2. Mel

That was probably the nicest, most supportive thing Tiffany has said to me since we met, and it means a lot.

Should I tell Gleb?

I am really excited about the modeling gig I just found out I landed, and Gleb will find out eventually. Better to just get it over with and hope he doesn't try to stop me. Biting my lower lip, I hunt down my nerve as I look up into his seafoam green eyes.

God, it's hard to focus when he looks at me like that. As he stalks toward me, my heart flutters with nervous anticipation. Only Gleb can move without making a single sound.

It's almost unnerving, and yet, his fluid, graceful prowl is so natural to him that I can't help but admire his stealthy poise. The sight of his dangerously attractive, almost feline, angular features and striking green eyes steals my breath away in an instant.

I don't usually find men so appealing. Just as the mouse doesn't find a house cat particularly pleasing to the eye. But Gleb has tall, dark, and handsome down pat, with a flourish of dark, brooding savior complex to top it off.

It certainly doesn't hurt his case that he's the one who saved me from a lifetime of servitude as some sick bastard's sex slave.

"Show me what, Melody?" he asks, his silky-smooth Russian accent and soft, even voice sending goosebumps rippling across my flesh. He never calls me by my full name.

"If I show you, will you promise not to get mad?" It's a cheap trick, I know—getting him to promise without knowing what he might get mad about. But all I can think about is how much trouble I'll be in.

Because Gleb is going to be furious when he finds out what I've done. Lie low. Don't do anything that might draw unnecessary attention until the danger has passed. Those were his only instructions. And what did I do? Apply to a top modeling agency that could potentially put me on the cover of a very prominent New York magazine, not to mention the very public New York modeling scene. I know he won't like what I did, so I'm hoping my trick will help soften the blow.

His angular brows dip, forming sharp downward lines that confirm his suspicion. "Why would I get mad?" Gleb's eyes narrow, his perceptive gaze penetrating my soul with ease, and I feel as though he already knows what I'm hiding but is waiting for me to say it.

"Just promise," I plead, my heartbeat quickening as a frozen knot of anxiety drops into the pit of my stomach.

"Okay. I promise I won't get mad." His tone is dry, a sure sign that he's laughing at me—at least on the inside. I have yet to hear Gleb actually laugh. And after what I'm about to tell him, I know today won't be the day either.

Still, it makes my palms sweat.

I shouldn't care so much about what a man thinks. I generally don't care about what men think of me. But with Gleb, I can't seem to help but want his approval. It's probably just some kind of trauma survivor's complex—my gratitude for him saving me has amplified to an unhealthy degree, so it feels like I have a massive crush on him.

All I know is that the inexplicable devotion I feel toward him has had me tangled in knots for weeks. But that doesn't explain why my stomach flutters every time he enters a room.

And I hate the thought of disappointing him far more than I should.

Which is why I really don't want him to know what I've done.

Because he hates it when I question his rules or challenge his decisions. I would know. Because I do it a lot.

"Well, remember how Silvia's photographer friend Dani came by the house a while back? And we did a photoshoot?"

Gleb follows my movement like a silent shadow as I return to the kitchen table. Reluctantly, I open the manila envelope to pull out my photos as I go.

"Yes?" he says, his answer coming out more like a question. Then his eyes fall on the headshots I spread across the table once more. I can read the riot of emotion that flickers in their depths. Yet his face remains still, serene, like the surface of a lake that mirrors the sky, not giving anything away.

Swallowing hard, I press onward. "Well… she might have suggested I try sending these into a few agencies—to see if I could get some kind of fashion or modeling opportunity out of them."

Gleb's eyes snap sharply up to meet mine, and I can see the anger in them despite his promise.

Still, I forge ahead, knowing it's better to rip the Band-Aid off than to drag this out any longer. "I have my first professional photoshoot next week," I whisper, my voice almost apologetic, though I'm not sorry for my success. I just don't like disappointing Gleb, and I brace for the full force of his wrath after having confessed my defiance of his wishes.

"And this is going to help you keep a low profile, how?" he asks, his voice as smooth and undisturbed as the glassy surface of a mountain lake. Then he releases an aggravated sigh, his first true expression of the frustration that I know lies within. Closing his eyes, he massages his temples as if searching for the excessive amount of patience it takes to deal with me.

"Gleb?" I say tentatively, leaning closer as my anxiety consumes me. I hate when he closes his eyes because they're the only way I have an inkling of what he's really feeling. And right now, I'm not sure if I've taken Gleb to the end of his rope and should perhaps consider running.

Not that he's ever laid a hand on me or has even hinted that he might. But I've learned the hard way that men are not to be trusted—regardless of how considerate they might pretend to be at first.

Gleb's eyes snap open, finding mine with a terrifying intensity that makes my stomach tremble.

"You promised not to get mad," I remind him, my last wall of defense, before I really do make a run for it.

"I'm not mad," he growls, his tone suddenly gruff. And for a fraction of a moment, I think he might reach out and grab me. Then he shoves his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks as if to keep them occupied until he can calm down and control himself. "I suppose I'm proud of you for being bold enough to follow your interests."

Am I going crazy, or does he actually sound like he means it?That's not at all the reaction I was expecting. "Really?" I blurt, unable to contain my disbelief.

Maybe I got myself all worked up for nothing. Maybe I misunderstood Gleb's warning—or maybe he came by today to tell us that the danger's passed. That Mikhail Sidorov won't be coming to collect his stolen goods, and we don't have to keep hiding. I hadn't even thought of that possibility.

"I just wish you might have picked something that didn't entail risking your life," Gleb states. He keeps talking, but all I can hear is that he's proud of me. He's not mad. He thinks I'm bold.

And suddenly, I can't help the giddy excitement that bubbles up inside me. I want this modeling opportunity so bad. It's the first thing I've dared to dream of accomplishing for myself. And the only thing that stood in my way of being ecstatic about it before was worrying that my decision might cause more trouble for Gleb. He's already under enough stress.

Overwhelmed by the sudden and intense relief that floods my chest, I release a girlish squeal and fling my arms around Gleb's neck to say thank you. Only, in my excitement, I don't think it through.

And rather than just the hug I'd intended, our lips meet in a full and entirely-too-enthusiastic kiss. A jolt of attraction blasts through me, leaving my lips tingling as if they'd been zapped with an electric shock.

But what I feel more powerfully than that is the way Gleb stiffens, his shoulders tensing beneath my arms as his back becomes an iron rod of discomfort. I've completely crossed the line. In my excitement, I didn't think twice about how my unhealthy crush might make me act foolish in front of him.

And now I've gone and kissed the one man who's shown me nothing but respect and consideration. Shame and remorse flood my chest. Tears sting my eyes as I step back, feeling ridiculously rejected by Gleb's response.

"I'm so sorry," I say, my skin heating with embarrassment. "I shouldn't have done that. I just…" God, I've ruined everything.

I can't even bring myself to meet Gleb's eyes, and my horror intensifies as I realize I'm starting to cry. What is wrong with me?

I don't stick around to find out what stupid thing I might decide to do next. Turning tail, I flee so I don't have to face Gleb. After that rash, adolescent display, I don't know that I'll ever be able to look him in the face again.

"Mel!" he calls after me, confusion and conflict in his tone. He's probably reluctant to explain why he doesn't want me or why I shouldn't go around kissing him like that.

I dash from the kitchen, making a beeline for the stairs, intent on reaching my room before Gleb can see the tears streaming down my cheeks. I slam my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for good measure. Not that I think he would chase me all the way up here. Hell, he's probably just grateful we don't have to have that awkward it's-not-you-it's-me conversation.

I can't believe I just kissed him.

And though I'm mortified, now that I'm alone, I can't help but press my fingers to my still-tingling lips. He's the first man I've actually wanted to kiss, and the experience was so different from any of the other kisses I've had in my life; it doesn't even fit in the same category.

Now that I've done it, now that I've shattered that boundary Gleb has so carefully enforced, I don't know that I can go back to the way things were.

Despite my overwhelming embarrassment at his rejection, I want to kiss him again.

I can hear the muffled sound of Gleb and Igor talking, then the door closes as Gleb leaves. A hint of disappointment works its way into my belly. A small part of me had hoped he might follow me upstairs and tell me he changed his mind. That he does want me.

But it would seem not.

Why is unrequited love so painful?

Maybe it's part of what they call growing pains. But at eighteen, I would think I might be past the worst of life's hard-learned lessons. Then again, because of my past, I suppose I'm a late bloomer when it comes to romance or crushes.

I was too young to care for boys when my dad sent me to Colorado to live with my uncle. And what I experienced there made it very hard to look at boys the same way. So, my feelings for Gleb are a first. I feel like I'm back in that awkward tween space where I don't know how to behave.

But crying over his rejection won't make me feel any more mature. So, taking a deep, steadying breath, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and determinedly refocus my attention. I can keep myself busy to take my mind off the mortifying scene that just happened. Since my next serving shift isn't until tomorrow morning, I can get some work done around the house.

Heading to my closet, I pull out my plastic laundry hamper and prop an edge onto my hip. Then I head back out of my room, toward the stairs and the laundry room one floor below.

Through the wooden spindles of the railing, I spot Igor, the handle of his gun casually protruding from the back of his pants as he stands guard near the door. He has his phone pressed to his ear, listening, and after a moment, he answers in muted Russian.

Then, a rap comes at the front door.

My stomach drops, my heart rate picking up as I hope for a fleeting moment that it might be Gleb coming back, that maybe he's had a minute to think about the kiss I sprung on him, and he's reconsidered what he wants to do about it.

Igor raises his voice, speaking in Russian to the person outside, his lips curving into a smirk. But when no one answers, he quickly gets off the phone, slipping it back into his pocket. A moment later, his brows press into a frown as he stares more pointedly at the door.

My steps falter as he says something with a tone of clear warning this time, his hand moving to his gun in his waistband. The moment of silent stillness that follows makes my heart skip a beat. Then, an ear-splitting report of machine gunfire fills the entryway.

Holes blast through the wood door, obliterating the lock and traveling upward in a quick line that pummels Igor before he can move. His body twists and jerks with the force of the bullets impacting his chest.

He stumbles back, blood bursting from his lips, and I cover my mouth to muffle the scream that threatens to escape. Annie and Tif don't seem to consider the danger of making their presence known, though. Both let out terrified shouts somewhere down the first-floor hallway.

Then a foot slams into the bullet-riddled front door, smashing it open so hard that the damaged knob puts a hole in the wall behind it.

I have mere seconds to act before whoever the intruder is finds me in the stairwell. It takes all my willpower to tear my eyes from the devastating sight of Igor slowly sliding down the wall, a last gurgling breath escaping his lips.

I don't have time to think about him now, don't have time to mourn.

Spinning as swiftly and as silently as I can, I race back upstairs and into my bedroom at the far end of the hall. Setting my laundry down as silently as I can, I ease my bedroom door closed. Then, I search frantically for what to do next.

I can't climb out the window. The two-story drop could easily break a leg, and then where would I be? My eyes land on my open closet, and I race across the room to slip inside. Pulling the folding doors closed behind me, I can see using the filtered light pouring between the slats as I crouch low on the floor.

It's a tactic I often used when I was a child and my dad came home drunk. I can only hope the intruder is as belligerent and oblivious as my alcoholic father was. But somehow, I doubt it, and that makes this a hundred times scarier.

Beneath me, I can hear heavy footsteps and the rapid fire of machine guns—more than one. Annie's voice carries through the floor, her terrified pleas wrenching my heart.

It's horrible.

The cold, apathetic Russian man who replies triggers memories of those dark, terrible days and nights spent scared out of my mind as a transport truck carried me and several dozen girls, including Annie and Tif, across the country to an unknown destination. I thought I would die in that truck. By the end, I almost welcomed death.

I can't do it again.

My mind flashes to Gleb, the man who saved me from that horrible fate, and I quickly reach into my back pocket to fish out my phone. Adrenaline makes my fingers shake as I search for his number—the one I've never used but that he gave me in case of an emergency.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Tif screams below, and the muted scuffle that follows makes my stomach knot.

A second later, I hear a resounding thwack, followed by something hitting the floor.

Who are these people? Are they Zhivoder men coming to reclaim us, like Gleb warned they might?That's why he's been so insistent on a twenty-four-hour guard stationed at our house. Little good that did.

Tears sting my eyes as I think of Igor's lifeless body propped against the wall. The moisture blurs my vision, and I quickly blink it away as I find the number I'm looking for and hit call.

Please, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up!I'm terrified he might try to avoid me now because of my brazen kiss. What if he doesn't answer?

Annie and Tif both release terrified screams as fresh machine-gun fire erupts through the house, turning my blood cold. A heavy thunk follows, telling me another of our guards has likely fallen. I hold my breath, fighting the urge to cry as the sound of a body dragging across the floor synchronizes with Annie's terrified wail. A sob escapes me before I can trap it, and I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose to stifle the sound.

Right now, I would do just about anything Gleb told me to. Because I never want to suffer the horrible fate I faced before he saved me.

But my hope slowly slips away as the phone just keeps on ringing…