But intimidation only works when the target is afraid.
And I’m not afraid. I’m pissed.
My finger rests against the trigger, steady as stone. Knox breathes evenly beside me, his own weapon locked on one of the guards. In my peripheral vision, I catch Tyson’s slight nod—he’s ready to move if this goes sideways.
Orlov’s pale eyes narrow to slits as he studies my face. Looking for weakness, for doubt, for any sign that I might fold under pressure.
He won’t find any.
“You’re serious,” he says finally, genuine surprise in his voice. “You’dactually shoot.”
“Without hesitation.”
The warehouse falls silent except for the distant hum of traffic beyond the walls. Twelve guns pointed at four. Those odds should terrify any sane person.
Good thing sanity has never been my strong suit.
Orlov takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine. Another step. Then another. The movement is slight, barely perceptible, but I catch it—the way his shoulders drop a fraction.
“You’re making a mistake, Xavier,” he says, but the heat has gone out of his voice. “The Orlov Bratva has a long memory.”
“So do the Blackwoods.”
He jerks his head toward his men, a sharp, silent edict that they follow. They begin backing toward their vehicles, weapons still raised but no longer actively targeting us. Orlov himself retreats more slowly, his gaze locked on mine like we’re animals circling each other.
“This isn’t over,” he calls out as he reaches the lead SUV.
“Yes, it is.”
The doors slam shut. Engines roar to life, and within seconds, the three vehicles are reversing out of the warehouse bay, their headlights sweeping across the concrete walls before disappearing into the night.
Only when the sound of their engines fades do I lower my weapon.
42
MIRA
The sound of the penthouse door closing wakes me from restless sleep. I’ve been drifting in and out for hours, exhausted, but my mind wouldn't stop racing with everything that’s happened, everything Xavier said before he left.
You’re my property, not my confidante.
The words still sting, sharp and cutting in a way that makes my chest tight. I keep my eyes closed, listening to his footsteps cross the marble floor, the soft rustle of fabric as he removes his jacket. Part of me wants to roll over, to seek the warmth of him, to pretend his cruel dismissal never happened. But it did.
And the larger part of me—the part that spent years building walls around my heart to keep it safe—keeps me perfectly still.
“Mira.” His voice comes from beside the bed, low and rough. “I know you’re awake.”
I don’t respond. Don’t move. Don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
The mattress dips as he sits on the edge. His hand reaches for my shoulder, fingers brushing against the silk of the nightgown he chose for me. Even through the fabric, his touch burns.
I pull away.
“Don’t.”
The single word comes out flat, emotionless. That is exactly how I want it to sound. Need it to sound.
Xavier goes very still. “Look at me.”
