Page 44 of Vendetta Vows

Relief.

For the first time in seven years, I'm not running alone.

12

RUSLAN

I guidemy car through the winding roads overlooking Los Angeles, stealing glances at Aurora's delicate fingers—still sticky with blood—intertwined in mine. Her touch sends electricity through my body, awakening something primal inside me.

But the guilt weighs heavier.

I watched her.Just like the monster she's been running from.

Aurora's head rests against the window, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The setting sun catches in her hair, painting it gold. She trusts me completely right now.

She trusts me to keep her safe when I'm no better than the bastard hunting her.

The memory of Leslie's blood spraying my face floods back. I couldn't protect her from Vitaly nineteen years ago.

But Aurora's hand squeezes mine tighter, as if she senses my dark thoughts. Her touch anchors me to this moment, to this promise.

I will not fail her.

The city stretches below us like a concrete carpet. Up here, we could be the only two people in the world. Aurora's thumb traces absent patterns on my skin, each touch both innocent and maddening. She has no idea what she does to me.

"You're safe with me,zarechka," I murmur, more to convince myself than her.

But the truth is, I don't deserve her trust. Not after watching her all week like some obsessed stalker. Not with the blood on my hands. Not with the darkness in my soul.

Yet when she looks at me with those haunted hazel eyes, I know I'll burn down the world to keep her safe. Whatever—whoever—she's running from won't touch her.

Not while she's mine to protect.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"You'll see."

The familiar route brings back memories I'd rather forget.

I turn onto the hidden access road, watching Aurora's expression shift from uncertainty to wonder as pristine hedges start replacing wild brush on either side.

The long driveway winding past hidden gardens hasn’t changed since I was a boy.

And neither have the imposing wrought-iron gates barring the entrance.

I press a button on the dashboard, and they swing open before us in silence.

In the distance, the mansion rises into view, and Aurora's sharp intake of breath echoes in the car. Stone walls rise three stories high, with multiple wings spreading outward like arms ready to envelop unwary visitors.

To me, it's a prison with the veneer of paradise.

But to her, it represents safety. Protection.

Armed men patrol the perimeter of the manicured grounds. Aurora's eyes track their movements, her fingers never leaving mine.

I bring the car to a stop at the grand entrance. Marble steps lead up to thick oak doors, and the Dragunov family crest is carved above them.

A bitter reminder of everything I tried to leave behind.

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