Page 40 of Vendetta Vows

The knife rises.

Suddenly, all I can see before my eyes are my family's lifeless faces. Their blood on the walls. That awful message.

And I know that this is how Jamie Fields dies.

For real this time.

Yet in that moment, I feel a strange peace, like I'm finally going home after seven years of running. Maybe death isn't so scary when you've been living on stolen time.

I close my eyes, waiting for the sharp pain that will end it all.

A sound like a clap of thunder explodes through the room.

Instead of piercing pain, warm liquid sprays across my face. The man's weight becomes suddenly heavier as he collapses onto me, pinning me to the floor, and the knife plunges into the floorboards next to my face.

A scream builds in my throat, wild and primal.

It tears from my lungs as the reality hits me.

I'm covered in someone else's blood.

A dead man's blood.

Before the sound fully escapes, a massive hand clamps over my mouth. A familiar scent hits me immediately.

Mahogany and cedarwood.

The distinctive smell that's teased me in my fantasies for the past week.

I blink through the blood splatter, my eyes meeting familiar pair of light gold ones. Ruslan's face hovers above me, his expression tense. He raises his finger to his lips in a silent command for quiet, his other hand still firmly covering my mouth.

My scream dies against his palm. My heart hammers so violently I wonder if he can feel it through his fingertips. The man who'd almost killed me lies motionless across my body, his blood soaking into my clothes, his dead weight making it hard to breathe.

Ruslan's eyes scan my face, searching for something: fear, understanding, trust? I don't know what he finds there, but his expression softens slightly.

"When I take my hand off your mouth,zarechka," he whispers, his voice so low I barely hear it. "I need you to be very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

I manage a small nod against his hand.

He slowly removes his palm from my mouth, then shifts his attention to the dead man. With practiced movements, Ruslan heaves the body off me. The absence of weight is sudden and jarring, making me gasp.

Blood covers my shirt, my hands, my face. I stare at my trembling fingers, covered in crimson, and suddenly I'm back in Kansas City, seeing my family's blood dry on the walls.

Slowly, I rise to my feet.

"You..." My voice is a strangled whisper as I stare up at Ruslan

His presence fills the room like a physical force. The same magnetic pull that drew me to him at the production party now takes on a new dangerous and intoxicating quality to it.

Blood is smeared across his beautiful hands.

The same hands that held me against him, touched my thigh, and cupped my chin.

The same hands that lingered at the edge of my dreams and fantasies all week.

The same hands that just ended a life to save mine.

His golden eyes lock with mine, and despite everything—the body, the blood soaking into my clothes, and the familiar metallic odor of blood in the air—my traitorous body still responds.

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