Page 13 of Possessive Vows

And not only because of the man dying at my feet.

I look up—and up—past a broad chest, impossibly wide shoulders, a square jaw, thin lips, and a crooked nose, to the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

A spark of heat flares in my veins, but it dies under the icy onslaught of my memories.

I’ll never trust a man again.

When he opens his mouth and speaks with a heavy Russian accent, every cell in my body freezes in terror and my mind replays the brutality I barely survived a year ago.

“I have found you,so´lnyshka. You will come with me.”

I’m doomed.

Sheer terror locks me in place, and for several harrowing moments, I forget how to breathe.

Visions of my niece cradled in my lap snap me out of my stupor. I bolt toward the nearest security cameras hidden in the fountain.

My joints fail me and my muscles seize, ending my pathetic attempt at escape before I even make it halfway to the fountain. White-hot agony spears through my ankle, hip, and arm as pain radiates from my abdomen. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils. I fall to my knees in the grass and vomit, expecting cruel hands to grab me at any second.

A fabric handkerchief lands in the grass beside my hand. I flinch before my brain registers what it is. With fear, pain, and trepidation pounding through me, I spit to clear my mouth and curl my fingers into the lush green grass, unwilling to accept anything from the man.

I blink in shock as a bloody knife thumps to the ground beside the handkerchief.

The knife he used to kill the other man. I gasp as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits me.

The other man. I saw him at the salad bar. He recognized me because he hurt me that night a year ago and followed me because he wanted to hurt me again.

My head spins as I realize another monster from my nightmares is dead. Murdered in cold blood. His demise was too quick. Too easy.

But he didn’t get to touch me again because of the massive angel of death looming over me.

A tremor wracks my spine, but I grab the handkerchief, wipe my mouth, and lift my head.

The mountain of a man stands further back on the trail, watching me with his icy-blue eyes. He doesn’t have a speck of blood on him.

His accented voice echoes in my mind and I fight the urge to scramble away again, but with herculean effort, I sort through my demons’ taunting and try to match him with one of my attackers.

I can’t. His deep, smooth tone is nothing like the rough, guttural voices of the men who hurt me.

The man takes a small step back, but the movement only makes him seem bigger.

“My knife is yours now, Camilla, as are my hands,” he says.

The ground drops an inch, taking my stomach with it, but the urge to vomit again never rises. Heat curls through my abdomen and my pulse leaps as wicked delight courses through my veins, his voice so rich it clears the echoes of violence from my mind, but I shake my head and dispel the urge to accept his offer.

He knows my name. He speaks Russian and English. He knows I need protection.

This man is dangerous. His intense eyes brook no argument, but I shake my head again.

“Who are you?” I manage in a hoarse voice.

“I am Dimitri Volkov, eldest son of Nikolai Volkov andubiytsaof the Volkov family. My brother has harmed you. You are mine to protect now,” he says.

I blink in shock. Part of me expected him to growl and refuse to answer me, so I need a moment to process his straightforward, honest reply.

“Why should I trust you?”

It’s a ridiculous question. His bloody knife and the dead man should be enough proof. Add in the distance he gives me and the handkerchief crumpled in my fist, and any sane person would trust him.

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