1. Gleb

Itold myself I wouldn't keep going by the girls' safe house, but I can't seem to stop myself. So, at the end of my day, on the way home from Pyotr's house, I walk right past my Harlem apartment building and keep going to the end of the block. I head down and around the corner to the five-bedroom home the girls rented together, just half a mile from my place.

It's not far out of the way. And stopping by puts my mind at ease.

Traipsing up the steps of the girls' redbrick Harlem home, I don't even have to knock before my man Igor opens the door. No doubt he saw me coming. He's used to my visits by now.

"Come for your daily inspection?" he jokes in Russian as soon as I step inside. "Here to make sure I'm still doing an adequate job?"

The door shuts softly behind me, and he throws the bolt home.

"Making sure I don't find you napping again," I say dryly. However, the only men I'm willing to station here are men I know I can trust to be on their best behavior and fully alert.

"Hey, I was just resting my eyes and training my other senses," he teases.

"Do training on your own time. I find you looking all relaxed like that again, you better have a bullet between your eyes." I'm not one for humor—especially when it comes to my job. And in my eyes, protecting these women falls squarely on my shoulders because my pakhan assured them they have the protection of the Veles.

"Sure thing, boss," Igor says, the grin dropping from his face.

I give him a curt nod before I stalk past him down the hall, heading toward the kitchen, where the girls often seem to gather. The somewhat shabby furnishings of the rental house give the space a warm, familiar, almost homey feel. And though I know Pyotr offered to house the girls in a finer, more comfortable location, I can respect the girls' determination to stand on their own two feet—well, ten feet collectively.

Considering Mikhail has agreed to Pyotr's ceasefire, I suppose the level of protection I've ordered for them isn't entirely unnecessary. I shouldn't be so hard on my men for getting comfortable when the girls have likely completely fallen off Mikhail's radar.

But as much as I respect my pakhan's efforts to find a peaceful resolution to our conflict, I don't trust the Zhivoder leader. And I'm not willing to gamble the girls' safety on the word of a sadistic madman like Mikhail.

I've known men like him my whole life. And if he's agreed to a ceasefire, it's only because it offers him some hidden advantage. I've told Pyotr that, but I'm afraid my young pakhan still has hard life lessons to learn. Not everyone can be as cynical as I am. Especially at my age.

So rather than argue with my boss, for now, I will continue to stick Igor and a handful of my men with the role of babysitter to the five remaining women we rescued from Mikhail's clutches. Unlike the dozens of other girls we hauled from that delivery truck, these five had no home to return to after we freed them, and I don't want them accidentally falling back into his hands.

Not that I imagine Mikhail would find them valuable enough to go to the trouble of hunting them down. But since the girls have gotten jobs and moved away from the Veles house, my intuition hasn't stopped tingling.

And I learned long ago to trust my gut instincts.

If I can thank my father for one thing, it's the training he's instilled in me so deeply that, in many ways, I'm more of a fine-tuned weapon than a human being. So when my senses tell me something's wrong, I listen. Which is why I find myself dropping by every day to check in on them. I've scoped the girls' safe house countless times since they moved in, but I can't shake the feeling that they're in danger.

Laughter from the kitchen catches my ear, and like a moth to the flame, I'm drawn toward the vibrant sound. I'm starting to wonder if the nagging sensation in my gut has more to do with my attraction to Mel than I'm willing to admit. Something about her captured my attention from the moment I laid eyes on her.

I will never forget that night, weeks ago, when my men and I raided the Zhivoder shipment of trafficked teenage girls coming in from Colorado. I can't scrub from my mind the horrible, terrified, drug-addled state Mikhail's men had put the girls in to subdue them.

And yet Melody, so vulnerable and entirely incapacitated, still managed to present such fierce defiance. The tongue on that woman could make a sailor blush. I found her captivating, her strength inspiring. Like a warrior princess, she was fearless despite her dire circumstances.

And now I can't seem to get her out of my head.

I should.

She doesn't deserve to be dragged into my fucked-up life. She's just eighteen—eight years younger than I am, which is practically a lifetime for a woman that age. Not to mention, she's had enough trauma at the hands of Mikhail's men. I don't need to punish her further by subjecting her to my world of violence and crime.

The sight of cheap particle board cabinets painted a soft mint green greets me. They line the outdated kitchen, and as I round the corner, stepping onto the black-and-white checkered floor, three sets of eyes look up at me. Three matching smiles accompany the sparkling gazes, and I can tell I've walked in on something exciting.

"Ladies," I greet, meeting Mel's, Annie's, and Tiffany's eyes each in turn.

"Hey, Gleb," Tiffany greets me, her fingers doing their signature move as they twirl the ringlets of her kinky blond hair.

But my eyes don't linger on her. Instead, they shift to track Mel's frantic movement. She scoops the papers scattered across the kitchen table into a messy pile and shoves them unceremoniously back into a manila envelope.

"You're not going to show him?" Annie asks, her brown doe eyes widening in disbelief.

"Show me what?" I gently prod the dark-haired, russet-skinned Hawaiian beauty, demonstrating a rare case of bashful energy.

"Nothing," Mel says, hugging the envelope to her chest, her chin tipping up defiantly.

Her oval face and delicate nose, which emphasize her prominent tear-shaped eyes, all come together to create a convincingly innocent look I don't trust for a second. Narrowing my eyes, I watch her expression closely, assessing the hidden emotion that tells me she doesn't want me to know whatever it is she was showing the girls.

"Oh, come on, Mel. Show him!" Tiffany insists, snatching the envelope from her grasp before Mel can stop her.

"Tif!" Mel objects, launching her upper body flat across the table to try and grab it back.

And though I know better than to look, I can't stop my eyes from dropping to her perfect jean-clad ass bent over the hard surface for me like a gift from the gods. I give her gorgeous figure a moment of admiration before forcing my eyes back up to the commotion.

To distract myself from unwanted thoughts, I snag the envelope from Tiffany and dare to slip my fingers inside the opening. "Keeping secrets, Mel?" I ask, my voice dropping into a dangerous octave.

"Give it back!" Mel squeals, leaping up off her chair with such impressive dexterity that I barely have time to react.

Stepping back until my hips find the Formica counter, I hold the envelope high above my head to keep it out of reach.

A terrible decision, really.

In her desperation to reclaim it, Melody doesn't hesitate to close the distance between us. Leaning into me, she stretches one arm to its full length as she rises onto her toes.

In a flash, I'm intensely aware of her firm, warm body pressed against mine, the way her breasts smoosh adamantly against my ribcage to create a hint of cleavage. The sweet vanilla scent of her perfume fills my nose. Her proximity overwhelms my senses, leaving my stomach in unexpected knots as my heart skips a beat.

"Gleb, please!" she begs, her tone somewhere between laughter and whining.

Though I'm insanely curious to know what she doesn't want me to see, I can't handle the feel of her body pressed against mine for much longer. My cock's already starting to harden.

Mel's hands tug fruitlessly against my raised arm, and I lower it to put space between us. She stumbles back, seemingly caught by surprise at my sudden readiness to return her envelope. I itch to reach out and steady her, but I've already pushed my luck far enough for one day. I shouldn't be risking contact with Melody at all. Not when I find her so dangerously intoxicating.

"Thank you," she says breathlessly, tucking a strand of thick black hair behind her ear.

She accepts the envelope when I hold it out to her.

"Ugh, you two are ridiculous," Tiffany says, slumping in her chair as if put out by our behavior. "I'm going to get ready for work. Come on, Annie. You better get ready, too, if you want a ride."

They stand together and head toward the hallway I just came from.

Hesitating in the doorway, Tiffany turns to look at Melody. "Just show him, Mel. You should be proud of yourself. It's a major accomplishment."

Her words have me burning with curiosity as she vanishes, leaving us alone in the kitchen.

Silence fills the space, followed by an awkwardness that stems from my inability to be alone with Mel without wanting to do dirty things to her. Fighting against the baser urge, I pull myself together.

When I turn my eyes back to Melody, I'm surprised to find a tentative look on her face. Trapping her full lower lip between her straight white teeth, she looks up at me through thick lashes with eyes so dark they're almost black.

When it comes to Mel, I've learned to expect obstinate, outspoken, and bold. This newfound shyness unsettles me as much as it awakens a strangely protective instinct deep inside my chest.