Page 28 of Vendetta Vows

He pats my shoulders affectionately as he used to when we were children. "I should go. Tamara will be wondering where I am."

My hands clench at my sides at the mention of her name, but I say nothing.

As he reaches for the door handle, he pauses, turning back to face me. A humorless smile plays at his lips.

"Remember what I said. The jungle is about to tear itself down. It's going to rebuild into something different. You can either chop the trees down, or you can be one of the thousands who'll get buried in the process."

He pauses, and his next words send ice through my veins.

"For your sake, and your new toy's sake, I hope you choose wisely."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering threat in the air.

9

AURORA

My eyes snapopen in the darkness of my bedroom.

My chest heaves, skin slick with sweat, heart racing like I've run a marathon. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and there's an aching emptiness between my thighs that makes me want to scream in frustration.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. But all I can see is Ruslan's face, feel his hands, hear his voice calling me "zarechka."

"Fuck," I whisper into the empty room, my body still throbbing with need.

I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow.

Every night since I fled Nikoforov like some modern-day Cinderella leaving behind more than just a glass slipper has been the same.

Dreams of Ruslan's lips on mine, his hands exploring my body, the heat of his desire pressed against me.

And every night, I jerk awake hours before dawn and moments before dream-Ruslan enters me, body humming with desire.

Slowly, I push myself out of bed and pad across the cold floor. My body is on fire, demanding a release.

The ache between my legs hasn't subsided, and something else has joined it as I approach the window and feel a prickling at the back of my neck that has nothing to do with my dream.

I square my shoulders before leaning closer to the glass. It's a habit I've developed over the years.

The street below is empty, bathed in the orange glow of street lamps save for a particularly dark part of the block where the light has gone out months ago.

My heart beats a rapid staccato against my ribs as I stare into that patch of darkness.

I can't shake this feeling, thiscertainty, that someone is out there watching me.

For a whole week, I've been bracing myself for the inevitable. A bouquet of white lilies on my doorstep. A heart-shaped box of chocolates with each piece bearing another letter of my name. A silver necklace with my initials engraved on it.

But there's been nothing. No gifts. No notes written in that eerily perfect handwriting professing his undying love. No anonymized phone calls that hang up as soon as I answer.

Standing at my window, I press my fingertips against the cool glass. My fingers trace patterns on the condensation my breath leaves behind.

I canfeelit.

Eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

But it doesn't feel like I'm being hunted.

It feels like someone's studying me. Learning me.

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