Page 38 of Savage Vows
But I can’t. Not when she’s this close.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
A message from Markov, one of my lieutenants:Possible sighting of Julianne. Upstate New York.
I stare at the words for a long moment.
When I first learned she’d left, and her sister was taking her place, I felt nothing. It was a problem solved before it became mine. But my father had other plans.
He meant to find Julianne, bring her back, and make an example of her. Not because he wanted her—but because the city needed to see what happens when you walk away from the Volkovs.
I tap out my reply:Keep an eye on her. And the man she ran with.
Another pause, then I add:One of Roman’s men, you said?
Markov confirms it.
That would be humiliating enough—knowing a Petrova ran off with someone inside her father’s own circle.
I set the phone down and close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. My mind turns over the details, calculating. Julianne’s face blends with Adriana’s. I picture them side by side—the one who ran and the one who stayed. The one in the next room.
I roll onto my back and stare into the dark. The night stretches on, and sleep stays out of reach, so I get dressed and go outside.
The back door opens to the terrace and then the lawn. Stone still holds a little night cold. The grass is wet with dew. The air smells like damp earth and the last of the rain that passed after midnight. I wheel the freestanding bag out from under the awning and set it near the flagstones where the footing is good.
Wraps on. Gloves on. I start slow to wake my shoulders.
Jab, cross, hook. Breathe on the count.
The chain inside the stand clicks on each swing. In the distance a truck downshifts, then the sound fades. A bird starts up in the maple by the fence. The sky in the east trades black for a heavy gray. Dawn is coming on.
I move my feet on the flagstones, feel the seam lines through the soles. Sweat runs under the collar of my T-shirt. Scar tissue along my back pulls when I turn my hips. The rhythm settles my head.
Between rounds I roll my neck and look up at the house. Her window sits above the terrace, second floor, far right. Curtains are closed. I take a drink from the bottle on the step and go back to work.
On the next break the light has shifted. Gray to pale blue. I catch a change at the glass. A curtain moves a thumb’s width. Then a small shape. Hair loose. Pink sleep shirt. She’s there, resting her hands on the sill, watching.
I keep my eyes on the bag, let it swing, then turn with it as if it’s part of the drill. For a second, the glass gives me her face. Notclear. Enough. She realizes I see her and the curtain falls back into place. The window goes still.
I take the gloves off and set them on the step. My breath clouds a little in the cool. A sprinkler ticks at the edge of the hedge.
I keep seeing her the way she looked last night—in that baby doll, the hem riding up her thighs, the lace clinging to her tits. I never got to see them bare. Just the outline, the hard little peaks pressing through the fabric when I had my mouth between her legs.
Fuck, I wanted to tear it off. To get my hands on her tits, feel the weight of them in my palms while she gasped into my mouth. I can imagine it too easily—her nipples hard against my thumbs, her back arching as I suck one into my mouth, her fingers pulling my hair while I work the other with my hand.
I’d have her moaning for me, shaking under me, begging for my cock before I even gave it to her.
My fist stills against the bag. Christ, I’m hard again.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to breathe it off, but it’s no use. I grab my towel and head inside, the hallway cool and dim.
I step into the kitchen and almost run straight into my mother. She’s pouring tea, her robe wrapped tight around her, hair neat despite the early hour.
She glances up at me, one brow lifting. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head, reaching for a glass. “Something like that.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to read me.
