Chapter 4

POLINA

It's beautiful here in Moscow, but I don't feel like I belong. I want to be back home, in The Cove, where I was raised. I long for the salty sea air, the simpler world that was black and white and so familiar. Even though my family, most notably my oldest brother, is driving me crazy, I like it there. My brothers have all married, and I adore their wives. We're a tight-knit group, and I love all of my sisters-in-law. I miss them.

And it's interesting to see my mother in Moscow. She has history here—friends and some family, and everybody wants to see her. She wants to keep our presence quiet, though, so this time, our visit is almost secretive. We are in a small apartment on the outskirts of Moscow, which is admittedly a nice change. I'm used to living in a large home, with lots of people who work for us, and it's strangely nice to do things like prepare my own meals and know that the only people working for us are our bodyguards.

It's impossible to ask for freedom from our vigilant guards. I couldn’t escape their watchful eyes if I tried. They're here to keep me safe.

It's not often that I see fear in my brother's eyes. But he wasn't just afraid—he was terrified. The entire way here, I kept looking over my shoulder.

Here in Moscow, I'm unfamiliar with the guards—older men, friends of my mother's. She says they worked with my father back in the day. I'm a little surprised by these other people my mother has chosen because they're not as agile and young as the guards back at home. But there's a brutal efficiency I haven't seen before.

One of them only speaks Russian, which pleases my mother. She loves her native tongue, and we rarely speak it at home. He's taller than I am, with a large frame, but when you look closely, there are liver spots on his hands, and his skin looks like well-worn leather. Still, there's a cold calculation in his eyes that tells me he will stop at nothing to do his job. And I suppose that's what my brothers want the most. The other is taller, his gray hair slicked back from a broad forehead. Scars run along his cheek, down his neck, and under the shirt that he wears close to his skin. He's a soldier who's proved himself in battle, though the war he fought was probably decades ago. Both men don't speak to us. Both stand guard. Both are like shadows that never quite go away.

And both of them need to sleep, which works well for me.

I'm not foolish or impulsive, but I do like some space, and I can't be blamed if I want to go for a little walk.

So early on a Friday morning, two days after we arrive in Moscow, I get out of bed and into a pair of running pants and a tank top. It's beautiful here in Moscow in the early morning, especially in the secluded part where we are. Early mornings feel magical, as though the world holds its breath for daybreak.

When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that the fairies danced at dawn, sprinkling fairy dust on dew. Aleksandr, the pragmatic brother of mine, would explain in brutally scientific terms what really happened, but I just told myself that he was ignorant of the ways of the fae. And even now, as an adult, I like to imagine the way my breath becomes vapor, the early morning fog swallows my footsteps, and the way even my thoughts seem to tiptoe from one to the other signifies that there is something magical about early morning.

So I slip out the door and lace up the running shoes I left in the entryway.

Of course, it shouldn't surprise me that I don't get too far.

"Where do you think you're going?" a raspy voice says in Russian behind me. I grit my teeth.

“Out for a run. Care to join me?"

"I don't run, so neither do you."

Oh no, he does not. "I do, so I guess you better get your shit together."

He curses behind me when I start to warm up. And thankfully, he's right. He doesn't run. He sucks at it.

Finally, a little taste of freedom. I can outrun this bastard.

Even if he does catch me, I have defense training that my sister-in-law Isabella taught me, thank you very much.

The first mile always makes me feel like I am suffocating, but I lean into it, sucking wind and waiting for that moment to hit—and then it does. I hit my stride. Adrenaline courses through me. I breathe more freely, sweat knits my brow, and an early morning wind kisses my skin. This . Freedom. There's something about pushing my body, the wind in my hair, the way my skin feels, that makes me feel alive.

My guard calls out after me, but I toss over my shoulder, "If you want to stay close to me, pick up the fucking pace."

I turn the corner, and sunlight nearly blinds me. The sun has begun to rise, orange fingers of light kissing the ground around me. It's beautiful. Pregnant with possibility, but at the same time, as the sunrise paints the sky in vivid orange and yellow, I become aware of the fact that I'm not alone, and it's definitely not my bodyguard who’s following me.

A second pair of footsteps matches mine. No, not matches.

The person behind me is running faster than I am.

My heart kicks up because now I have a dilemma. I have to run slower for my guard to catch up, but whoever's behind me will catch up first.

I've made a mistake. A grave, grave mistake.

Ahead of me lies a patch of green, a tiny park nestled in a secluded area of Moscow, flanked on either side by brick buildings. I could rent one of the buildings, but every residence is closed right now. Running to the park would at least give me a view of whoever’s following me. I take a sharp left, the smell of flowers filling my senses. An older woman with a cane in her right hand holds a dog leash in her left. Her tiny dog looks at us in surprise and yaps. I run right past, glancing behind me.

Shit. I wasn't wrong. My pulse spikes. A man runs behind me, wearing a sleeveless white tank T-shirt, baggy faded blue Adidas track pants and running shoes. I don't take the time to look too closely, but from here, I can tell he's built—muscled and covered in ink. Fuck .

He’s chasing me.

Even as I run, I notice how every passerby looks right past me, their attention fixed on the man pursuing me. Do they have no idea what he’s doing? One young woman flicks her hair over her shoulder as if trying to catch his attention, and another pair of women stop talking mid-sentence. One makes a low growl of approval, and the other covers her mouth, giggling, her eyes fixated on the paragon of masculine perfection who’s chasing… me .

My god, don’t they see how dangerous he is? Or is that what makes them blind to the peril I’m in?

I duck under a vine-covered trellis, my mind racing. At first, when I heard those footsteps, I went through the usual doubts. Maybe it's just somebody going for a run. Maybe he doesn't know who I am. But one look at that man and I knew that all of my fears were right—he knows me, and he's after me, and he’s nothing but raw, alpha male with a mission.

Fuck . I didn't bring a weapon with me. But I know how to get away if he catches me. What else can I do? One more glance over my shoulder, and this time, I realize he's close enough to meet my eyes. Close enough that his gaze locks onto mine—dark, menacing… swallowing me whole.

Raw fear lances through my chest the moment his dark eyes connect with mine. I’m too far to make out the color, but it doesn’t matter. They’re dark and bottomless, an abyss ready to pull me under. Something about his gaze reaches deep inside me, an invisible noose around my throat. It isn’t just the threat but the raw power, the absolute control that burns in his eyes, daring me to defy him. My pulse races, and heat rises to the surface of my skin. He’s not just watching me. He’s after me with a marksman’s laser focus. Nothing about that look tells me I have a chance of escape. It’s a promise that he’ll catch me—and when he does, I’ll be wholly at his mercy.

My adrenaline spikes, and I try to run faster. But it's not fast enough. He isn't even winded, and I feel as if my lungs are going to burst. It looks like he's jogging.

A busy street. I look over my shoulder again, and he's so close to me now, I can see the broad expanse of his shoulders, slicked with sweat, the corded muscles of his arms and chest. To my right, two women in workout clothes jog at a slow pace. One smiles at the other and murmurs something, and the two women look appreciatively at the man behind me. There's something about him that says raw, attractive male—preen yourselves, ladies. Do they not see the menace in his face?

Oh god… What does he have wrapped around his hand? A rope? Is that a chain ?

"Stop!" he commands, his voice a deep, low growl. Another woman nearby watches him in wide-eyed wonder, awe written in her features. Yes, yes, he’s sexy, masculine perfection, but don’t they realize he’s dangerous?

I keep running. "I know who you are. You know what you did. Stop."

What ?

There's nowhere else to go. Ahead of me are the red-brick walls of the Kremlin, the symbol of Russian power and authority. The sight of guards patrolling in front of me enhances my desperate need for help.

Why did I protest my brothers’ oppressive protection so much? I’d give anything for one of them right now.

In front of me I see a busy street, early morning commuters already racing to get to the office.

I decide to make a run for it when the unthinkable happens—he catches me. I scream when he grabs me by the waist from behind and pulls me against the rock-hard wall of his chest. I scream again, fighting against him, when a heavy, rough hand crashes against my mouth. A man ahead of me turns and starts our way. “Hey—” he begins, but he takes one look at my captor’s face and runs.

Oh my god.

His breath is hot on my neck as he whispers to me, “Did you really think you’d be able to get away from me?”

Within seconds, he’s ducked us both in a darkened alley near a brick building. I’m struggling, but it’s useless. He’s too strong for me, and everything I’ve learned about self-defense flies straight out of my head.

I struggle in his grip when he pins my wrist about my head, pressing me to the cold, rough brick. Our faces come dangerously close. It’s strange because he looks as if he… as if he knows me. This is no random attack. But I’ve never seen this man in my life—I would remember someone so devastatingly masculine, handsome, and terrifying .

I squirm when I feel heat radiating off him. “You fucked up,” he says, shaking his head at me with dark eyes that promise wicked retribution. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

“Me?” I gasp. “I don’t even know who you are.”

He takes a moment to snarl in fury at me, but it’s all that I need—that one split second. I aim for his groin but barely land the blow. Shit. He fumbles, grasping for me, but I’m already sprinting toward the street.

People. Cars. Crowds.

I have to cross the street and hope that he gets caught behind in traffic. I can make it. I can make it if I push with the last bit of energy I have, and then once I get into the street, I can melt into the crowds milling around Red Square. I know I can. I dash into the street and hear the blast of a horn. A crash. Blistering, searing pain, a deep bellow of rage behind me… then darkness.