Page 11 of Vendetta Crown

I close my eyes, trying to disconnect from my body, from this moment. This isn't happening. This can't be happening! This must be a nightmare! I'm not Jamie Fields anymore!

But I am. I always have been.

And this isn't a nightmare.

It's real.

Kristofer shifts his weight, and I feel him positioning himself behind me. My body goes rigid with terror, tears flowing freely now as rough fingers dig into my hips.

Then, I hear a loud insistent knock at the door.

My eyes fly open. Hope surges through me like a lightning bolt, and I try to scream again, fighting against Kristofer's hand with renewed strength.

He slams me down into the bed, driving the air from my lungs with the motion while his fingers dig into my flesh.

"We're busy!" Kristofer shouts, his voice ragged with rage and lust.

The knocking comes again, and the door rattles in the frame this time.

"I said we're fucking busy!"

There's a moment of silence, and my heart plummets. But then, a thunderous crash as the door bursts open, splintering from its hinges.

Men pour into the room, shouting in Russian. Everything happens so fast. Kristofer's weight suddenly disappears from my back as he's yanked away. I scramble backward on the bed, pulling my torn clothes around me, trembling uncontrollably.

Through my tears, I see Kristofer forced to his knees, surrounded by men in dark suits, pressing a gun against his temple.

But there’s something familiar about one of the men.

And that's when I notice the tattoo on the back of his hand.

An eight-pointed star.

It’s just like the one on the hand of the man who tried to kill me back in my own apartment all those weeks ago.

"What the fuck is this?" Kristofer roars, and his defiance earns him a hard kick to the face.

I look up and see a man standing apart from the others. He's older, with silver at his temples and a face that seems permanently carved into a scowl. He surveys the scene with cold, calculating eyes that remind me of a wolf assessing its territory.

I know who I'm looking at.

Vyacheslav Potyomkin. The lord of Las Vegas.

Relief pours through me at the sight of Potyomkin. His presence fills the room like a physical force, cold and imposing. But right now, it's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen.

With a sharp gesture and words I don't understand, Potyomkin gives an order to his men. They immediately yank Kristofer up to his feet. He struggles and curses, his face twisted in rage, but the men are merciless as they march him out the door.

With only one man standing beside him, Potyomkin's eyes scan the room before settling on me, huddled on the bed with my clothes torn and my dignity in shreds. His gaze lingers on the bruise blooming across my face, his expression unchanging but somehow darkening all the same.

He whispers something to the man beside him, who promptly walks into the bathroom. A moment later, the man emerges with a plush hotel bathrobe.

My hands shake violently as I take it and pull it around my body. The soft fabric should feel comforting, but I feel just as exposed as before. The ghost of Kristofer's touch is still fresh. I can still feel his tongue on my cheek and his teeth in my shoulder.

Potyomkin speaks in Russian, his voice gravelly and formal. I stare blankly, not understanding a word until he says my name.

"Aurora..."

He pauses, waiting, his severe expression impossible to read. The silence stretches between us.

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