Prologue
ANASTASIA
I thought I had every detail planned out. I’d pictured a life where I didn’t have to trade pieces of myself to people who treated my fear like meat for wolves.
I thought I was free. Now freedom feels like nothing but a shape I can’t quite hold in my hands.
Salt air clings to my skin, sharp and clean against the tight knot in my throat. Waves slam against the yacht’s hull, each crash matching the frantic thud of my heart. I grip the steel railing until my knuckles ache, watching the water turn from blue to dark as the sun starts to sink.
I don’t need to turn around to know he’s watching me. His eyes are warm and heavy on my back, moving over me like he’s learning the lines of my body by sight alone. The thought that I’m giving him pleasure makes my stomach clench.
Maybe that’s what he wants—to look at the woman who tricked him, who stole from him like he steals from everyone else.
His stare makes me prickle all over. Then he laughs, low and smooth, cutting through the wind like silk through glass. This man isn’t the one who held me close that night. He’s something else entirely.
Kirill Yevgenyevich Ivanov. He was supposed to be my way out. Loan sharks had been breathing down my neck for years; three years running with a crew of thieves still wasn’t enough to pay off the million my ex left me with. So I picked a solo job. I picked him because I thought he’d be easy.
I was wrong.
He hasn’t said a word since I woke up on the deck. He doesn’t need to. The soft rustle of his shirt against the wood is enough to fix him in my bones—solid, unshakable, impossible to ignore.
I’d told myself billionaires don’t miss a little cash or jewelry. That he’d write it off like it meant nothing. The joke is on me now. The job I thought would set me free might be the one that traps me for good.
I must have taken more than his things. I’ve caught his attention, and that’s a heavier burden than any debt.
Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t bother to learn who he really was—I just knew he was rich, that he liked bars and swapped women as often as he changed his shirt. I let him take my virginity because I thought it would get me close enough to steal what I needed.
I bite my lip and drop my eyes to the deck, where salt crystals glitter like broken teeth. Then his voice cuts through the wind.
“Look at me.” The command is flat, final. No trace of the gentle tone he used that night. No playfulness, no charm left at all.
I lift my chin and meet his gaze. Wind whips my hair across my face, but I don’t push it away. Let him see my eyes only—they’re wide with fear, but he’ll never read it there.
He looks like he’s been carved from stone, sharp and pale under the setting sun. A black diamond piercing glints in his lower lip, catching light like ice on a blade. His hair is the color of weak sun through winter clouds, and his eyes are blue as deep water—so dark they look like they could pull you under and keep you down.
Women fall for him, yes. But not just for his face. His eyes hold something sharp and bitter—a monster wearing the clothes of a prince. Every time his piercing catches the light, it feels like a knife at your throat. His voice carries like it’s coming from deep water, like a song you want to follow even as you know it will drown you.
The sun paints gold across his shoulders. He wears no tie, just a white shirt rolled to his elbows; the top three buttons are undone, revealing the hard line of his collarbone.
“You’re wondering why I haven’t thrown you to the sharks.” His voice is calm, steady as the sea before a storm.
I force a smile, sharp at the edges. “Saving it for low tide, I bet. Less mess to scrub off the deck.” If I’m going down, I won’t look like I’m begging.
Something flickers in his blue eyes—admiration, maybe.
“Clever girl,” he murmurs, and starts walking toward me.
When he’s close, his cologne wraps around me—spicy and clean, the kind of scent you can’t buy with just money.
“But wrong. I want you awake when I break you.” The yacht lurches to a stop as he speaks, and I stumble forward. My palm hits his chest, flat against warm skin and hard muscle.
I can feel his heart beating—slow, steady. Nothing like mine, which hammers so hard I think it might tear through my ribs.
Kidnapping means nothing to him. No panic, no second thoughts. I was right about one thing: he won’t kill me. But he won’t let me go either.
I’m a toy to him. Something to play with until he gets bored.
My hand slips, and my fingers brush his n****e by accident. He lets out a slow breath and cups my chin with his thumb.
“You’ll work for me.” It’s not a question.
“Work for you as what? Your w***e?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Too easy. I want you on your knees asking me for it.” His thumb traces my lower lip, light as wind on water. “Starting tomorrow, you’re my secretary. My shadow. You’ll bring coffee and file papers for every man I put in the ground. Every night you’ll sit across from me at dinner—wear what I pick, eat what I allow. You’ll wonder when I’ll finally break you.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter, and pull away. “Go to hell, Kirill.” I spit at his shoe.
He doesn’t flinch. He catches my wrist, his grip solid as iron.
“Careful, love. You’ll make me fall in love.”
