I slam into what I think is a taxi, tears blurring my vision. My father's dying. My boyfriend just destroyed me. Then a voice cuts through the darkness: "I can help." I freeze. The stranger beside me isn't a driver—he's danger wrapped in expensive suits and tattoos. Damien Volkov. The man I slept with eight months ago and fled from before sunrise. "$150 million for your father's surgery," he says, eyes gleaming with possession. "Sixty days as my bride." "And after sixty days?" I whisper. His smile is lethal. "We'll renegotiate, Фиеста-бомбы." He found me. And this time, he's made certain I can never run again.