Page 91 of Filthy Promises

I down the rest of my drink and step to the window, staring out at the city without really seeing it. My reflection stares back at me—disheveled, bloodstained, eyes darker than usual. I almost don’t recognize myself.

That’s the effect she has on me. Turning me inside out. Making me reckless. Making meweak.

I should send her away as soon as she wakes up. Put her on a plane to somewhere far from New York.

Far from the Bratva.

Far from me.

It would be the smart move. The safe move.

But the thought of her gone—of never seeing those green eyes flash with defiance or watching her teeth worry at her lower lip when she’s nervous—makes something in my chest constrict painfully.

I’ve taken lives without hesitation. I’ve ordered executions with a nod. I’ve walked away from burning buildings without looking back.

Yet somehow, the thought of walking away from her is un-fucking-thinkable.

27

ROWAN

I wake up disoriented, momentarily panicking at the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed is too soft, the room too large, the silence too complete.

Then it all comes rushing back.

I sit up slowly, my body protesting with aches in places I didn’t know could hurt. The shirt I’m wearing—Vince’s shirt—smells like him.

I hate how much I love that.

The clock on the bedside table reads 2:17 P.M. I’ve slept for almost eight hours, but it feels like minutes. I need to get out of here. I need space to think, to process everything that’s happened.

While we’re on the topic, I also need my own clothes, my own apartment, and my own life back.

I throw off the blanket and pad to the door, opening it cautiously. The penthouse is silent. If Vince is here, he’s making no sound.

I find the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, carefully avoiding the cut on my cheek. The mirror shows me a stranger—pale, wild-eyed, wearing an oversized men’s shirt, with bare legs and tangled hair. I look like the “after” photo in some cautionary tale about sleeping with your boss.

“You’re a disaster,” I tell my reflection.

She doesn’t disagree.

I locate my phone on the counter—brand new, as Arkady promised—and check for messages. Nothing. The world has continued turning while mine exploded into chaos.

After using the toothbrush I find there (desperate times, desperate measures), I venture out into the main living area.

Vince sits at the kitchen island, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking rapid Russian. He’s changed clothes, now wearing simple black pants and a gray henley that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.

His eyes lock onto mine the moment I appear. “I’ll call you back,” he mutters into the phone. He sets it down and gives me his full attention. “You should have slept longer.”

“I need to go home,” I announce without preamble.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s not wise.”

“I don’t care if it’s wise. I need clothes. I need to check on my apartment. I need something normal after…” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass everything that’s happened, like a hand wave could sum up a car crash and public murder.

“I can have clothes brought to you,” he counters. “Whatever you need.”

“That’s not—” I stop, take a breath. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t just hide in your penthouse forever.”

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