Page 30 of The Enforcer's Vow


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"You're certain she'll go along with it?"

I think about last night. The way she looked at me afterward, vulnerable and wanting. The way she didn't pull away when I touched her face. "She's already made her choice. She just doesn't know it yet."

Rolan nods slowly. "Do it. But Maksim..." He leans forward. "Don't get sloppy. This is strategy, not romance."

"I know what it is."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's forgetting the difference."

I drain my glass and set it down. "I never forget." His words are a mild threat because he knows me, and he's probably read me like a book to know that something more is going on beneath the surface.

"Good. Because if you do, if you let emotions cloud your judgment, I'll handle the girl myself. And you won't like my methods."

The threat is unspoken but understood. I nod once and leave him to his paperwork.

Outside, the afternoon air carries the scent of rain. I sit in my car for a moment, letting the engine idle, thinking about what comes next. The announcement will change everything. It will make her mine in ways that go beyond the physical. It will also paint a target on her back.

I pull out my phone and dial her number. She answers on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Zoya. I want to see you."

There's a pause on the line before she says, "When?"

"Now. I'll pick you up," I suggest, and I'm already buckling up to drive.

"I'm at work."

"Leave."

Another pause, longer this time. "Maksim?—"

"Please."

The word surprises us both. I don't ask for things. I take them. But with her, everything feels different. More fragile. More important.

"All right," she says finally. "I'll be outside in ten minutes."

I drive to the track and find her waiting by the employee entrance. She's wearing a pair of black jeans that fit her perfectly, her hair pulled back in a simple bun. She looks professional, untouchable. But I know better now. I know what she sounds like when she comes apart.

She slides into the passenger seat without a word. I pull away from the curb and head east, toward the lake house.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Somewhere quiet."

She doesn't ask for details. She watches the city pass outside her window, her hands folded in her lap. I want to reach for her, to touch her, but I force myself to wait. Patience is a weapon I've learned to use.

The lake house sits forty minutes outside the city, hidden behind a screen of birch trees. It's smaller than the estate, more intimate. A place for privacy rather than display. I park near the front door and kill the engine.

"What is this place?" she asks.

"Family property. Somewhere we can talk without interruption."

She follows me inside. The main room is simple, comfortable. A stone fireplace dominates one wall and bookshelves line another. I light a fire and pour two glasses of wine from the bottle I keep here for occasions that require softer edges.

She accepts the glass but doesn't drink. "You wanted to talk."