injured and need medical attention. Because your hotel is being watched." He pauses, silver eyes holding mine with hypnotic intensity. "And because you want to."

The last words hang between us, accurate in ways I refuse to examine.

"I have a secure location nearby," he continues. "You can clean up, make whatever calls you need to make, and I'll ensure you return safely to your hotel afterward."

I should refuse. Every instinct my father instilled screams to reject this offer from an unknown variable.

But my mother's voice whispers something different:Sometimes safety lies in the most dangerous places, Nastya.

Thunder cracks overhead, the storm fully unleashing its fury. In that moment of chaos, I make my decision, sliding into the taxi's backseat. He follows, closing the door on the stormy night.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he gives the driver an address in rapid, perfect French.

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