Other titles by Jessica Clare

The Billionaire Boys Club

Stranded with a Billionaire

Beauty and the Billionaire

The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed

Once Upon a Billionaire

Romancing the Billionaire

The Bluebonnet Novels

The Girl’s Guide to (Man) Hunting

The Care and Feeding of an Alpha Male

The Expert’s Guide to Driving a Man Wild

The Virgin’s Guide to Misbehaving

Other titles by Jen Frederick

Kerr Chronicles

Losing Control

Taking Control

Woodlands Series

Undeclared

Undressed in the anthology Snow Kissed

Unspoken

Unraveled

Last Hit: Reloaded

A Hitman Novella

Jessica Clare and Jen Frederick

InterMix Books, New York

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Version_1

Chapter 1

Daisy

It’s strange to be surrounded by a sea of people and still be lonely. I walk the campus path to class,
hugging my iPad close to my chest, a backpack slung over one shoulder. I’m dressed in a dark gray
sweater and jeans, my hair’s pulled into a nondescript ponytail, and I’m roughly the same age of
everyone else attending school, give or take a few years.

But I don’t blend. I don’t think I even know how.
Maybe it’s because I’ve killed a man? Maybe it’s because the love of my life is an ex-mafiya

assassin? Maybe it’s because the last year has given me more life experience than a lot of these
people will ever have, but I’m still considered the “sheltered” one?

Who knows. Whatever it is, I feel like the square peg in a class full of round holes.
I duck into my Financial Management class, and as I do, there’s a row of women at the front I

recognize from a class last semester. They’re taking the accounting block of classes, like me, because
I want to learn how to manage Nick’s money and help him make more of it the legal way. They’re
smiling and laughing, but when they see me, they get quiet. I see their expressions freeze over and they
don’t make eye contact.

And so, even though there’s an empty seat next to them, I move to the back of the class. I try not

to let it bother me.

I really thought it would be easier to make friends. I really did. But outside of my fiancé, Nick,

whom I love and adore with all my heart; my father; and my old roommate, Regan, I’m alone.

Last semester, things were going fine. I enjoyed my classes and socialized with people. But then

we got word that Daniel’s sister Naomi had been stolen out from under his nose while he and Regan
were accompanying her. Rumors of a Bratva takeover started trickling through Nick’s networks. And
my Nick? He is utterly cautious when it comes to my safety. So instead of letting me go to class on my
own, he insisted on walking me to class and waiting at the door for me as each class finished.

I think that’s when the ostracism started. People started to look at me weird. Girls that I used to

eat lunch with no longer go to the dining hall when I do. Maybe Nick inadvertently said something to
someone. Maybe just seeing my big Ukrainian with the tattoo-covered neck and the designs
crisscrossing his hands screamed danger.

Whatever it was, the women in my classes steer clear of me.
I can’t blame Nick. He wants to keep me safe, and I love him for it. After my kidnapping last

year by Yuri and Vasily, I don’t mind his hovering. It makes me feel secure, even if it chases away
any chance of friendship with “regular” people.

As I swipe my iPad and open the text to the class’s lesson, I tell myself that these things don’t

matter. That the approval of my peers does not matter to me. I have Nick, and that should be
everything.

But in some ways, not having any girlfriends to chat with makes me feel as if I am still that

isolated young woman living in a boarded-up house with my father. I had no friends then, either. And
funnily enough, I thought that friends and life would come easily once I escaped his house. And while

Nick blazed his way into my life like a comet and paved a path for me, I still struggle with everyday
things.

Like small talk. I never realized how much of a favor my friend Regan did me when she took me

under her wing. But now Regan’s in Texas and I’m having to figure things out on my own.

The class fills up as we wait for the professor’s lecture to begin. There are two unfamiliar girls

a row ahead of me discussing something called Real Housewives. I think it’s a TV show, based off of
their conversation, but Nick and I don’t watch a lot of TV. There are so many other things to do with
our time, like fix up the old apartment building, or go to the zoo, or take walks together . . . or simply
make love. TV falls somewhere far down that list.

Still, I make a note on the margins of my notepad to check it out. Maybe I can watch a few

episodes over the weekend and return to class armed with knowledge and a way to break into their
huddled conversation.

Even as I think it, I scratch the words out. I can watch a few episodes . . . and then what?

Introduce them to my assassin fiancé? Invite them over for dinner to the large, empty apartment
building that Nick and I purchased and that no one else lives in yet except for my father? But could
they please let me run a background check first?

I sigh and concentrate on my finance class instead.
If I cannot make friends, I can at least have knowledge.

***

My next class occurs after lunch. Even though Nick would prefer that I remain in class until he comes
to escort me home, we’ve compromised. I won’t eat anywhere but in the crowded lunchroom, where I
can be surrounded by people. It doesn’t matter that I brown-bag my lunch every day; there is safety in
numbers. But I hate lunch. I hate that when I choose a table, I’m always the only one seated there.

I’ve tried sitting with other people, but I get nervous and end up staring mutely at them as I

gobble my sandwich, which only makes everyone uncomfortable. To look like I’m busy, I text Nick a
few hearts to let him know I’m thinking about him.

You are my heart, Daisy, he texts back immediately.
I smile and touch the art I had tattooed over my breastbone for Christmas. It’s a drawing of a

heart and his name in Cyrillic, and it’s as dark and elegant as my lover. I love it, and Nick loves to
see it on my skin. I think it touched him more than when I proposed to him, which is funny to think
about. A ring is an outward sign that you belong to someone, but the hidden tattoo under my clothes is
just for him, and ten times more intimate. I smile and text him back. What are you drawing today?

A very fat man, Nick sends back. He is sweating profusely. His balls look like shriveled

meatballs.

I giggle on my peanut butter and jelly. Nick is taking art classes, and he alternately loves—and

hates—his Drawing from Life Models class. Nick enjoys drawing interesting people, not pretty ones,
so this man should be right up his alley. But the sweat, I imagine, is difficult to capture. Have fun, I
text back. Dinner tonight is meatballs!

Now my cock is shriveled at the thought. I must go, love. Duty calls.
XO, I send, since I cannot kiss him.
I wish I could be more like Nick. Nick doesn’t want or need friends. He looks at me strangely

when I say the girls in class don’t like me. What can they possibly not like?, he asks. I cried over it
once, but only once, because it distressed Nick so. To him, problems are solved at the business end of

a gun, and if he can’t help me, it hurts him. So I hide this.

I text Regan a little, but it’s clear from her slow responses that she’s busy. She’s helping Daniel

with the stalls at the Hays ranch. I can’t imagine Regan doing manual labor, but she says she loves it
and it helps calm her mind. If that’s the case, I’m all for it.

I’m relieved when I’ve wasted enough time fooling with my phone to go to my next class.

Principles of Architecture is a labor of love. It has absolutely nothing to do with my degree plan, but
when my advisor suggested fine arts courses, I gravitated toward this one. Learning about the
differences in Greek columns and how ancient civilizations created load-bearing walls is pretty dry
stuff to Nick, but I’m fascinated. Maybe someday I could design new buildings, buildings with both
safety and beauty in mind.

This class is primarily first-year students, and I’m older than all of them, which makes me feel a

bit silly. Luckily, I find the coursework so interesting that I don’t mind being older than the others. I’m
also one of only two women in the class. The other is a girl with pale blond hair who’s even quieter
than I am. Like a wraith, she slips in and out of class. I don’t think anyone realizes she’s present
except for me, because I am on the hunt for friends.

Through chance, she gets to class and slides into the empty seat next to me.
I should take this opportunity. I need to say something witty. Maybe about the rainy weather? Or

what about today’s subject? According to the syllabus, we’ll be talking about the ancient Romans and
their use of concrete as a building material. So I look over at her, smile brightly, and what comes out
of my mouth is, “Rain and concrete today!”

She gives me a startled look and shrinks down into her seat.
I probably deserved that. I hunch down in my own seat and stare miserably at the front of the

lecture hall. Rain and concrete? Really, Daisy?

The class passes miserably slowly, and even my interest on the subject can’t save things. When

class is over, I take my time gathering my things and pretend to study my notes intently. Everyone files
out ahead of me, and I’m the last one out the door.

When I exit into the hall, Nick is waiting for me.
My Nick is beautiful, but he’s utterly foreign to the bland students of Minnesota U. Even though

he is wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a polo collar, I can see the tattoos on his neck of the knife, the
spiderweb. His hands are covered with Cyrillic writing, and if his arms were exposed, they would be
covered with even more tattoos. They tell a bloodthirsty history, and anyone in Europe, I am told,
would give him wide berth at the sight of them. Here in the middle of nowhere, America, they simply
think he is odd. Maybe a gang member. And his beautiful pale eyes light up at the sight of me.

My spirits are down, but I manage a smile for him and tilt my face up for a kiss. Nick pulls me in

close and his mouth brushes over mine, and his touch never fails to send a shiver down my spine. I
love this man. I would kill for him.

I have killed for him.
“You look tired, milaya moya,” he tells me as he wraps an arm around my waist. “Long day?”
“Just a lot of homework,” I tell him, and lean in to inhale his scent. I never get tired of anything

Nick. Ever. I could bask in his attention all day. Even his presence here is like a balm to me. “How
was your class?”

“Good,” he tells me. His classes are always “good.” Later, he might show me his artwork, but

not here.

When we get outside, Nick immediately pulls out an umbrella and holds it over me. I try to take

it from him, but he insists on holding it. “Are you not mine to care for?” he says, a smile on his mouth.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tease him back, when I notice a huddled group under the building

awning, hiding from the rain. It’s Joanne and Maggie, two girls I was friendly with last semester.
They see me with Nick and immediately start whispering, even as he holds the umbrella over me like
I’m some sort of princess.

I want to make a silly joke about it. About how Nick is a sweetheart and just an over-protective

fiancé with reasons for worrying about my safety.

But the words stick like glue in my throat, and I remain silent as we head to the parking lot and

Nick’s car.

***

After dinner, Nick and I work on our homework together. Normally we also try to do a bit of
handiwork around the apartment, but I plead a reprieve tonight, feigning a headache. I don’t have it in
me to grout tile or paint walls or hold screwdrivers while Nick cusses at the wiring.

Instead, we snuggle on the couch, and Nick traces the lines of my hand with his fingers. He’s got

such long, strong fingers that I could study them for hours. They’re the hands of an artist and an
assassin, and it’s a fascinating dichotomy to me. He is so many things, and I am just weird Daisy.
Weird, useless Daisy.

I make a frustrated sound in my throat.
Lazily, Nick looks over at me, his expression full of contentment. “Hmm?”
“Nick, do you think I’m weird? Be honest.”

Chapter 2

Nikolai

“Weird?” I cup her beautiful face in my hands. There is nothing strange about her other than that she
loves me. That is the true oddity. “You are beautiful and unique blossom, and every morning that I
awake and you are slumbering in my arms, I am astonished anew by my good fortune. You are
antithesis of weird.”

I press my lips upon her before she can respond. When she opens her mouth, my tongue sweeps

in and I swallow her protests. Does she not know how precious she is? In this world of cynicism and
indifference, her bright interest and joy in all things is a rare and glorious thing. Another woman
would not have welcomed me into her heart.

Yes, there are those who look upon me with sexual intent. They see my strong body, my tattoos,

and believe that I can deliver to them an experience that they have not yet encountered. But few of
those who gaze at me with lust in their eyes would love me as my own sacred Daisy.

I have many marks on my body. There are temporary ones that I wish were etched into my skin

with a laser. Those are the ones made by the hand of my Daisy. The small crescent gouges, bite
marks, and scratches are treasured signs of her possession of me. I wear these with pride. If anyone
should ask about the bruise on my neck, I would smugly reply it is the brand of my woman.

The permanent ones I regret.
Once I reveled in the fear generated by the sight of the crude needle and homemade ink tattoos on

my hands, my neck, and my arms. For so long I had lived by the motto inscribed on my chest. Death is
a mercy.

There are those in this world who need killing, and many died at my hands. I told them—and

myself—that the ending of their life was a benevolent act.

My life is different now and, as I can see by the unhappy face beside me, it is the same for

Daisy. Her distress is palpable. I could give it shape with a pencil and chalk. Like all my paintings, it
would be dark with hard edges.

My advisor at our school remarks that I need more variance in my images. I cannot, he criticizes,

express only one emotion.

He is wrong if he believes I have only one. I am racing along the spectrum of ebullience to

misery which, I have perceived from my short studies, is the emotional archetype of every successful
artist throughout history. Maudlin sentiment followed by rages of passion are common traits in the
greats.

It is merely that I am new to these responses. Before Daisy, I was detached. It was out of

necessity and then habit. When one killed for a living, not knowing who the next mark would be,
creating connections to others was unwise.

It has taken me a while to recognize that the heat generated by one text from Daisy is pleasure

rather than apprehension. That my art is one-dimensional is unfortunate, but perhaps moroseness will
be the signature of a Nikolai Andrushko work.

No, Nick Anders.

I am now Nick Anders, not the child ubitsya who was trained by the warrior of the Petrovich

Bratva nor the killer who hired out to eliminate threats and avenge wrongs. I no longer view life
down the scope of my rifle, identifying target after target.

I am Nick Anders, engaged lover of Daisy Miller, and aspiring artist. According to the

university brochures, at the age of twenty-five, I am a nontraditional student. What it means, however,
is that I care more about my classes than most of the other students. From my observation, college
courses are merely the time one spends between drinking and doing drugs and having sex with
strangers.

The art students find me attractive, yet Daisy’s friends—her classmates—are frightened of me

and by extension of her. We have had no parties and no friends have visited, and I can see by the
pained light of Daisy’s eyes that she tries to hide from me that this is problematic.

I part her blouse, unbuttoning the fastenings swiftly.
“No,” I whisper reverently against her soft and delicate skin. The pulse at her neck flutters

wildly. I press a kiss there as well. “You are not strange or weird. Maybe different because you find
joy in the things that others overlook, but never odd. And if others would judge you, then they are not
fit to walk in the dust left by your shoes or drink your piss.”

She chokes at my crudity and pushes me off. “I don’t think anyone should have to drink my piss,

Nick.”

Shrugging, I rub my thumbs over the planes of her collarbones. Every part of Daisy’s body is

beautiful to me from the bumps on her knuckles to her dimpled thighs. I want to drown in the lushness
of her body. “To some it would be a reward.”

“That’s never going to happen,” she warns with a laugh.
“Then let me drink from your cunt and I will be satisfied.”
Daisy groans. “Nick, what am I going to do with you?”
“Allow me to love you. That is all I ask.” I am begging but unashamedly, for there is nothing that

exists in my world that is more important than to serve her.

“I do.” She sighs and draws me to her. “Always.”
I pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. Together we remove her blouse and pants along with

my clothes until we are flesh to flesh. We lie facing each other on the bed, and I trace her generous
curves with my hand. Later tonight, when she is sated and her eyes are slumberous from her orgasm, I
will sketch her and try to capture her essence. I am never successful, for she is otherworldly in her
beauty—at least in my eyes, and mine are the only ones that matter.

She came to me an innocent and much of it still remains despite the fact that I have ravished her

repeatedly. She is knowledgeable in all the right areas, I conclude.

“Tell me, kotehok, what is this weirdness you speak of.”
Her hands are mapping the muscles and sinew of my chest. My body was as much a weapon as

my gun or knife, so it is hard. We are a study of contrasts—my angular planes against her bountiful
curves. It is as it should be. I still hone my body with running and martial arts because Daisy finds so
much delight in my hardness. And while our lives are not in constant danger, I want to be able to
protect her from any harm.

“I can’t seem to make friends with my classmates. I’m older than some but not that much older.

And I look different. It’s not just my clothes, but there’s something about me that must set them off.”
She exhales heavily and rolls onto her back.

I try not to notice that the exhale pushes her tits up or that her movement causes an enticing jiggle

in her form. My cock notes these actions, however, and readies itself for a bout of play. Tucking it

away would probably bring more attention to my inappropriate erection. I shift slightly so it is not
pushing its insistent wet head into her hip. She does need something more from me than my penis,
although I do not know what I can give to her.

If the threat were external, I could easily exterminate it. Those girls who giggle behind their

hands could be dust in seconds. Yet, I know that is not the response Daisy needs or wants.

“You are different,” I admit. “So am I. We will never be the carefree youths we see about the

campus. The dark hand of loss and suffering have shaped us into creatures who cannot be ordinary, as
much as you may long for that. However, your irrepressible joy in life feeds me in a way that bread
and water cannot. And Regan too responded to you in a like manner. I think these girls need only to
know you better. To know you is to love you.”

Her head turns and the smile is chasing away the clouds of discontentment. That small signal of

approval makes the blood surge through me like a tidal wave.

“You are completely biased, you know that right? I think sex has brainwashed you.”
“If that is true, then I welcome it. I would never want to be right headed if my world view did

not have you at its center. Come kotenok, let me love you as a man should love his woman.”

With feline grace, she stretches provocatively against the sheets. Her nude frame is a decadent

vision in the low light of our room and the black as sin sheets. “If it will make you feel better, I
submit to your attentions.”

“If we were in Russia, you would call me Kolya,” I murmur against her breast. Her dusky nipple

hardens under my breath even before I can wet her skin with my tongue and mouth. Anticipation of the
pleasure I will bring to her is already igniting a fire deep within.

“Kolya,” she repeats huskily. “Make love to me.”
“I thought you would never ask.”
My tongue laps a lazy path from one peak to the other, working each taut bud of skin into a hard

point. She arches beneath me, pushing the lush flesh deeper into my mouth. I oblige her unspoken
command and suck harder, the sides of my cheeks hollowing out as I devour her sensitive skin.

She is as edible as any bakery treat. Her body trembles and her legs shift restlessly on the sheets

as my mouth travels lower into her wispy curls and then between her legs.

Her nectar coats my tongue on the first pass, and each successive lap against her sex produces

more and more honey. Against the smooth cotton, my cock pulses hot and hard but I ignore him for
bringing her to ecstasy—aiding her in finding new plateaus of pleasure—is its own heady reward.

I part her lips with my fingers, exposing more of her cunt to my hungry tongue. The surface is

swollen with desire and slick with my saliva and her wetness. I trace the folds with the tip of my
blunt forefinger and then spread her open to thrust my tongue inside.

Her fingers dig into my head as she writhes under my ministrations.
“Right there, Nick, kiss me right there.”
I listen and obey.
I slide two fingers inside her wet, hot depths and latch onto her clitoris. Sucking on the aroused

pink bundle of nerves, I fuck her relentlessly with my fingers until she’s crying out her desperate need
for release.

With one hand firmly inside her cunt, I plant both feet on the floor and tug her to the end of the

bed. In one swift motion, I trade my fingers for my aching cock. Her hands flutter toward me but I
cannot bear to be touched.

I’m on the edge of insanity, and one single finger of hers on my body will set me off. I grab her

wrists and shackle them together, pressing them into the mattress above her head.

“With my body I love you,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I grab her hip with my fingers, using it

as leverage against my fearsome thrusts. “With my flesh, I worship you.”

“Take me, then,” she whimpers, as breathless as I am.
The hot channel of her sex is tight around my cock. The answers to all the questions in life are

here in the plush, firm grip of her tissues. I shake with the need to release my seed inside her, over
her, around her until everywhere we look she is marked by my come. I want to spill inside her until it
drips down her legs and coats her thighs.

Dipping down, I take her mouth in mine and savagely drive into her giving body, savoring the

tight heat of her as I withdraw to my tip, only to plunge until my balls smack against her skin.

In a fever, I beat my body against hers until I am blind with lust and delirious with pleasure. The

pool of my sperm is ready to detonate, awaiting the signal from her body.

I continue to fuck her, mindlessly, incessantly, with the power of every muscle in my body.

Beneath me the telltale tremors of her impending climax only spur me to thrust faster and harder. We
are a blur of motion and feeling.

She breaks from my shackles and writhes her hips against me as she reaches and strains for her

own orgasm. She meets my demands with wordless ones of her own as the earthquake we’ve been
building shakes the foundations and leaves us a ruined, beautiful mess.

***

My art history class is housed in a decrepit old building that smells like stale cigarette smoke and
mildewed paper. It is the smell of learning and discernment—light years away from the stink of
gunpowder, blood, and fear. We are studying Picasso and his ambivalence toward women and his
hate toward rigid societal structure. He never found his Daisy, I have concluded, and spent too much
time seeking the answers to his happiness in the bottom of a brown bottle. But who can deny the
genius? Perhaps there are those who are not meant to be happy so that the expression of their torment
can inspire generations that follow.

I sit in the back, near the door. Not because I am avoiding attention, although that is part of it, but

primarily because I cannot rid myself of instinct. Instinct will always have me sit near an exit, facing
the door, or away from those that I perceive as threats.

There are no threats in art history, only students and a rather pudgy professor who dresses in

turtlenecks and tweed. Like the stale smells, I find the clichéd attire of the professor comforting.
Everything is as it should be.

Around me there are a sea of open seats. The students’ hindbrains tell them I am a dangerous

creature and that I should be avoided. Only a few have gone against instinct and spoken to me—
curiosity winning out over fear. But my blank expression and terse responses have driven them away
as I intended. Only now the isolation reminds me of Daisy’s fears. In many ways, I am failing her.

After class I attempt to correct this. There are two young ladies who smiled at me when the

semester began. They are fresh things, rosy cheeked and with multihued hair. Art girls enjoy hair
colors not found in nature. That is weird. I shall tell this to Daisy tonight.

As I approach I can hear them discussing a weekend party at a house known by Greek letters,

and a plan quickly formulates. Daisy wants friends and wants to fit in. One of them, the shorter one
who wears clunky boots and torn leg coverings, says she plans to hit it like the right hand of an angry
god.

I wonder what that means and resolve to ask Daisy. Although she may not know. Perhaps

Daniel? Daniel is a former assassin who has retired at the age of twenty-seven to his family ranch in
Texas. He is very knowledgeable about idiosyncratic behavior of American girls.

“He does remind me of Chris Hemsworth,” the taller girl replies. She wears a long, puffy jacket

that covers her from head to foot. I wonder where she purchased it. Daisy does not like wearing the
fur I bought her. She says other students would disapprove because it is not appropriate to kill
animals and then wear their skins. I say nothing about the yards of leather that adorn the students that
walk by us daily, and accept this as a truth I will not ever fully comprehend.

“Let’s hope his package is godlike or all my efforts will be wasted,” responds the short one.
Ah, it is a sexual reference. She wishes to have vigorous sex with a man who looks like a Norse

god. Hopefully she will not strike any part of his package with the force of a god, let alone an angry
one. A clearing of the throat effectively gains their attention, and I offer a tentative smile, the one that
makes Daisy sigh.

The two turn to me and blink rapidly as if I’ve shined a bright light in their eyes. I hold my smile

uncertainly for another moment and then release my muscles. “Ladies.”

They exchange looks with each other in confused wonder, and then the taller one tilts her head

and responds, “Hi, there. I thought you didn’t talk to mere mortals.”

“I, ah, um . . .” What would Daniel say here? Unfortunately I cannot text him for advice in the

middle of a conversation. I answer weakly, “I am but a mortal myself.”

The tall one arches her brow and quietly says, “You don’t look like a mere mortal.”
Her lingering perusal takes in my bulky sweater and jeans. Most of my marks are hidden but for

a few black lines at the front of my neck. She is not put off by them and neither is her short friend.
Instead, she flips her hair over her shoulders and opens her stance so that I am welcomed into their
circle.

“I am Nick Anders.” I offer my hand.
“Laila Kristiansen.” She shakes it firmly. “This is Terese Erle. Are you an art major?”
“Yes,” I nod enthusiastically. “I study art. This class is interesting. Before I did not make the

connection between political activism and art although perhaps it is so obvious that I missed, how do
you say . . . the forest for the trees?”

“You aren’t from around here, are you? A foreign student?” Laila asks.
Caught off guard, I slip. “Nyet. I mean, no. I am from here. I live here now.”
“No.” She hurries to reassure me. “I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing. Your accent is pretty

cool.”

I do not like discussing my past, so I change the subject. “I hear you were talking about a party.

Do you enjoy those?”

“Sure, who doesn’t?” Terese interjects. “Do you want to come? I’m sure we could get you in.”
“Oh no. I do not need to intrude upon your plans, but I wanted to extend an invitation to you. I am

having a party and would desire you to come, yes?”

They both visibly brighten at this, their faces light up, and their mouths curve into eager smiles.
“Sure, when and where?” Laila asks.
Quickly I consider the options. Our home is out of the question. It is bad enough that Daisy wants

us to have tenants. At least those I can research so thoroughly I know when their baby teeth fell out.
And no one has met my stringent requirements. A public place would be much safer. My mind quickly
considers and then discards multiple options. The Village Bean is a coffee shop and the atmosphere is
too subdued to host a party. Restaurants in general seem an unlikely source. Twenty meters from the
apartment building is a ramshackle two story bar. Daisy and I shared a drink there one night as we

explored our neighborhood. At the time, there were other students—or at least people who appeared
to be students—drinking and carousing. That place. We will pay them money and they will host our
party. “There is a bar on 4th Street called MacEathe’s Irish Pub. It will be held there. Next Saturday.”

“Oh but . . .” Terese trails off.
“What is it?” I have made another error but I do not know what it is.
“Is it an open bar? Because my beer budget can’t handle the prices at that place.”
“Yes, of course,” I respond immediately although I have no idea what an open bar is. I add this

to my mental list of things to ask Daniel. “It is open bar, open food. All of it is open.”

“To an open bar?” Laila asks. “What? Are you loaded?”
Eager to gain their acquiescence, I nod. “Yes. Bring all your friends to my open bar.”
They exchange another glance, which conveys a message I cannot decipher. Laila says, “You’re

cute. A little weird, but cute. We’ll be there and we’ll bring some friends.”

I am jubilant, and this time my smile is not unpracticed. I cannot wait to return home and share

the good news with my Daisy. I do not notice Laila stumbling backward into Terese’s arms although I
do hear her murmur another thing I will need to ask Daniel about.

“I call dibs,” she says to her friend.
“Shit, honey, we better get there early,” Terese replies.

Chapter 3

Daisy

“A party?” I ask Nick that night as we do the dishes. I’m confused—he’s never mentioned wanting to
throw a party. I run the scrubber over a pan, rinse it, and then put it in the drying rack for Nick to
towel off. We are doing the dishes by hand. The dishwasher in the apartment isn’t working. Nick tried
to fix it, lost his temper, and jerked the wiring out of the wall, cussing in Russian the entire time. So
we do the dishes manually. I don’t mind it, because we do them together.

As long as we do it together, I don’t care what we do.
“Da, a party,” Nick says. “It is open. Open food, open bar. It must be so.”
I give him a strange look. “Really? Isn’t that expensive?” I don’t know a ton about bars, but my

meager experiences with Regan tell me that drinks at a club tend to be pricier than they are at the
grocery store.

He shrugs. “It is how it must be. Many will come. We will impress them and make friends.”
I melt a little at that. “Does this party have something to do with our conversation the other

night?”

“We have many conversations,” he says, being cagey. There’s a hint of a smile on his firm

mouth, and I know he’s proud of himself at the moment. That just confirms my suspicions that yes, this
has everything to do with that conversation despite his pretending.

I flick a handful of bubbles on him. “You know what I mean, silly. About not being able to make

friends! Is that why we are having a party?”

He just grins at me, boyishly pleased with himself.
I am the luckiest girl in the world to have a man like Nick. “You are wonderful, you know that?”
“Everything I do is to make you smile, kotehok,” he tells me, leaning in and brushing a kiss over

my mouth. “That is worth every pleasure, every pain to me.”

So dramatic. I giggle at his words. “And is this party a pleasure or a pain?”
“I think it will be both. Pleasure at seeing you making friends, and pain because I will have to

pretend like I care about what others are saying.”

I laugh again. My Nick would be happy if the world consisted of no one but him and I. I wish I

could be so easily pleased and not need outside friendship.

“So,” Nick says as we return to washing dishes. “How do we call bar and tell them we have

party there?”

I shake my head and laugh as I dip a plate into the water. Count on Nick to do things backwards.

“I can call them and make arrangements. When will it be?”

“This Saturday.”
“So soon?” It’s already Wednesday. My mind is aflutter with preparations.
Nick’s upbringing was odd, but mine was an equal mess. I suppose that’s why we mesh so well

together. My life was fine until my mother was murdered. From there, it was like a switch flipped
inside my father. He became agoraphobic and withdrew into our farmhouse, turning it into a fortress.
During the daytime, he’d homeschool me. At night, we’d practice firing guns in the basement. My

father controlled every aspect of my life from that point on; from what I wore to what I read, and
always what I watched on television or saw on the Internet. My only interactions with the outside
world were when I left the house to run errands that my father couldn’t handle, and so my worldview
is skewed. I can fire a gun with incredible accuracy but I’ve never seen a single show on MTV.

On the television shows I watched—Happy Days, The Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy and

Donna Reed—the only shows allowed to me growing up—parties were fascinating affairs with
balloons and tablecloths and party dresses with puffy skirts. But I know from my few excursions with
Regan that this isn’t how clubs are. How can these two things possibly mesh? Regan would know, but
she hasn’t been quick to answer my texts lately because it’s calving season at the ranch, and they’re
running ragged. Nick will have no idea, so I’ll have to call the bar and find out what I need to bring.
“I think I might need a party dress,” I tell Nick. “Something with a nice skirt.”

“Spare no expense,” Nick tells me.
“It’s a good thing you’re not in charge of the finances,” I tease him. “Or you’d have me wearing

a dress of pure gold.”

“You need no adornments for your beauty,” Nick says.
I rinse the last plate and then hand it to him. He dries it and I towel off my hands, eyeing him.

“Will you wear a suit to the party?” Men always dress so proper on TV at parties. I should probably
watch one of the modern shows like that Real Housewives thing, but I have so much homework and so
much planning to do before Saturday. I’ll try to squeeze an episode in, maybe.

“Would you like me in suit?” he asks.
I imagine him dressed in black formal attire, beautiful and regal, and my hands go to his plain T-

shirt. I smooth my fingers down his chest. “I’d love to see it.”

***

The next day before class, we drop by my father’s apartment. It was difficult getting him to move in
with us, even though he likes to be closer. It allows us to visit him every time that we head off to
classes. Scheduled. Expected. Otherwise, my father panics. I wish I could say he was doing better
now that he’s moved locations, but he’s doing the best he can. Inside his small apartment, the
windows are tightly covered and sealed. He’s taped garbage bags over them to allow no light in, and
I know he sits with a gun under the seat cushion of his favorite chair, as well as one under the bed.
This is typical of my father. He no longer lives in the old farmhouse, but he still can’t let go of his
agoraphobic tendencies. Someday, I hope he’ll be able to take down the window covers and enjoy the
sunlight. For now, it’s a baby step just to have him here in the building with me.

Nick and I approach Father’s door, and I knock four times in a row, each knock evenly spaced.

It’s our signal to let him know it’s me and not a stranger. Then I wait patiently as he checks the
peephole, unlocks the six deadbolts, and opens the door to let us in.

“Daisy,” my father says, and kisses my cheek. “Come in, girl.”
We have a pattern when we visit my father. Nick comes inside with me, but stands at the door as

we do so. It is so my father can relax, he tells me, and it seems to work. My father is almost his old
self when I visit.

Almost.
When we enter the apartment today, it reeks of dog urine and feces. I wrinkle my nose at the

smell and try not to hold my nostrils closed. He has a dog walker that comes by three times a day to
let Peanut out, but if the dog walker doesn’t arrive on schedule, Father won’t answer the door. Which

means Peanut makes a mess. “Father?” I ask. “Was the dog walker late?”

“It was a stranger today,” my father says. “You know I don’t let strangers in.” He returns to his

favorite chair and picks up his newspaper. As he does, Peanut runs over and jumps in his lap,
burrowing down happily.

I sigh in frustration. “You have a dog, Father. He needs to go outside to use the bathroom. You

know if the dog walker doesn’t come by, you can call me and I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t want you wandering around outside, either, Daisy. It’s not safe.” He gives me an

incredulous look. “There are criminals outside.” But he pets the dog’s long, floppy ears and looks
more relaxed than normal, so I let it go. If my father is happy with his apartment reeking of dog poop
for a few days, so be it. I shoot Nick an unhappy look, and he simply gives his head a small shake.
“I’ll come by this weekend and steam your carpets clean, Father. Just tell me what time you want me
to come.”

“I will look at my schedule,” my father says gravely, though we both know he doesn’t have a

schedule.

“Not Saturday,” Nick says from his post by the door. “Saturday, Daisy is busy.”
I light up at the reminder. “Yes! Father, Nick and I are having a party at a pub this Saturday.” I

had to offer lots of money to the pub for them to accept our “surprise” party but it’s all scheduled
now, and I’m excited. “There will be lots of students and free beer. Would you like to come?”

A flash of terror crosses my father’s face, and the hand stroking Peanut’s long ears tightens. The

dog flinches, but doesn’t move away. Good dog. “No parties for me, daughter.”

I nod my understanding, though my heart hurts that he won’t leave his apartment. Despite all the

progress we’ve made, my father is just as much a hermit as before. What’s worse, he won’t even try.

I feel a stab of pity for him . . . and then for myself.
Father won’t even try to go out and make friends. Am I the same? Am I turning into my father

without even realizing it? Do I not make friends because I don’t try hard enough?

As I reach out and squeeze my father’s hand, I resolve that I won’t end up in the same situation

as him. I won’t be alone, friendless, and afraid of life. With Nick at my side, I can do anything.

I simply have to try harder.

***

At lunch between classes, I head to my usual table to sit alone, and then I stop. There, at a bench in
the patio area, the girl from Principles of Architecture is there. She is bent over a book—a paper one
—and furiously working on what looks like the homework from the day before. I see her sitting there,
and I clutch my brown bag lunch a little tighter.

She’s all alone. We have something in common. How hard can it possibly be to sit down and

make a friend?

My stomach clenches in fear at the thought, but I ignore it. I have to try. So I suck up my courage,

hold my lunch in front of me, and approach the table.

She looks up and flinches as I sit down across from her, as if startled.
“You’re looking at me as if I’m waving a gun,” I say, and I’m trying to make my tone all casual,

but it comes out choked up and awkward.

Her eyes widen and she starts to gather her things.
I’ve done it again. “Oh, please don’t go!” I blurt out. “I don’t bite and I don’t have a gun, I

promise.”

She looks startled at my words.
“Please,” I repeat. I’m not above begging. “I’m sorry if I’m strange. I’m just . . . I don’t have

friends and don’t know how to make one. And the more nervous I get, the more words just fall out of
my mouth.”

She hesitates, but she’s not leaving anymore. Her big brown eyes blink at me a moment, and then

she offers the tiniest of smiles. “I’m Christine.”

I exhale an enormous breath. “I’m so relieved. I mean . . . I’m Daisy.”
Her smile grows a bit wider, as if my audible discomfort is relaxing to her. “New student?”
“Homeschooled up until I started college,” I tell her. It sounds overly simplistic, but I don’t

share my background with others.

The look on her face turns utterly sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I say, smiling. “I did better when I had an outgoing friend, but she’s moved away and

now I don’t know what to say to people without her here.”

“Ah,” Christine says.
We smile at each other an awkward moment longer, and then she gestures at the paperwork in

front of her. “I really should work on this. I’m close to failing class as it is.”

“Do you need help?” I offer, eager to be of assistance. I fumble to take out my notes. “I finished

the questions last night.”

“Can I copy your papers?” she asks.
I feel a twinge of unhappiness at that, but she’s smiling at me, so I stuff that feeling away. “Of

course.” I give her my paper and she begins to immediately copy down all of the answers I spent
hours poring over last night.

There’s nothing new to converse about, and I watch her work, feeling awkward. I feel as if I

speak, I’ll interrupt her. So I grab my brown-bag lunch instead and pull out my food. Nick is in charge
of lunches, and he always crams the bag full of things because he wants to make sure I am well fed.
Today I have a huge stuffed sandwich, two kinds of chips, a cookie, an apple, and a bottle of soda.

As I unwrap my sandwich, Christine’s gaze jerks up from the paper and she stares at my food.

She looks hungry, but she’s not eating. I bite my lip in worry. Have I made a faux pas by pulling out
my food? “I’m sorry—should I put this away?”

“No, of course not,” she says. “It’s lunchtime. You should eat.” Even as she says this, her

stomach growls. She ignores it and bends over her textbook again.

For the first time, I note her clothing. She wears an old T-shirt and jeans, and her jacket is

threadbare at the cuffs. Her textbook is old, highlighted from previous users, and the pages are puffy
with water damage. It must have been dirt cheap. She has no iPad, no smartphone, nothing.

Me, on the other hand? I am wearing matching La Perla panties and bra, a cashmere sweater

Nick bought me, and an expensive pair of black slacks. I refuse to wear the floor-length fur Nick
bought me when it’s cold, so I bundle with soft alpaca scarves that probably cost more than this girl’s
entire wardrobe.

I’m such a jerk. Maybe she can’t afford lunch. I think for a moment, and then pick up one bag of

chips. “I . . . I hate to ask,” I say, not sure how she’s going to take my lie. “But I have too much food
here and I’m trying to watch what I eat. Do you want some of this?”

She looks at me hungrily again, and then looks around. I wonder what she’s looking for.

Eventually, she stops scanning the area and hunches low over the table. “I shouldn’t eat your lunch,”
she says. “I’m . . . my boyfriend wants me to lose weight, too.”

“We can split my sandwich,” I say. “It’s cut into two parts.” I offer her one and a bag of chips. I

want to give her the cookie and the apple, too, but one thing at a time.

She takes it, wolfs a huge bite out of the sandwich, and then sets it down on the table closer to

me than to her. Her hands cover her face and she’s doing her best to look as if she’s not eating at all. I
take a small bite out of my sandwich, wondering at her behavior. “If anyone asks,” she says after a
moment, “that’s not my food, okay?”

I nod, mystified. I take another bite of my sandwich, and she does that weird commons-scan

again before reaching across the table to grab another bite of her half.

As we finish our food and Christine hands back my notes, I’m feeling warm. I’ve shared lunch

with a friend who probably doesn’t have the money to afford lunch. We’ve shared notes for class.
Christine and I have a bond now. “Do you want to come to a party this Saturday?” I ask her. When her
expression remains cautious, I offer, “It’s free beer and food.”

“I . . . I don’t know. I’ll see if my boyfriend wants to go,” she says.
I brighten. This is the second mention she’s made of a boyfriend. “My fiancé, Nick, is the one

throwing the party,” I tell her. “I’ll have to introduce you sometime. He’s a little scary looking to
most people but I promise he’s wonderful.”

For some reason, Christine’s hunted expression softens. She smiles. “That’s how my Saul is.

People think he’s no good, or that I shouldn’t be with him . . . but they don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” I say, shocked at how well she’s summed up things. “That’s exactly it. Like they don’t

know the man that I do, and they’re just judging based on outward appearances.”

She nods again, and her smile widens. “I know just what you mean.”
We walk to class together, and it’s like the ice has broken between us. Christine and I chat about

trivial things like the next topic on the syllabus or how we’re going to possibly get to class on time
when the heavy Minnesota snows come. During class, we sit next to each other, and I feel a weird
sense of pride when she’s able to turn in her homework, and she flashes a grateful smile at me.

I’m practically lit up with pleasure by the time class is over, and when everyone surges out of

class, I’m there with the rest of them. Nick is waiting by the door, and I fling myself into his arms,
joyful, and kiss his wonderful, handsome face.

He chuckles at my exuberance. “Well, hello to you, kotehok.”
“Nick,” I breathe. “Kolya! I have a friend.” And I kiss him again, so happy I could burst.

Chapter 4

Nikolai

I squeeze one shot off and then three more in quick succession. Under the protective headgear, I hear
the crack of the bullet as it exits the barrel of my .357 Magnum. It is a used gun I have purchased off
of Craigslist, a veritable treasure trove of unlicensed weaponry. I buy several a week, all untraceable
because even though I am no longer a hit man, I must continue to hone my skills. There are dangers
everywhere. Some very close to home. I fire the rest of the magazine into the target at the far end.
There are not enough bullets in this room to shoot the stupidity out of my target.

I know because I have exhausted nearly fifty rounds and remain dissatisfied. With a press of the

button, the target speeds toward me. It is a nice constellation of shots, four in the heart and seven in
the forehead. I shot them in an arch from one temple to the other.

Ripping down the paper, I attach another target and send it down the firing lane. Methodically, I

insert eleven new bullets into the magazine and slam it into place. I’ve never been so angry when I’ve
shot a firearm. Being a hit man requires cool precision, not hotheaded rage.

“You’re quite the marksman,” a man says from my rear. I do not need to turn to look to see who

is the speaker. It is a dark-haired male, six feet, approximately twenty-five to thirty, wearing light
blue jeans, and a plaid shirt that is partially untucked in the front. He is wearing boots and has an easy
familiarity with the Smith & Wesson M&P 9-millimeter handgun. An easy weapon to use for a
beginner and one that I have seen on the hip of every municipal police officer I have encountered.

He has watched me before but I am trying to assimilate, and there are only a few indoor ranges

in this city that have long-distance firing lanes, so I have returned to this one, closest to my home.
This is the first time he has spoken to me.

“Thank you,” I answer. Another time I would have ignored him, but not after the disastrous party.

That evening revealed how poorly Daisy and I are integrating into society. I am forcing myself to take
actions that are antithetical to me, such as replying to this strange man.

In the reflection of the large protective eyewear we are forced to wear, I can make out his shape.

He leans against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed. It’s a pose of feigned nonchalance. The tops
of his fingers brush against the gun holstered at his waist, and his shoulders are tense. If I turned with
the gun in my hand, he would no doubt attempt to subdue me.

“Trying to kill someone?” he asks lightly.
“Yes,” is my terse reply. “Myself.”
I fire again to shut him out. The party was a catastrophe. If I read people better, I might have

picked up on the odd looks of the bartenders as we walked into the shabby pub. The waitstaff stared
at us with raised eyebrows. Foolishly I believed it was because of Daisy’s beauty. But as the night
wore on, even one as dense as I am knew we looked like fools—me in my dark suit and tie, carefully
picked out at a designer suit store at the mall, and Daisy in her frock. We looked ridiculous—
caricatures of people.

The students who came to eat our food and drink our beer stared at us with wide eyes and stifled

laughs behind their hands. Beside me, Daisy was a wilted flower, the edges of her mouth turned

down, her hair hanging limply around her neck, and her shoulders drooping.

We retreated to a corner, where we stood alone, my arm around her bared shoulders giving what

weak comfort I could. Her eyes scanned the room again and again, looking for her friend, but that
person never appeared.

The gun that hung at the small of my back called for me to release it from its confines as if

bullets could somehow right our tottering ship.

Now I aim that gun at the target, envisioning the head and torso as my own. In my stupidity, I

allowed Daisy to be mocked. She has never felt as ostracized and weird as she does now. Her sleep
was restless, and this morning her beautiful face was tight and pinched. When I suggested she skip her
class on Monday, she refused but I could see the dread surrounding her like a dark, ugly cloud.

Another round, another perfect constellation of holes in the target, yet my dissatisfaction is

unrelieved. As I pack my case, the watcher ambles over. He grabs one of the discarded targets and
holds it up to the light. This one I’ve shot out the eyes, mouth and made a large hole in the center of
the forehead. “I haven’t seen that kind of control over that distance since the FBI sent in a
sharpshooter to train some of my coworkers.”

“I do this for leisure.” I wish my magazine was not empty. It would take at least thirty seconds to

load the magazine with a bullet and then chamber a round. He could have shot me nine times by then.

“I’m Oliver McFadden.” I take his proffered hand automatically. “Boxing is my

recommendation. Nothing like hitting someone else to relieve the stress.”

He may be correct. Shooting my imaginary self a million times will not eradicate the memory of

last evening. A fist to my face and a return strike would be satisfying, but not under the eye of this
watchful man.

“Nick Anders.” The gun case and protective gear are stowed in the backpack resting against the

back wall. In it is my wallet with several hundred dollars and my identification that declares I am
Nick Anders from Ithaca, New York. I am an art student at the university. I live with my girlfriend. I
am no one of importance.

I shrug into the heavy leather jacket and slip the straps of the backpack over my shoulders. Stiffly

I reply, “I am a new resident and am unfamiliar with the area. This place I find on the internet.”

“Stop by the Warehouse. It’s a gym for serious folks, not the meat markets where women come

in their Lululemon yoga pants and bro dudes try to flex in front of the mirror in hopes of getting their
attention. It’s a real gym.”

I open my mouth to release a denial but stop. “Do you have a girlfriend, Oliver McFadden?”
He blinks and then cocks his head. “No, but women are definitely my preferred partners.”
My interest in him wanes. If he had a girlfriend perhaps I would befriend him and then his lady

would be friends with Daisy. That he is single makes him of no interest to me. I turn away and move
toward the exit.

“So wait, if I had a girlfriend then you’d be interested in visiting the gym? You’re a strange guy,

Nick Anders. But a fucking amazing shot.”

Outside, I climb onto my bike. It’s ferociously cold and while the helmet protects my face from

the wind, it still bites in my vulnerable areas. The jeans are a poor barrier to the bitter chill but I
welcome it, for it reminds me of home.

Whipping out, I wend through traffic, conscious of the gaze that tracks my every movement.

Knowing who is behind me, I take extra precautions to obey all traffic signals. It takes thirty minutes
to arrive at my location. Hurriedly, I unlock the exterior door and then throw open the doors to the
stairs. In less time than it takes a man to piss, I’m inside.

Wasting no time, I run to the bedroom, shedding my backpack and my jacket in my wake. Inside

the bedroom there is one mattress with an old green coverlet. I flip it over and with the knife from my
pack, I rip the stitches on the side. The loose threading falls away. Pulling out the foam, I throw it to
the floor and reach inside for the case.

My heart is beating fast and adrenaline is kicking in. I glance at my watch. Three minutes since I

left my bike on the street.

I fall to my knees and flip the case open. It takes me less than a minute to assemble my rifle.
“It has been a long time, friend,” I whisper and kiss the barrel. I pocket the shells and race to the

bathroom. With a twist the vertical slats of the blinds open just enough so that I have a clear view of
my target through the scope. I turn the laser off. No need to announce my presence.

Through the magnified glass, I see him park his four-door sedan. I make a mental note of the front

grille that has a large cross in the middle and the black license plate.

He looks up, counting the stories. There are four of them. I am on the second floor. I’ve always

liked second-floor apartments. They are high enough to provide some measure of distance between
unexpected intruders but not so high that I cannot jump from a window to safety.

He counts the windows that are lit and then turns to look at my bike. Oliver McFadden removes

a glove from his hand and presses it on the still-warm engine. My finger moves to the trigger. I will
have to break the glass with the first bullet and then shoot a split second later with the second,
anticipating which way McFadden will duck at the first shot. He’s right-handed given that his gun is
holstered on the right side. The odds will favor him moving to the right and down.

I take a breath.
He moves toward the door, trailing his hand along the seat and then across the handlebars.
My finger tightens and . . . a buzzing sounds in my pocket. The noise in the still apartment startles

me, and the end of the barrel knocks against the window. McFadden’s eyes jerk to my location. The
phone buzzes again.

With a sigh, I flip the gun upward, place the stock between my legs, and glance at the text.
Daisy: What time do you think you’ll be home? I made homemade pasta from a recipe I found on

the Internet!

I type out a response. Soon kitten. My practice is near completion.
Boo. You don’t need your guns anymore. You’re retired, remember?
Yes. Still, it is safe before sorry.
Better safe than sorry is the saying. Love you.
I will be home soon. XOXO.
Outside, McFadden is pulling away. He has lost interest or he is waiting for me to lead him to

my Daisy. I’m afraid again. I killed two men in this city, a former accountant from the Petrovich
Bratva and a drug dealer. Both were barely human and I feel no remorse at the loss of their lives, but
McFadden, the man who wears a police-issue handgun holstered in plain sight, may feel differently.

But how can he have made the connection between an expert marksman and the two deaths? The

accountant’s body was treated with acid, leaving only bones behind. The skull shot would not have
revealed anything about me. The other man? He was not shot by my hand but by Daisy’s father.

If I am taken into custody, what would happen to Daisy?
In the bedroom, I dismantle the rifle and place it back in its case. With thread and needle, I close

up the mattress and then return the room to its former order. I exhale heavily and check the kitchen.
Pushing the refrigerator aside, I loosen a baseboard. Right where I left it is a brick of cash and one
passport. The picture is of me and the identity reads Niall Hemley, hailing from Leeds, England, UK.

The phone rings again, this time signaling a call and not a text. The caller ID reads Unknown.
“Yes,” I answer tersely.
“Nick old man, sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. Regan and I were riding the fences this

week. We were out of cell-phone range.”

It is Daniel. I had called for advice but he had not reached me in time. Resentment stirs but I

push it down. It is not Daniel’s fault Daisy and I are inept.

“You and Regan are doing well?” I ask, leaning back against the cabinets.
“Yeah, it’s great. How about you and Daisy? Did you have a good party?”
“Nyet. It was no good.” It also seems unimportant now that there is Oliver McFadden noting my

gun prowess and following me through the busy streets of Minneapolis. “Do you sometimes think you
should not be in Regan’s life? That there is too much danger and . . . unsavory parts of your past that
could bring harm to her?”

He’s silent for a moment and then replies, “Maybe, but then I think that there’s no one who can

protect her better than me. Where are you, by the way?”

“A safe place.”
“But a place that Daisy doesn’t know about?”
“Da, it is a spotter house. I used it to gather information about the accountant.”
“Shit, man, you can’t keep secrets from your woman. She knows what you did and accepted it.

Hell, she shot old Sergei for you. If you don’t come clean about these places, the next time she holds a
gun, you’ll be on the other end of it.”

“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
“Fuck your Russian fatalism. You really think Daisy is better off fucking some other guy?

Because that’s what’s going to happen if you take a walk about.”

“Nyet. Never.” I shove the cash and passport back into the hiding place and replace the

refrigerator. “No man will touch Daisy while I breathe.”

“Then get your fucking act together and go home. Apparently you are having homemade spaghetti

according to what Daisy texted Regan.”

“Da. I am leaving now.”
“Nick, do you need help? I can be on the first plane.”
“Stay in Texas with Regan,” I order. “I will handle this.”
I do not see Oliver McFadden’s vehicle when I exit nor on my drive home. It is unlikely he has

forgotten about me, but there is no purpose in hiding my residence. The public records identify my
home address as the three-story brick apartment complex within walking distance of the university
campus.

When I arrive home, Daisy greets me with a smile. Her day has turned sunny as it always does.

She refuses to allow external forces to affect her adversely. Unlike me. I need her like the summer
needs sun. I could never walk away from her.

“I found this recipe for homemade pasta. It was really easy and actually kind of fun.” There is a

dusting of flour on her nose, forehead, and cheeks.

“Do we need to eat it now?” I ask.
“No, why?”
I sweep her into my arms. “Because I am a dour Ukrainian who cannot function without a taste of

you on my mouth.”

She rubs her flour covered face against mine. “You’re insatiable.”
“Da, this is true. My cock is always hungry for you.”

Chapter 5

Daisy

The next time I go to the commons for lunch, I’m unsure what to think when I see Christine sitting at
her normal table. She didn’t come to the disaster of the party, so I’m not sure how to categorize our
friendship or if we even have one. Then again, the party was a nightmare, so maybe it’s a blessing she
wasn’t there to see my utter humiliation. I sit down at a nearby empty table and pull out my iPad so I
can study. I’m in Christine’s line of sight¸ so if she wants to talk to me, she can. I’m just not sure I’m
ready to be the one to initiate a conversation again.

To my surprise—and vast relief—Christine waves at me, a timid smile on her face. “Hi, Daisy!

Come sit with me.”

A return smile etches itself on my face, and I’m so happy that she’s being normal and friendly

that I gather my things and hurry over to her table, plopping down ungracefully. “Hi, Christine,” I say,
feeling shy and gauche. “You look nice today.” Her hair is tucked into a modest braid, and she’s
wearing a pale fluffy sweater over her jeans. The entire look is a soft, welcoming one.

She makes a face. “My boyfriend told me this sweater makes me look like a fat snowman.”
“Oh.” I . . . don’t know what to say to that. I think I’d be hurt if Nick told me I looked like a fat

snowman. I’m a little appalled that her boyfriend would be so casually cruel, but I don’t know what
to think about people anymore. I’m starting to think I’m way more sheltered than I ever suspected.

But she doesn’t wait for more of a response from me. Instead, she ducks her head and gives me a

hesitant look. “I don’t suppose you have your notes from last class, do you? For the homework?”

“I do.” I pull out my books, and my homework pages are on top of my notes. At the sight of my

completed homework, Christine brightens. “Oh, could I just copy you?”

I hesitate, but only for a second. I know I’m being used, but I don’t even care. Someone’s talking

to me and not laughing in my face, and it feels better than it should. If bribes of homework are what it
takes to have a friend, then at least I’ll have one person who will talk to me.

“You’re a lifesaver, Daisy,” she exclaims and begins to rapidly copy down my work.
I smile wryly to myself. Am I really? Or just a sucker who is desperately lonely? I pull out my

lunch and begin to set it up. I made chocolate chip muffins last night, and I see Nick has put three of
them in my lunch, along with the usual assortment. I’d swear the man is trying to fatten me up, but it’s
just like Nick to think that if one muffin is good, three will make me extra happy. The thought makes
me feel warm inside. “Want a muffin?” I ask Christine.

She murmurs her thanks and takes one. She crams the muffin into her mouth, glances around the

commons, and then continues working. I pick at it, my appetite not exactly stellar lately.

A few minutes later, I’ve picked all of the chocolate chips off of my muffin, and Christine hands

my homework back with a happy smile. “Thank you so much. Really.”

“No problem.”
She licks her lips and looks awkward for a moment. “I’m really sorry I didn’t come to your party

Saturday night. My boyfriend . . .”

I wave aside her excuse. “Please. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I feel bad,” Christine says. “A-are you going to eat all of your sandwich today?”
I pull it apart and offer her half, and she immediately wolfs it down. Maybe Christine’s used to

eating fast and that’s why she scarfs her food. It makes sense if she never does her homework until
she sits down before class. She doesn’t have time to eat.

“So,” she asks between bites. “How was your party? Did you have fun?”
The one bite of sandwich in my mouth goes dry, and I force myself to swallow. I hate thinking

about that party. “It was awful.”

Christine gives me a sympathetic look. “Didn’t turn out like you expected?”
She has no idea. Awful is the only word that springs to mind, but it doesn’t seem to encompass

the emotions surrounding that night. I worked for days to get everything lined up for the party, printing
up invites for Nick to hand out to his classmates, picking out my party dress, arranging decorations,
and everything else I could possibly think of. It was my first chance to be a hostess, and I was excited.

When the night came, though, it was clear that my ideas of a party were as outdated as the

television I watch. My prim pink party dress with the lace vest and swirly skirt was gorgeous in the
store, but when girls show up in jeans and skimpy tops—like they wear in clubs—I realize I’m
completely overdressed. I have been to a club, but I didn’t realize a party was the same thing. I
thought parties were different. More formal.

And I made Nick overdress as well. He didn’t say anything, but he looked out of place in his

tailored black suit. Handsomer than anyone else in the room, but compared to the T-shirts and jeans of
the other guys, he looked as out of place as I did.

I felt terrible to see it, too. It’s as if I can handle my own awkwardness, but to bring Nick down

with me? I felt loathsome and incompetent. Nick desires nothing more than to blend, to hide in plain
sight, and every attempt I make seems to only make him stand out more.

To make matters worse, the girls in their tiny, backless tops flirted with him relentlessly. It

didn’t matter that I was at his side, or that Nick told them we are together. They took one look at me,
hiked their spangly tops down a little lower, and leaned a little closer to him.

Which makes me feel worse. Why is Nick with me—so clueless and naïve—when he could have

one of those gorgeous, flirty women who ooze confidence? He could blend with them so much easier
than with me. I know it’s my own lack of self-esteem whispering this in my ear. Nick loves me, and I
love him beyond all reason.

There will always be flirty, too-forward girls. I will just have to learn to deal with them.

Grimly, I think of the gun I had in Russia for a short period of time, and the bullet I put through
Sergei’s brain. That problem had been easy to solve. Here back at home, I can’t put bullets into other
women’s brains simply for looking at my man.

I decided that night that I need other weapons. So, on my phone, I have an episode of Real

Housewives, purchased through iTunes. I’m going to watch it and study it, and learn how to be like
these other girls.

I wonder if I need to head to the mall and find myself a spangly, backless top of my own. To

blend, I tell myself, but it’s also because I want to see how Nick reacts if I wear one. I don’t want to
change for anyone but my Nick, my Kolya.

“This is really good,” Christine tells me, startling me out of my thoughts.
I look over at her and notice she’s procured another one of my muffins and has taken a bite out of

it. I smile, pleased. “Thank you. I’m learning how to bake. It’s a challenge sometimes, but I like it.”

“You were homeschooled and you don’t know how to bake?”
I shake my head. How to explain that the only food that went into our house on a regular basis

was food that could last on a shelf for months or years? That I grew up eating canned tuna and Spam
because at any time, my father might deem going to the grocery store “unsafe” and then not let me out
of the house for a month? Pleasure in baking didn’t exist in my old world.

But I’m not that Daisy anymore, I keep reminding myself. I’m a new one.
“Maybe you should take a class on cooking,” Christine says. “If you enjoy it.”
“We’ll see,” I say absently, and wonder if I can sneak away during class to go buy a spangly top

and surprise Nick. I want to show him that I’m trying, too. He’s been so very stressed lately, and the
failed party has done nothing to help.

I’m the one who’s failing him, too. He looks to me for what a normal American couple should be

like, and the fact that I don’t know, either? I feel responsible. It’s time I change who I am, maybe. I
think of the movie Grease, and Sandy’s transformation to someone Danny can be proud of, and I
brighten. If all it takes is clothing and attitude, I can do that.

I look over at Christine. “Where in the mall could I buy something to wear to the club, do you

suppose?”

She considers for a moment. “Bebe?”
I nod. I haven’t been there before, but maybe it’s time that I check it out. If Nick needs to blend,

so do I. I’m going to take the initiative for once.

***

Nick’s unusually tense after classes, so I suggest he go to the gun range to unwind, and I’ll visit father
and walk Peanut. We kiss and part, both of us absent and distracted with our thoughts. Instead, though,
I head to the mall, find the bebe store, and walk out an hour later with a dozen new, trendy tops. No
more cardigans and demure sweaters for Daisy. I’m pleased at my purchases. Nick will like them, I
think. They all show a lot of skin.

When he gets home that night, I’m baking cupcakes. I found a recipe online for chocolate

cupcakes with salted caramel centers, and getting the inside to remain liquid while baking the rest of
the cupcake was a challenge, but I’m pleased with how they turned out. I’m icing them as he walks
through the door, and I’m wearing one of my new acquisitions. It’s a silk tank top, out of season for
the Minnesota weather and on clearance for only a few dollars. The front is low cut and has spaghetti
straps, and the back is almost nonexistent save for a flutter of material near the base of my spine. I’m
wearing tight jeans with it. As Nick opens the door, I turn to him with a smile.

“Welcome home, Kolya,” I tell him, moving to his side to kiss his beloved face. He’s full of

tension once again; I can tell by the set of his shoulders and the grim lines around his lovely mouth.
“How was the gun range?”

“Busy.”
I nod and help him take off his coat. He hasn’t said a thing about my shirt yet, which means he

hasn’t seen the back of it. Once his coat is hanging on a hook near the door, I deliberately walk back
to the kitchen, exposing my back and the fact that I’m not wearing any bra.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
His brows draw together at the sight of me, and his gaze fixes on my back. “Your clothing . . .”
“It’s new,” I tell him, giving my shoulders a wiggle. “I’m trying to be a bit more modern. Do you

like it?”

“Too much,” he tells me, coming to my side. His warm hand glides down my spine in a titillating

caress. “Promise me you will not wear such things out in public with other men, or I might destroy

them for looking at your beauty.”

I giggle. “You are far too dramatic.” His reaction is pleasing to me, though. “And no, I won’t

wear this out in public. This is just for you.”

My hips have a bit more swing to them as I walk across the tiny kitchen to the counter where I’ve

left the food.

“Any man would not be able to help himself if presented with such beauty,” he says, and instead

of teasing, there’s a grim, almost helpless look on his face. “It is a good thing I practice at the gun
range.”

Exasperated, I shake my head. That is the opposite reaction I wanted from him. I wanted to

distract him with dirty, lustful thoughts, not make him think about guns more.

I’m concerned that my poor Nick is so stressed, but I know what will relax him, and it’s not

food. “I just finished baking some new cupcakes and I want you to try them.” I give him my most
sultry look over my bare shoulder. “They’re very sweet.”

And I turn and lick chocolate off of my fingers in a slow, deliberate manner, imagining that the

chocolate is on his skin.

Chapter 6

Nikolai

“Nyet,” I say hoarsely. “Nothing could be as sweet as you.”

I want to forget the fear inspired by McFadden and drown myself in Daisy’s honey. Her

invitation is unmistakable.

Her tight jeans raise her ass and frame it for my gaze but I prefer her nude. The rasp of the metal

teeth of her zipper kindles a flame low in my groin. I tug the tight fabric down her legs, exposing one
creamy inch at a time. When I reach her knees, I realize how tightly bound together her legs are. She
does not move well.

I rise leaving the jeans trapping her knees and thighs tightly joined.
“My legs are stuck,” she laughs and reaches down to push them off but I stay her hand.
“I know.” The words come out gravelly and rough. I turn her around and slip the thin silk straps

over her rounded shoulders and to her elbows and then pull tight. Knotting the excess fabric at her
mid back, I fasten her arms to her sides and then with one measured push, lean her onto the table.

“What are you doing?” her curious voice asks.
“I am loving you,” I respond. Taking the bowl of bittersweet confection, I scoop out a healthy

portion and begin to paint the bare spaces around her shoulders, down the valley of her spine to the
base and around the curves of her ass. She tries to move, maneuver me into touching more sensitive
places, but the clothing only tightens around her.

She shivers as if my touch is cold.
“When you are in class and your professor is discussing lines and forms, zones and uses, do you

think about me inside you? Do you remember how it feels to have my cock stuffed inside you?”

I twist a finger between her thighs and am delighted by the heat and wetness that greets me.
“God, Nick.” Her breath catches. “How would I pay attention if I’m always thinking about this?”

She shoves back against my hand, and my finger slides inside her. Her walls hug my finger, and my
anxious, hungry cock jumps response but is stymied by its denim prison.

I keep one finger pumping slowly inside her as I lick off the frosting. Because she is so beautiful,

so enticing, I move around, leaving tiny bites here on her right shoulder and there at the spot on her
left, just above the mole that is two inches from her side.

Between each caress I tell her how she consumes me. “I think of you always. Art is about

passion. In every curve, I see your breast and in every face, I see your lips. In rolling hills of
landscapes, I envision the dip in your waist and the rise of your hip. In the tendrils of vines, I see your
honey hair entangling me.” The depths of my obsession are laid bare for her. If I were to lose her, I
would be nothing. I would burn myself to ashes so that the winds could carry me to the four corners
and where each molecule would search endlessly for her.

“You’re always with me, Nick. In my heart and mind and soul. I promise you,” she gasps.
“Then show me how much you want me to fill you. Show me your desire.”
I slide another finger between the tight passage of her thighs and into her sex. She raises on her

tiptoes and then sinks back down to welcome the intrusion. The pace of my hand quickens and as she

tenses, back arching, head thrown back, the fever inside me expands.

“Yes,” she hisses. “There. Right there.”
I thrust into her with one hand and fumble with my jeans with the other. My heavy, aching cock

juts out and slaps against her ass.

“I must have you,” I growl. Her bound legs make the entrance of her pussy tight. I lift her entire

lower body off the ground with one hand under her hips and then enter her swollen sex with my hard
erection. Her moans are muffled by the table.

Once inside, I lower her feet to the ground, just enough so that the tips of her toes can press

against the floor for leverage.

“Tell me how much you want me, Daisy. I must know,” I demand. I withhold several inches of

my cock. Her warm heat pulses around the head of the beast.

“Oh, Nick, I want you so much. I love you. I can’t express how much.”
Heart full of giddy happiness, I thrust inside her until I’m fully seated and my balls are thumping

against the backs of her thighs.

Her ripe breasts sway above the oak table, the wood scraping her hardened tips with each pass.

I reach around and cup one handful and squeeze it so that the peak is abraded by more direct force
with each invasion.

“I want to live inside of you,” I gasp. “Your arms are my only home. Your breast my only source

of comfort. Your body my only haven.” I glide in and out, lubricated by her desire. Her closed thighs
provide an extra sensation as I withdraw. But the tight heat of her cunt is familiar and inviting.

I run a hand up and down her spine, marveling at the strength of her shoulders and the elegant

structure of her bones. Her flushed face is barely visible, so I sweep aside her hair and lean forward
to press kisses along her cheek, her eye, her forehead, her ear. Everywhere my mouth can find skin, I
kiss. “My love for you is so great I fear it will detonate in my chest.”

She laughs breathlessly. “I wouldn’t want that. I need your heart intact.”
“My heart is yours,” I vow.
She turns her mouth just enough to meet my lips, and we kiss wildly with no finesse and all

unbridled passion. Our teeth knock against each other and our tongues are a tangle, but it is hotter and
more erotic than any experienced woman could conjure.

The lure of her body is too strong to resist. I rise up and slam into her. The table screeches as the

force of my thrusts push the legs against the wood floor. Despite her bound arms, her hands clench the
sides of the table and I hear her shouts of encouragement through the fog of desire to come inside her,
take her, make her mine.

My love for her is madness incarnate. She should run far away, but I would only chase her down

and capture her. We mate with the force of two lovers who have not held each other in an age. I hear
her cry and then feel the flood of her orgasm. I plunge between her legs, bending over her to hold one
edge of the table myself. The entire thing clatters and shakes under the force of my thrusts. She rises
on her toes and pushes back to meet every powered forward movement until it is I who throws back
my head and howls my claiming to the empty night.

I rest my head on her sweaty back to gather myself.
“It is a good thing you love me,” I murmur drowsily into her skin. With some effort I push away

from her and release her bound arms. Kneeling on the floor, I help to tug off her jeans. Above me I
watch as rivulets of my sperm and her release trek down her inner thighs.

“Why is that?” she asks.
I don’t answer at first because I am mesmerized by the milky trail snaking its way down her

inner leg. Mine, these marks cry.

“Because if you had no love for me, I would be a madman, chasing you. Wanting you and never

being able to have you would be the worst torture.”

She steps out of her jeans and then reaches for a dishtowel to wipe away the signs of my

possession. Disappointment strikes me until I raise my eyes and see the tattoo over her heart. There, I
think, there is my mark.

“Then yeah, it’s a good thing we love each other.”
She raises her arms above her head, her chest rising with the movement. I feel a stirring in my

groin. She gives me a knowing glance. “Again, Nick?”

“It is your cookies,” I say and then grin at her. Straightening, I pull her against me. “I am utterly

yours, Daisy. It is good for the world you have a kind heart. Because if you asked I would burn it
down.”

***

“Mr. Anders, mind if I sit?”

I do not need to look to know it is my professor of Dimensional Painting. I saw him walking

toward me a few minutes ago. He’d paused by a trash can and emptied something out of the pocket of
his heavy black woolen overcoat. It’s bulky and brushes his calves, but would be good for hiding a
long arm. I prefer the shorter coats that allow for more movement. A long arm isn’t well suited for
targets in close distance. I prefer—

I give myself a shake. I have left the world of killing behind me. Now my only targets are paper

ones. I have no need of a long arm or handgun in this place. I have one, of course, along with knives
in my boots. Though I am no longer in the business of killing people, I would feel naked without a
weapon.

“Please.” I gesture at the space of concrete next to me. “It is more yours than mine.”
“Given what students pay for an education, I think you can claim ownership to at least one

bench.” He smiles kindly and sits beside me.

I should care about the costs, but I do not. I have plenty of money, and though it was earned in a

fashion that would shock and dismay the man next to me and nearly every other person on this large
campus, it will provide for my Daisy.

To fit in, however, I will complain. “Yes, education is very costly.”
“You need to put more conviction behind that, son. It doesn’t sound believable. Trust fund?” He

looks me over carefully. “Or tech billionaire? You look too hard to be a trust fund kind and a little
too old.” My surprise must be on display for he chuckles and points to his eyes. “I’m an artist. We are
supposed to be observant. It’s what I like about your art. You notice the small details. The tiny cracks
in a pitcher or the gilding flaking off the mirror.”

“The small details are often the most important,” I admit. In my career, the slightest wind change

could mean the difference between a successful hit and failure. I do not take my eyes off my targets.

Inside the building Daisy is speaking to another girl. The girl asks her for something. Daisy

looks disappointed but then smiles. She reaches into her bag and pulls out papers and hands them to
the girl. The girl then begins copying. A user. This girl is using my Daisy.

“Do you plan on applying to the fine arts program?” the professor murmurs beside me. I try to

pay attention, as a normal student would. “I’ve spoken to your advisor and he confessed that you
hadn’t made up your mind. I think you have real promise.”

You have real promise, Nikolai. Your marksmanship is acute. Don’t think too hard about the

target. Think about your weapon. Think about yourself as merely an extension of the weapon. You
and the metal are one being.

What are we doing here, Daisy and I? We do not belong with this mass of people. She is too

sweet and I am too mean and hard.

“I do not know yet what I will do.” I stand. “I like art for art’s sake, not for what art can do for

me.”

“Yes,” the professor breathes reverently. He grabs for me and I jerk away, my hand slipping

inside my coat before I can stop myself. His eyes widen and his hands raise in a defensive gesture.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I force myself to relax. “Nyet, it is I who apologizes.” I dip my head. “I’m unused to these

friendly American ways.”

He chuckles nervously. “I did wonder about your accent. Russian?”
I bite my tongue to refrain from correcting him. “Da, Russian by way of New York City.” It is

my cover story now. Daisy and I met in New York City while she was on vacation. I fell in love and
followed her here. My family was wealthy and I inherited the money when both my parents died in a
tragic Russian highway accident. Anyone who watches a video of Russian driving on the Internet
would not doubt the story for an instant.

The tattoos are hard to explain but I do not want to remove them. I may despise what they stand

for, but they are my past. I will not erase it. So I do not correct this man who assumes I am Russian
even though I am from Ukraine. It is one and the same for most Americans and even for some
Ukrainians.

For me, I was raised in Russia by a mafiya prince, a warrior who trained foot soldiers for a

powerful Russian crime syndicate. Perhaps I am Russian then. Perhaps I am Ukrainian. Perhaps I was
nothing before I met Daisy, before I had a chance to rebuild myself.

The professor’s nervousness melts like the snow. He smiles, friendly and open once again. “I

hope you think about it. You have a unique point of view. Our department could use a fresh
perspective.”

“Thank you, I will.”
“You will what?” Daisy is at my side. I turn at her touch, bending down to brush my lips across

her forehead. She’s warm from the indoors. I draw her hood tighter around her neck so the chill of the
wind does not penetrate and steal away her heat.

“Is this your girlfriend?” The professor’s eyes gleam as they rove over my Daisy. She is

beautiful—an artist’s dream even through the thick layers of her coat. Her skin is luminescent, as if
the sun shines from within. The snow is beginning to fall and stick to her eyelashes, making them
sparkle. She’s the perfect winter beauty in her tall boots and fur-lined, hooded coat. My urge to
bundle her away grows strong.

I manage a nod. “Yes, this is Daisy. Daisy, this is Professor Hare. He is my teacher for

Dimensional Drawing.”

They shake each other’s gloved hands.
“This is Christine.” Daisy pulls a shadow from behind her. The pale-haired, thin girl gives us a

faint, weak approximation of a smile, and then gazes at the ground. There is an ominous air about the
girl—she refuses to look us in the eyes. She stands half behind Daisy as if Daisy is her shield. I do
not like it. “We’re friends,” Daisy announces with delight and pride.

My sweet Daisy is an easy mark. Worried she is too different, she exposes her beautiful heart to

those who will not hesitate to abuse her if it suits their purposes. But that is why I am here, I think, to
protect her—to stand between her and those who would do her harm, so that she can go on and spread
her kindness and joy without reservation.

“Then I am pleased to meet you, Christine,” I offer. “I know why you are friends with Daisy.

How can you not be drawn to her kindness and generosity?”

The girl flinches.
“Nick,” Daisy replies with a slight note of reproof.
I smile guilelessly in response.
Professor Hare coughs. “Well, I should be going. Daisy, it was nice to meet you. I’ve been

telling your Nick that he should apply to the fine arts program. He’d be an asset.” Hare claps me on
the back. Fortunately for all of us, I anticipate this action and do not react by whirling around,
grabbing his hand, and throwing him to the snow-covered concrete.

Daisy suppresses a smile as if she knows what I’m envisioning.
“I will think on this,” I promise Hare, and I will. Perhaps I will like it. Daisy can help me

decide.

“Why don’t we get lunch?” Daisy proposes. “I invited Christine.”
“Very good,” I nod. This will allow me to interrogate the girl and see if she is worthy to be a

friend to Daisy. Christine raises her eyes to Daisy and in them I see both uncertainty and hunger. She
is hungry as evidenced by the way she unconsciously licks her lips but she is wary of something . . .
or someone. Whatever it is, my instincts tell me she presents a danger. “Come,” I command. “We will
go to the Village Bean.” It is one of my favorite campus places because of the deep roast they serve
and the unpretentious atmosphere. Although, around the campus, most places are unpretentious. The
University is not a place that is teeming with wealthy people anxious to spend hundreds of dollars on
one meal.

The girl’s hunger wins out over her unstated concern, and we move toward the cafe. I maneuver

Daisy under one arm and turn to Christine, but I find that she’s walked around and to Daisy’s side.

Daisy and I exchange a glance.
She is a danger, I telegraph.
She’s in trouble. I think she needs my help.
I frown. Nyet, stay away from her.
Daisy matches my grim look with a disappointed one and then turns to Christine.
“What’re you doing after lunch?”
Before I can interrupt I feel a pinch at my side. Shutting my mouth, I resign myself to discussing

personal safety issues with Daisy at home. When we are alone and she is naked, I may be able to
convince her of my way of thinking.

“I’ll need to go home. My boyfriend gets off work around three and I need to be there.”
“Need to?” Daisy asks the question that I am thinking.
The girl does not look up at Daisy, only ahead now. “Yeah, I mean he doesn’t want me to be at

campus alone.”

“You could come over to our apartment,” Daisy offers. “We could do some more studying.” She

turns to me in explanation. “It’s so loud in the commons, and the study hall in the building always has
a couple of jerks who come in and throw their stuff around. They take up both of the long tables and
talk really loud.”

“I can take care of that for you,” I say. I’ve seen these boys. I watch them through the window but

I did not realize they annoyed Daisy. A small talk with them as they leave would ameliorate this

problem for her.

“No, Nick, it’s fine.” She rolls her eyes and then turns back to Christine. “What do you think?”
The girl shivers when a gust of wind hits us as we reach the sidewalk and are no longer

protected by the tall brick buildings. The Village Bean is down two blocks, and the snow and biting
wind are penetrating even my coat. Whatever danger she is to Daisy, I cannot tolerate seeing the
young girl tremble like an orphan on the street. Carefully so she does not see, I extract the gun from
the interior of my pocket and slip it into the side pocket of Daisy’s coat. She looks down at the new
bulge and shakes her head in rueful dismay.

Shrugging off my coat, I gesture for the girl to place it around her shoulders. “Here.” I walk

toward her. “I’m from Russia. I was born in the cold.”

Christine holds up her hands in a defensive crouch and stumbles backward. Daisy reaches for

her and they both slip. I grab Daisy and with a rough tug, haul them both upright. Christine looks at the
both of us, eyes darting between Daisy and me, and then she turns on her heel and runs off, leaving
Daisy openmouthed and me with the jacket in my hand.

“I do not like the look of that girl,” I warn.
“She was afraid,” Daisy responds, still staring down the street watching Christine’s form getting

smaller as the distance between us grows. “Of everything.”

“Da, and people who are afraid have fearful things at home.” I pull on my coat and then remove

the gun from Daisy’s pocket, placing it once more inside my interior pocket.

“Don’t you feel anything for her?” she asks, her eyes full of questioning.
Fear spikes. I feel nothing for anyone but Daisy. Is that not enough? But I cannot lie to her. “You

are my heart. If I would lose you, then death is the only mercy I would find.”

I rub my chest as if I could feel the lettering that is inked on my skin.
“She’s not a danger to me,” Daisy insists.
“Her, no. What she fears? Yes.”

Chapter 7

Daisy

I watch Christine retreat with a mixture of concern and frustration. She’s fleeing us as if we’d invited
her to . . . to . . . I struggle to think of something horrible enough. To her own murder¸ perhaps. But
that seems ridiculous and dire. We’re college students. We should be worrying about nothing more
than what our next grade is going to be, right?

So why do I feel such despair at the sight of Christine’s retreat?
People who are afraid have fearful things at home.
A flash of memories crowds through my mind, all of them unpleasant. I remember my father’s

control over me when I lived under his roof. His constant checking of my wardrobe—am I dressing
to draw attention? Am I wearing makeup that will make boys notice me? His harsh responses if I
disobeyed. The slap he gave my face when I wore lip gloss because my mouth was chapped. The
constant, furtive feeling of hiding, of being scared even when I wasn’t disobedient. His shoving a gun
into my hand at one in the morning and demanding I help him “defend” our home because he heard a
noise outside.

My father was abusive. Even though it was all designed to keep me safe because I was the only

thing he had left that he cared for, it was still abuse. I still remember years of living under his thumb,
afraid to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. Afraid to set off my father and endure weeks of his
paranoia.

I see all this in Christine when I look at her. Maybe she has a crazy father at home, too. Maybe

that’s why she can’t do her homework. Maybe that’s why she never has a lunch, or a coat even when
it’s cold. My sympathy for her bubbles over.

Poor Christine. I won’t push her. I’ll be the easiest friend she’s ever had. I’ll bring extra in my

lunches and bake her cookies and give her my homework and never, never ask questions. I’ve been in
her place. I know what it’s like to feel like a quivering rabbit, constantly afraid.

I’m no longer that girl, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t feel sympathy for her. I think back on my

life with my father—would I have gotten away sooner, changed who I was, if I’d had just one friend
on the outside that would have stayed by my side?

“There are too many shadows behind your eyes, love,” Nick says as he shrugs his coat back on.

He pulls me against him, and the movement allows him to reach into my pocket, to take back the gun
he always carries.

We’ve discussed it before—I worry that he carries a gun on campus. When we watch the news,

it seems there are always reports of shootings, and I fear for the day that it happens at our college and
Nick’s gun is discovered.

Nick tells me that these shootings make him all the more convinced that we need protection.
And I . . . well, I can’t disagree with that. So I let it ride. But I still worry that one day it’ll be

found, and then I don’t know what we’ll do. Our happy life here feels so very fragile. One wrong
move could destroy it.

Boy, Nick is right. There are shadows behind my eyes today. I give him a sunny smile. “Just

thinking too hard, I guess.” I slide my hands under his jacket and tickle his sides, even though I know
it’s useless. My Ukrainian is not ticklish in the slightest, but I still love trying.

“About your friend?” He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose, and it doesn’t matter that we’re

standing on a winter street and the wind is bitter. I’m warm from the inside out at that small gesture.

“About everything,” I confess. “So, tell me more about this fine arts program. Your teacher likes

your work?” I’m so proud of him.

We begin walking, and his hand reaches into my pocket and he laces his fingers with mine. It’d

be better to wear gloves, but then we wouldn’t be able to touch each other nearly as much. And Nick
and I are compulsive with our need to touch.

“Da. He thinks I have promise,” Nick admits, his accent thicker now that we are alone and

there’s no need to pretend. “That I have artist’s eye. He wishes for me to apply for fine arts program.”

I beam with pride. “That’s so wonderful.” I squeeze his fingers in my pocket. “I’m so proud of

you!”

He flashes me a grin, and then unlaces his hand from mine to hold the door open to the Village

Bean. I duck under his arm and then wait in the doorway for him to join me. We order our food and
wait at the counter, snuggling together. It’s not until we sit down that Nick continues our conversation.
“I will not join program, Daisy. It is useless, the fine arts degree. There is no point to it.”

My jaw drops. “How can you say that?”
“What shall I do with my art, Daisy?” Nick takes our coffees and pastries from the counter. I

follow behind him as we grab a table in the corner—always in the corner. He sets the tray down and
pulls my chair out for me, leaning in to murmur in my ear. “Shall I draw them something to pay for our
meal?”

“That’s not fair,” I protest. “Lots of people make a living with their art.”
“Name one.”
I blink and cup my hands around the cardboard of my coffee cup. My mind is blank.

“Picasso . . . ?”

The look he gives me is wry. “You flatter me, Daisy. I am no Picasso.”
My cheeks heat and I wish I had more examples of artists to give him to encourage him. I love

his art. I want him to continue it. I love to see him create, to see the images come to life on the page.
His works are always dark and grim, but so finely detailed that it awes me to think of all that going on
behind Nick’s beautiful eyes. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing to express yourself and to create things of
beauty for the world to appreciate.”

“Then I will just draw you a flower the next time something in the apartment breaks down and

we shall see how useful my talent is.”

I frown at him. This is the closest we’ve come to an argument. He’s being bitter about his art,

and I think it’s magical. I wish I had a fraction of the same poetic soul he does. Why can’t he see that
it’s special? That he is special? “I’m not going to fight with you about this.”

“Then let us not speak of it.”
We don’t, but I still think about it as we eat and chat about school, and then return to our classes.

I’m still thinking about it as we go home that night. When he goes to the gun range again, I will scour
the Internet and the library for books about current artists, men who make a living creating with their
hands, their minds, their imagination. I will prove to Nick that he’s wrong and that he can be more
than just a hired gun.

Determined, I smile to myself, and Nick catches me. His fingers caress my cheek as I clear

plates from the table.

“Why do you smile?” he asks. He likes to know all my thoughts. Sometimes I think Nick wants to

crawl inside my head, just so he doesn’t have to be in his own. But this is a thought I’m not going to
share with him, because we’ll argue and I don’t want to do that. Instead, I think about his fingers on
my skin, and decide to distract him the best, most wonderful way I know how. I set the dishes down
and turn to him, unbuttoning the front of my cardigan.

He raises an eyebrow at me, his smile broadening. “Is it not study time?”
“It is not,” I tell him, parting my sweater and revealing the nude bra beneath. The tattoo of his art

is lurid between my breasts, over my heart, his name in Cyrillic. I touch it and become immediately
aroused. If I have to be his canvas to get him to appreciate art, I’ll cover myself with his designs. “I
was thinking about another tattoo,” I tell him, and cup my own breasts through the bra. “Something for
these. What do you think?”

He stalks toward me like a wolf, and I shiver with excitement at the look in his eyes. “I think

they are perfection already, my Daisy. You are perfection.” His hands push mine aside, and then they
are cupping my breasts, kneading them and teasing my nipples.

I gasp and put my hands to his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “I want you,” I tell him. “Please,

touch me, Nick. I need you.”

His mouth captures mine, and I’m startled by the hunger in it. Always ravenous for love, my

Nick. His passion increases my own, and I tear at his shirt, desperate to see his skin, his tattoos. He’s
beautiful to me. So beautiful it makes an aching knot in my throat.

“Bed?” he asks between kisses.
We can go to the bed and make sweet, languid love, but I’m feeling a little wild tonight. I grab

two handfuls of Nick’s shirt and drag him to the sofa instead, and when he falls backward, I climb
onto him and straddle him, grinning as I do so.

“Too impatient for bed, milaya moya?” he breathes, and his hands return to my breasts.
I nod, nipping at his mouth. “I need you inside me, Nick.”
His breath hisses out from between his teeth, and then he’s reaching between us. I think he’s

going to slide a hand under my wool skirt, but instead he is unbuckling his pants. Giddy, I shove at the
stockings covering my legs, hitching up my skirt. I need to be bare for him. Right away.

He gets his cock free long before I’m able to wriggle out of my stockings, and I whimper in

protest. Nick solves my problem by putting his hands on the waist of my stockings and tearing them
right down the center seam, then pressing his hand into my now-damp panties. My skirt’s rucked up
around my waist and I start to ride his fingers, eager for more. More Nick, more of his touch, his skin,
his scent. I’m utterly addicted to this man.

He murmurs sweet-sounding words in Russian under his breath, his lips playing against mine

even as his fingers stroke through my wet, slick folds. Then, when I can’t stand it any longer, he
pushes aside my panties and drags my hips forward a little, settling the head of his cock at my
entrance.

His gaze meets mine, an unspoken question. Do we want to go bare this time again?
I nod. I’m on birth control. I want him deep inside me without anything separating us.
He grabs my hips and thrusts me down onto his lap, and I sink onto his shaft. My breath escapes

my lungs, and then I lean forward, kissing him, our lips playing as I start to ride him.

We move together, every motion utterly sweet, and delicious, and just right. Perfection in a male

body—that’s my Nick. He knows just how to touch me so that I’m whimpering, knows how to play his
fingers over my skin so that I’m clenching against him with a forceful orgasm.

The sight of my pleasure makes his erupt. He buries his face against my neck and bites down just

as I feel his cock pulse inside me. He’s coming, holding me so close and so tight that nothing in the
world will ever separate us.

We are one, Nick and I. And I love this more than words can ever express.

***

The next morning, I avoid seeing my father. I know I should visit him. I should probably go and make
sure Peanut is walked, and Father isn’t having one of his anxious episodes, but I keep thinking about
Christine and her fear, and it makes me remember all the bad times with my father. And I just can’t
face him today.

Instead, I spend the extra time in the kitchen, baking. I bake cookies, since they are easy to

package and hide in pockets. Chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies,
and snickerdoodles. I’ll send the extra ones down to my father . . . later. And Nick will eat some of
them.

The rest, I wrap carefully in Saran Wrap and will take with me to classes today. It’s part

sympathy for Christine, and part bribery. I intend to find out what is making her so frightened . . . so
Nick and I can fix it.

Nick saved me from my misery. Together, with his help, I’m sure we can save my new friend,

too.

Chapter 8

Nikolai

All morning I watch Daisy flit around the small kitchen. She bakes. And bakes. And bakes. The
apartment smells like a pastry shop, and she looks edible. I carry her off between the peanut butter
cookie batch and the oatmeal raisin cookies.

“You are dirty.” I swipe a finger down her flour-coated arm. She extends it to the side as if to

judge the truth of my statement. I lick my finger and make a new trail, this time around her clavicle
and into the valley of her V-neck sweater. I am mesmerized by the shadow that swallows the tip of my
finger.

“I like to think I’m wrapped up in my work,” she teases.
“Nyet, you are filthy. Let me clean you.” Her neck tastes salty and sweet and addictive.
“I have two more batches of cookies to make.” Despite her protest, she remains in the circle of

my arms, arching her neck to provide easier access. I delve into the cleft of her breasts, stabbing the
valley with my tongue. Soon we are ripping at each other’s clothes, and I’m pushing my cock inside
her. The smells of the baked goods mixes with the musk of our shared arousal, and I know I will
never eat another cookie again without getting hard.

She cries out and clutches me as she comes, and I follow swiftly behind her, spurting my seed

inside her tight sex. The quick orgasm depletes me, and while Daisy skips off to clean up and finish
her baking, I lie wrecked on the sofa.

The police scanner spits and stutters in the background. I’ve taken to listening to it, waiting to

hear my name. Instead it is reports of robberies, domestic violence and the occasional shooting. The
cold doesn’t deter any unsavory activities, only sends them inside.

“Nick, why do you suppose we can’t seem to rent out any of these units? This place is close to

the university. All the units are renovated and seem nicer than anything I’ve seen advertised. Yet, here
we are six months later, and it’s still completely empty except for us.”

“The applicants have not been qualified, kotehok.” The scanner squawks about a GSW or

gunshot wound. Single. To the head.

“We don’t need to be so strict. So what if they had a few unpaid parking tickets or a public

intoxication violation? It’s college. That’s what college kids do.”

I lean forward and turn up the scanner. Where was it that this shooting happened?
“Those are all signs of danger. Their weaknesses could be used against us.”
She clicks her tongue. “We aren’t in Russia. There are no enemies here, not unless you count the

spanglytopgirls.” The last words are jumbled together and I can’t make them out. My attention swings
back to her at the word enemies.

“Who are the spanglytopgirls? I will dispose of your enemies.” I stand up and stalk toward her.

She waves her spatula at me.

“No nudity in the kitchen. Shoo. Out of here while I’m making cookies.”
Stepping back across the invisible line she has drawn, I wait for her answer. Shaking her head,

she sighs. “It’s nothing, Nick. Really. I just liked some of the clothes the girls had at the party and

wished I had worn them.”

She won’t say more, and while I leave as she asks, I remain alert. More details are being

exchanged on the radio.

Male, 20s to 30s, GSW to forehead. East Lake Street and 16th Ave.
We have a 10-32.
Single shot?
Confirmed. Looks like a pro.
“What it is?” The light hand on my shoulder startles me.
I turn and place a kiss on it. “Execution in South Minneapolis. The 10-32 is a ten code for an

assault with a gun. Single gunshot wound to the victim’s head.” Worry and fear for her plagues me. I
turn and bring her into the circle of my arms. “This is the third single gunshot wound to the head in the
last three weeks. Perhaps you should stay home.”

My suggestion is met with a frown. “This is a city. Shootings happen all the time when it comes

to gangs. It’s drugs, you know.” Her eyes darken in pain and sadness. Her mother was killed by a
drug addict. That death set off a chain of unfortunate events. Her father went mad, retreating to his
house and locking Daisy in with him. She was a prisoner and is now free. I must remember that. In my
desire to protect her, I cannot imprison her or I am no better than her worst fear. Forcing myself to
loosen my grip, I give her a pained smile.

“Da, this is true. Go to your class. I will meet you after and we will go eat together.”
My effort to honor her independence is rewarded with a passionate kiss full of tongue. She

leaves with her baked goods, her backpack, and all the sunshine. After five minutes, I exit as well. I
carry my gun, my sketchpad, and textbook.

It is not known to me whether she understands I must follow her and see her safely to her

classroom. I suspect she knows and tolerates me. As long as I do not inhibit her freedom, my lurking
about is endured.

When she disappears inside her building, I race toward my classroom. Inside the life drawing

class, the model has already disrobed, and most of the class has begun. The professor frowns at me
but says nothing.

I prop my sketchbook onto the easel and begin the outline of the model’s forehead, nose, and

mouth. I start with the face always. Others do the body, but I prefer to draw only the face.

Bodies do not interest me. It is the expression in the eyes or the lines around the mouth. Does the

model smile readily, or is the face in repose one of relaxation or meditation? Some models fall
asleep, others look bored. Still others are angry that they are here. Those are my favorite.

I draw their eyebrows in dark slashes, and their frowns are exaggerated by deep pencil marks at

the corner. There is more truth in the angry face than there is in the bored one.

This model is a bored one. His face is interesting, though. There’s a scar that bisects his cheek.

By the jagged path, it appears a serrated knife sliced him open and he healed poorly. But his face is
otherwise symmetrical, if a little thick in the cheek. Though he is reclining, I can tell he has poor
posture by the downward slope of his shoulders.

I become lost in executing the scar perfectly. There is nothing else of interest to me, so I draw

that again and again, carefully shading and revising to get the exact three-dimensional texture of the
shiny, puckered skin. Around me the other artists are drawing his body, many of them taking pains to
detail his groin in exaggerated fashion.

We work silently for many minutes, maybe a half hour, when we are all jolted by the intercom

system coming to life. There’s a commotion at the front of the room as the professor throws a sheet

over the model and then turns to us.

Nervously he clears his throat. “We are on lockdown. There is a situation on campus, over by

the student union, and we are locking students inside the building until the situation is resolved.”

Daisy.
A lockdown means physical danger to the student body. Panic ensues. The sound of screeching

metal mixed with shouts of shock and fear and annoyance mix together. Students are throwing their
supplies in their bags and rushing out of class. I follow, marking every red exit sign. The front door is
locked as we’d been informed. Excited chatter fills the air. Retreating backward, I find the hallway
I’d noted previously.

Following the red exit arrows, I speed down the empty hallway. The soles of my feet echo

loudly against the tile. I encounter a few students but none stop me. At the end of the hallway, the red
arrow directs me to the left. I’m sprinting now. The metal door at the end signals that it is an
emergency exit only. I blow through the door and the alarm sounds immediately.

Leaving the loud barking emergency alarm behind me, I sprint toward Daisy’s building. Every

foot I cover is too many that separates us. Around me the sidewalks are clear of people. I see a few
security guards inside buildings. One or two of them may call to me but I ignore them. In less than
three minutes, I’m at Daisy’s building. The doors are locked and guarded by two security officers and
beyond them I see a crowd of agitated students but no Daisy.

I pound on the doors. “Let me in!” I yell. One of their dumb lumbering heads turns. He looks at

me and then whispers to his friend. The urge to pull out my handgun and shoot them both is
overwhelming. Instead, though, I kick the frame, careful not to break the glass. They need to pay
attention.

I kick once. Then twice. Finally the man opens the door, “Hey fucker, stop kicking—”
Immediately I dart inside, pushing him out of my way. “Daisy,” I yell. People are standing in my

way and I push at them, weaving in and out looking for Daisy. I duck down a hallway and into a
classroom but she is nowhere to be seen. Students run out of my way, cowering before me.

I must look menacing, but I’ve kept my head enough not to take my gun out.
In the back of my head I know I’m making a spectacle but I can’t stop. Every heartbeat, every

ounce of blood in my veins is driving me toward her. I can’t lose her. Where is she? Where is she?

I burst into another room when I hear her. “Nick, is that you?”
Her beloved face pokes out of the last stall and I nearly fall on my knees in relief. “Daisy,

Daisy,” I mutter sweeping her into my arms. “What’s going on?” she demands but I’m too busy kissing
her all over her face, reassuring myself that she is unharmed. “Nick,” she repeats and I finally release
her.

It’s only then that I notice the mouse Christine is behind her in the stall.
“You are not using the facilities?” I ask dumbly, finally realizing we are in the women’s

bathroom.

“No, you’ve always said to go into the bathroom should there be an emergency, so I figured this

place would be the safest in the building.” She smiles proudly.

“Ah kotehok, yes. I am so proud of you. Come now, we will move to safer place.” Grabbing her

wrist, I move out but she tugs me backward. “What is it?”

She tips her head and behind her, the girl steps out. I can’t stop my frown. I’m here to protect

Daisy and no one else. Under my fierce glare, Christine wilts.

“She’s my friend,” Daisy pleads. Having a friend is important to Daisy in ways I do not

understand but . . . I can deny her nothing. With a sharp jerk of my head, I motion for them both to

follow.

Out in the hall, it has mostly emptied. The students are milling in the front, near the windows. If

there is a shooter, many of them would be injured, not just from a bullet coming through the glass but
from the shrapnel that would result on impact between the bullet and any object between it. The
security guards stand there acting like sentinels, keeping people in. “We go to the roof,” I tell them.
“Highest point in this building is to our advantage.”

Daisy follows me without question as we race up the stairs. The roof access is not blocked. The

doors lock from the outside, rather than in, and the university’s fire code would not allow for them to
be locked when the front doors are secured.

On the roof we find a small crowd of people huddled near a structure. Some are smoking. There

is one man stupidly leaning over the short barrier. This is a five-story building. A gust of wind, a
brush of someone’s body next to his, and he’d fall to his death.

Leading the two girls to a corner, I make them sit with their backs to the short wall. I crouch and

peek over the side. The sidewalks are eerily empty. The stillness reminds me of the Christmas poem
Daisy read to me . . . nothing is stirring, not even a mouse.

“Did you hear the reason?” Daisy asks. She has her arm around Christine, who is huddled into

her. Christine’s coat is not designed for cold weather. Daisy should buy her a new one. I’ll mention it.

“I assume a shooter, perhaps a bomb threat, but I see no dogs.” The emptiness of the streets and

the lockdown points toward a shooter. I scan the rooftops. The highest point on the campus would be
the bell tower on the administration building. That’s where any smart shooter would be. I calculate
the distance. There are maybe five hundred feet and two buildings between us. A large expanse of
lawn with little cover between the last building and the bell tower presents a problem.

“Don’t do it,” Daisy warns.
“Do not do what?”
She swats my arm. “I see you plotting. I want you to stay here and keep me warm and safe.”
“I can keep you safe by locating the danger.” Is there movement at the bell tower? I stare,

blocking out the structures and looking for any abnormality. My scope would be helpful here. I shift
on the balls of my feet, ready to spring for the door.

“Nick!” Her voice is sharp, commanding, and so unlike her regular soft tones. “You need to stay

here.” Her voice gentles. “Please. This isn’t our problem. It’s the school’s. Let them take care of it.”

Her soft hand rests upon my arm, nearly weightless, but I cannot move for her touch is as

effective as a shackle. I sigh and then settle next to her, giving her comfort as she extends it to her
friend. At least we are together. That is all that matters. We sit there in the cold wind and blowing
snow until the bell tower rings signaling the all clear.

Chapter 9

Daisy

I’m really worried about Nick.

As we return to class, his gloved hand clutches mine, his grip tight and unrelenting. I don’t mind

it—I know Nick is possessive. I actually like it. And I understand his quirks, his need to walk me to
and from class, his need to carry a gun, the knives under the mattress he thinks I don’t know about.
Nick has idiosyncrasies that I ignore, because I love him. But there are some things I cannot ignore.

There’s a wild look in his eyes right now. A tension in his shoulders. His free hand keeps

flicking around his pocket, and I know he’s ready to draw his gun at any moment.

And that is a very bad thing, especially with the campus locked down because of a threat.
Thing is, even though Nick and I have a fairly new relationship, I spent years in hiding with my

father. I have learned to recognize a man teetering on the edge of control, and I see that edge when I
look at my Nick. He’s always so controlled, so capable of handling almost any situation that it alarms
me.

So as Nick turns down the path toward my class, I squeeze his hand. “I . . . I don’t think I want to

go to class today, Nick. I want to skip. Will you take me home?”

The dark-eyed look he gives me is full of relief, and I know I’ve chosen the right thing. At home,

Nick can protect me. At home, Nick can devour me with hands and eyes to his heart’s content, until he
feels settled again. And home is where we need to be. So I feign a little more fear than I actually have
and give him my most helpless look. “You don’t mind, do you, Nick?”

“Nyet,” he breathes, and pulls me close for a quick kiss. “Anything for you, kotehok.”
I give Christine an apologetic look even as Nick pulls me away. “Will you be okay?”
She nods, and starts to say something, but Nick’s dragging me away so fast that I don’t catch it.

All I can do is wave as we head to the student parking lot and get into our bland sedan, and Nick
drives like a bat out of hell for our apartment.

I watch him, my brain in a state of calm. Whenever my father got agitated, I would distract him

by changing his focus. My father’s panic was driven by the outside world. Whenever he would get too
manic, too edgy, I’d do something small to set him off. Maybe I’d drop a plate at dinner. Maybe I’d
burn the soup. Maybe I’d wear a bit of eye shadow. My father would lose his mind with anger and
erupt, and it was always bad for a day or so, but then he’d decompress and he’d be better once his
focus had changed from the outside world to me.

I can do the same for Nick.
When we get to the apartment building, Nick practically slams into our parking space. Then, we

get out of the car and he’s dragging me by the hand up to our apartment. Once we’re there, he locks
the door and immediately heads to the spare bedroom, the only room that overlooks the street. With
his finger, he nudges the blinds open just a crack and surveys the road below.

This is a side of Nick I don’t often see—the hit man. Not that he’s not a hit man every day of his

life, but I don’t see the paranoia, the watchfulness, the predatory gleam in his eyes. His gun is out
now, in one hand as the other continues to hold the blinds, his gaze scanning the streets. Always

scanning.

Wanting to be ready to protect me.
I shrug off my coat and hang it on the hook by the door, then remove my gloves and shoes. I know

what I need to do to get him back to the right state of mind. With my father, it was a necessary evil to
do something to anger him and make him snap.

With Nick, there is no evil. There’s no anger, and there’s certainly no duty involved. “Kolya,” I

call. “Come away from the window.”

The diminutive of his name gets his attention. “If someone has followed us home,” he begins.
“They have not,” I tell him. I unzip my corduroy jeans and drop them to the carpet. “Come. I’m

sweaty and want a shower. Come with me?”

His gaze is on my legs, and I have his attention now. I continue stripping off my clothing and

wander toward the bathroom, as if this were a normal day and Nick is not close to freaking out on me.
The key is that I have to be normal, and it won’t seem odd to Nick that his shy Daisy is going to maul
him midday. I’m definitely planning a mauling.

By the time I start the shower, Nick has followed me. The gun is placed on the bathroom counter,

and I’m fully nude at this point. I turn to Nick and begin to loosen his clothing, unbuttoning his jacket
and removing his scarf. It’s always like unwrapping a present when I get to undress Nick, and I’m
never tired of his beautiful, incredible body. By the time I get down to skin, Nick’s concentration is
on me and he’s erect under his boxers.

I smile at him and tug the waistband of his boxers down. Then, in the steamy bathroom, I kneel

on the rug before Nick and take him in my mouth. His hard length caresses my tongue a moment before
his fingers fist in my dark hair.

“Do you distract me, my Daisy?” he murmurs.
I only give him a sultry smile and lick the head of his cock in answer.
His eyes flare with lust as I gaze up at him. “Da, I think you do,” he breathes. “I should ask why I

warrant such a distraction, but I find I cannot think when you put your glorious mouth on me.”

“No distraction,” I say sweetly. “I just want your mind here with me, like the rest of you is.” My

hand curls around the base of his cock and I give him a quick stroke.

“Lick your palm,” he tells me in a hoarse voice. “Make it wet from your mouth. Then stroke me

again.”

I feel a little silly slobbering on my hand, but the intensity in Nick’s gaze takes away any shyness

I feel. I get my palm good and wet, then wrap it around his cock again, and tug once more. The aching
groan that escapes him fascinates me. Did I think it was silly? Not any longer. Now I want to slide my
mouth all over him, wet him down, and jerk him with my fist so he will make that sound again. I drag
lips and tongue over his sensitive skin, trying to keep him wet so I can continue to pump him with my
tight hand, but it’s a losing battle.

“Take me in your mouth,” he says, smoothing my hair away from my face so he can watch.
“Give me more instructions,” I tell him, breathless. “Tell me exactly what you want. I want to

please you.”

“Oh, Daisy, you always please me,” he groans, but he directs my lips toward the head of his

cock. “Your every touch, your every caress, it is an utter delight. When your mouth leaves my skin, I
am devastated at its loss. There is no heaven beyond your lips.”

Such pretty words. I am reminded that my Nick is an assassin with an artistic soul. I give him a

lick and then purse my lips around him.

“Use your tongue,” he instructs me.

And because pleasing him makes me wet with arousal, I do. I caress him with the tip of my

tongue and then take him fully in my mouth. I rub my tongue along the underside of his cock. I feel the
shiver that ripples through his body, and it encourages me to be more inventive. I suck hard, pulling
him deep into my throat and then flexing as if trying to swallow. I cough and gag on his thick length,
but his swift intake of breath is worth the effort, so I try again.

His hand fists in my hair again, and then he’s tugging me off of his cock. He turns and lifts me up

onto the counter. “I must be inside you. Are you wet?”

“So wet,” I breathe, spreading my legs wider so he can see for himself. Touching him turns me

on so very much.

My Nick is tall enough that with me seated on the edge of the counter, his cock is near even with

my sex. He takes himself in hand and rubs the head of his cock through my folds, slicking it. “Look at
that,” he tells me. “Look at the way your pussy clings to my cock, hungry for more.”

I lean back, my hands braced on the sink, and watch the head of his cock push through my wet

folds, back and forth, the crown appearing between them as he rubs against my clit. It’s an obscene
view, but somehow incredibly arousing, and I moan my need for him.

“You are so beautiful, my Daisy.”
“You are so dramatic, my Nick,” I tell him. “Just make love to me, won’t you?” He grins, and my

heart stutters at how insanely beautiful he is. Like a dark god. Now I’m the one being dramatic. “Oh, I
love you,” I blurt out. “I love you so much.”

His gaze grows intense, and one hard arm latches around my waist. As he pulls me against him,

he seats me on him in one hard thrust, and then I’m not sitting on the counter as much as I’m sitting on
his cock. He’s so hard and he fills me so well. Nick’s face tenses as he begins to pump into me, his
strokes hard, vicious, and so damn good.

I put my hands on his shoulders and cling to him as he fucks me hard. He leans in to kiss me, and

his hand moves to the tattoo of his name over my heart. He holds it as he makes love to me with his
mouth and fucks me with his cock.

I whimper with need as I feel my orgasm building, and I breathe his name over and over again.

His movements intensify, and he fucks me even harder, until I’m screaming his name. And then my
orgasm is coming over me and it’s incredible, and Nick’s thrusting into me so hard I can scarcely
breathe.

Then he pumps once more into me, and his release washes over my insides. He buries his face

against my neck and I hold him close as he comes.

I’m wet and sticky between my legs from his spend, and so utterly replete that I sigh. “I bet we

used up all the hot water and we haven’t even gotten into the shower yet.”

“Then I will keep you warm,” Nick says, and nuzzles my neck. His hand reaches for my nipple,

and at the brush of his thumb against it, I’m tensing and moaning.

And I forget all about the shower again.
Hours later, when we have exhausted our bodies, we lay in bed, and Nick’s head is pillowed on

my breasts. I toy with his hair, feeling content as he dozes against me. He’s finally relaxed, and now I
can, too. I’m a little concerned that something’s bothering him so much that it drove him this far, but
maybe it’s the school lockdown that had him so on edge. I hope.

As I run my fingers through his now-dry hair, I yawn and wonder if Christine took notes during

class.

***

Nick wants to wait a week before going back to classes, but I don’t want to destroy my grade. I insist
on returning for the very next class, and I can tell that Nick doesn’t like it, but he agrees. Classes are
mostly uneventful, though everyone’s gossiping about the lockdown from the other day. The police
haven’t caught whoever it was, so the campus is on high alert for any sort of criminal activity. Idly, I
worry that Nick is skipping his own classes to lurk outside of mine and make sure that I’m fine. But
when I emerge for my lunch hour, he’s nowhere to be seen. I head for the commons and automatically
find Christine.

She’s at her normal table, head down. I head over, smiling. “Hey there. Did you take notes from

Tuesday’s class? I—”

My words break off as she lifts her head.
Her bangs are flat against her forehead, her hair messy, but there’s no hiding that she’s got a

black eye.

“Hi,” Christine says in a small voice, attempting to smile. She tries to fix her bangs in an attempt

to disguise the bruise. “Glad to see you’re back.”

“What happened?” I ask her. It wasn’t there when I saw her last.
“Oh, this?” She touches her cheek and waves a hand in the air. “I spilled some olive oil in the

kitchen and slipped and hit a cabinet door.”

I relax. That’s a totally logical explanation. I’m just a crazy girl imagining all sorts of grim

possibilities when it could be something as simple as that. Not every situation means someone is
being abused, or that Christine is trapped like I was. I’m just . . . oversensitive to such things.
“Spilling oil is the worst,” I sympathize. “I did that once and it took forever to get it off the floor.”

She nods, just biting her lip and watching me.
I unpack my lunch and automatically set aside the portions I’ve brought for her. It’s become a

thing for me to double my lunch and just bring the additional food. I don’t mind. If she can’t afford to
feed herself, I’ll gladly feed her. “Do you have notes from Tuesday’s class?”

She hands hers over and they’re not very complete. It’s obvious Christine doesn’t pay as much

attention in class. Where I normally leave with five pages of tightly written notes, Christine has only a
half page of idle comments. I still copy them down. Not everyone is a great student, and I can’t
criticize her for that.

“Have you started the midsemester assignment?” Christine asks. Our architecture teacher has

asked us to study a particular architect and one of his works and answer an exhaustive list of essay
questions. I ended up with St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and Christine oddly has the same thing.

“I’m almost done,” I admit.
“Can I see your notes?”
I hesitate, but then dig into my bag for the library book I’ve checked out on the subject, and pull

my notes out and hand them to her. “You must be super busy at night.”

For a moment, Christine looks utterly chastised and I feel like a jerk. “Second job,” she tells me,

and her voice is tiny.

“Of course,” I say, and I’m overwhelmed with sympathy. She can’t even afford lunch. How can I

give her a hard time? Tuition must be killing her. Just because money is easy for Nick and me, I am
forgetting that the rest of the world works hard and suffers to make ends meet. I feel like such an
awful person. Christine is my friend. “I’m not finished with the book, but I’ll make additional notes
for you this weekend. If you like.”

Her beaming smile tells me that I am forgiven for my doubts, and I bask in her happiness.
“What’s for lunch today?” she asks, picking up one half of her sandwich.

“Chicken salad,” I answer.
Christine takes a bite, and as she does, a man walks up and knocks the sandwich away from her

mouth.

“I thought I told you to cut back on the food, babe.” The voice is mean and cruel. A big man sits

down next to Christine and leans in. “You don’t want to look like a piggy, do you?”

Her gaze drops to the table. Chicken salad is splattered all over my notes. “Of course not,” she

whispers.

I stare in horror at this rude man. Why isn’t Christine saying something? Should I?
I’m just about to snap at him, when he gives me a calculating look, and then leers in my

direction. “You gonna introduce us, Chrissy babe?”

Christine licks her lips, glances at the huge spread of food I’ve brought for our lunch, and then

looks away, her hands clasped in her lap. “Daisy, this is my boyfriend, Saul.”

I’m aghast. This horrible man is sweet Christine’s boyfriend? He just called her piggy. He just

knocked a sandwich out of her grip.

Is . . . is this why she doesn’t eat lunch?
Is this why she has a black eye?
Even as I stare, he reaches over and grabs a cookie from my spread. “You the one that’s feeding

my fat cow of a girlfriend? I thought she looked a little heavier lately. Now I know why.” He gazes at
my breasts as he eats the cookie in one bite. “Though it doesn’t seem to be doing you any harm.”

As I stare at this human stain on society, I realize that I’m going to have to talk to Nick about this

man. I can’t allow him to bully Christine. I can’t. She’s sweet and deserves better. In Saul’s presence,
she’s practically cowering, her shoulders hunched as he eyes me like I’m a slab of meat. I resist the
urge to cross my arms over my breasts protectively.

Then, a cold feeling washes over me.
I can’t ask Nick for help. Nick will take this man out with a bullet to the brain. And while I don’t

think the world will miss Saul, I can’t allow Nick to kill someone again. He’s no longer a hit man. He
can’t solve things with the barrel of a gun any longer.

If I’m to save Christine from Saul, I’m going to have to do it myself.

Chapter 10

Nikolai

I do not like that Daisy leaves for classes, but I know by now that she would like it less if I protest.
Quietly I follow her. One day we watch a James Bond movie and she proclaims I am Bond. But I am
no spy. Spies can lie, change their appearance, seduce without effort. I am a poor liar and have never
once had plastic surgery as many spies do. My work is done in the background, where I watch and
wait. I am a ghost and a hunter.

Today I hunt. After seeing her safely to the building where her classes are today, I take an easel

and set it up close to the security building. I have a sound amplifier in my bag, which I point toward
the small concrete slab where the security officers congregate to smoke. With my earphones and my
paint supplies, I believe I look like an average student.

Settling in against the cold, I take out my pencil and begin sketching the mane of a lion. My

patience is rewarded. Within fifteen minutes, one guard and then another appear. The conversation is
easy to pick up. In between the strands of fur on my sketchbook, I take notes.

“I heard they found three shell casings on the roof of BF.”
BF would be Blackfriar, the main residence and dining hall. There are several exits and entrance

points, and according to the young girls who sit in the front, students often sit on the roof and smoke—
often illegal substances.

“Yeah, a .222. One of the detectives said it looked like it came from a bolt action. Someone had

been lying there.”

“Bolt action? What’s the point of that?”
“No idea.”
I did. Bolt-action rifles were precision tools used by military snipers . . . and men like me.
“No injuries, though. That’s good. Think we’ll actually get some working cameras?”
The companion snorts. “Yeah, right. I saw a requisition order on the desk today, so it’ll be

weeks before they go in.”

“It was weird. Like the guy was playing target practice. Hit a stop sign, and it looked like he

was aiming for the middle but none of the shots were in the middle. One missed entirely and went
through a car window. The other two were in the metal, but mostly around the white part.”

I’ve heard enough. Packing up my materials, I head for Blackfriar. There is no lock on the

entrance because the building contains a dining hall available to the entire campus. It takes almost no
effort to step into the stairwell and climb the stairs. I spot the black half circles in the ceiling that are
apparently empty. Blackfriar is five stories tall, and the dining hall is on the first floor with a few
student rooms. Residential housing comprises the remaining four floors.

A sign above the door to the roof says that it is an emergency exit only and that an alarm will

sound if the door is engaged. Using a screwdriver secreted in my art supply bag, I quickly dismantle
the door latch. As I suspected, the alarm wires are not hooked up. Either the shooter undid them or, as
is the more likely case given the lack of actual security cameras inside the domed glass coverings, the
wiring was never attached.

Yellow police tape surrounds the area where the shooter was lying. I search around the taped

area but there is no debris. The police department has picked it over carefully.

As I crouch near the tape, I breathe a sigh of relief. The shooter is an amateur. His body print is

still visible on the concrete. He should have brought a mat. Or not rested so long as to leave a stain.
The three points of a barrel rest are still evident. Did he miss killing because he was a bad shot? Or
because this was a warning to someone?

If it is someone sent to dispatch me, former Bratva hit man, it would not be an amateur. A paid

killer would easily be able to hit the middle of the stop sign that is only a few hundred feet away,
particularly lying down bracing his gun with a stand.

The phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me that classes for Daisy are nearly completed. I gather

my paint supplies left inside the stairwell and move swiftly down the stairs.

In the dining hall, I pay for two sandwiches and then eat them both as I jog toward Daisy’s

building.

She is standing in the lobby, frowning when I open the double glass doors.
“Who has made you unhappy?” I ask immediately. Looking around I see only average students.

Have any of them insulted her? I will demand they apologize.

“No one,” she mutters and then tucks her hand around my wrist. I do not believe her but willingly

follow her out into the cold.

“Did you eat?”
“I tried but lost my appetite.”
Halting, I turn and lift my gloved hand to her shoulder. “Tell me what has happened, or I will be

tormented by my ignorance.”

She shakes her head and laughs lightly. “You are full of drama, Nick.”
Rising on her tiptoes, she kisses me. I sigh because her simple touch fills me with such pleasure.

“I have eaten two sandwiches but would like coffee. Will you drink with me?”

“Of course.”
After we order our hot drinks at the Village Bean, Daisy confesses her worries. “I met

Christine’s boyfriend today.”

“Da?”
“He called her piggy. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Da, terrible,” I reply uncertainly. Is it terrible? I wonder because I call Daisy kitten.
“It’s not same thing at all.” She somehow reads my mind. “And it’s not just his awful nickname

for her, it’s how he treats her. He calls her names, says she’s fat, and . . . ,” she pauses and takes a
deep breath. Leaning forward she whispers. “I think he’s not . . . nice to her.”

“How so?” I ask carefully so as not to misunderstand her. By her earnest expression and her

very real distress, Daisy is concerned about something more than a man being unkind to a woman. At
least I believe that to be true. “Should I talk to him? I will be pleased to share how a true man treats a
woman.”

Daisy does not welcome my suggestion. She retreats to her side of the table, and the furrows

between her eyes deepen. “No. I don’t think she or Saul would respond well to another stranger.
Christine is still afraid around me and I’ve sat in her class for weeks now. What do you think I should
do?”

I am stymied. My problems are solved by killing people. In the past, I have needed a good

reason to kill someone. I have never killed a person because they are . . . not nice. But this is my
Daisy and I would do whatever she asks of me.

I can kill this Saul, and Christine would be free of that worry, but now is a bad time for me to

shoot someone. The police are watching the campus, and another shooting? I can investigate Saul but I
don’t want to promise Daisy a resolution and not deliver. “There are some people who do not wish to
have aid. They could be hanging from the edge of a bridge and would spit on your hand if you offered
it.” She looks surprised, so I share with her an incident of my past. “Before—before us—I tried to
warn a young boy who the Bratva had picked up that there was a different life he could lead. I offered
him money but he refused. He said the Bratva was his last, best chance.”

“What happened?”
“He died, not five months later. He was delivering a package and failed to be discreet. After he

was caught and released by the police, Sergei had another boy end him.”

“That’s terrible.” She looks a bit sick, and truthfully the memory is not a welcome one for me,

either. “Couldn’t the other boy have said no?”

“That was not how it worked within the Bratva. I was lucky because I had no one, but those who

had mothers, brothers, or sisters would do whatever Sergei or his sister ordered, because to not obey
meant a thousand horrors were visited upon those you cared about.” I reach across the table and grab
her hand, bringing it to my mouth. “I’d storm the gates of heaven and kill Angel Gabriel himself if it
meant that no harm would come to you. If Saul is a bother to you, if he causes you one ounce of
unease, then he breathes no more.”

“Oh, Nick. I’m not Sergei to demand those things of you.” She twists her hand to pat my face.

“I’ll think of something else.”

Settling against the wooden slats of my chair, I shrug. “Offer her one of the empty units. Tell her

we are having problems renting and that if we had a tenant perhaps we could attract more people.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea, Nick.”
“Da, this is good. Now I tell you about my hunt.”
“For the shooter?”
“Correct. He is an amateur. Not anyone that I know.”
“How can you tell?” She plays with a lock of her hair, and my attention wanders from her hair to

her hand and down her lovely arm. It is hard to believe at times that I can sit in this cafe in this city
with this amazing girl. How fortunate I am!

“He is sloppy. He left marks of his body, of his equipment. I do not know his purpose but he is

not a professional.”

“Do you think he missed his target?”
“Yes or he is practicing? I do not know. I think I will do some research. I would like to look at

the police report.”

“Nick,” she says reprovingly. She is whispering again. We should go home where we can talk

freely. “You can’t hack into the police department. What if you’re caught?”

Snorting, I rise and bring her to her feet. “I will not get caught. I have looked at places with more

security than one city police department.”

“I don’t want to know,” she says.
“I will tell you when you are ready.”
At home, Daisy makes dinner while I poke into the internet. A game called Hitman is just

released, announces one of the internet ads. Out of curiosity, I click on it. The game is a first person
shooter where individuals collect game money for hits that are assigned. Extra points are awarded for
crowded locations and high profile individuals such as celebrities and politicians. The president, of
course, is the highest achievement but there are large bounties for a female celebrity at an awards

show or a driver at a famous race. There is—

“Daisy, is the Mall of America the largest mall in the United States?”
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Come and look at this.”
She abandons the kitchen and leans over my chair. After reading silently, she asks, “You think

someone’s playing this game in real life?”

“It is possibility. I will do some searching on the deep web, for if it is game, then there must be a

way to announce it and be rewarded.”

“That’s really horrible,” she declares.
“Of course. But that is humanity. We are awful beings for the most part save for a tiny few, like

you.”

She blushes but kisses me softly, tenderly. “You’re wonderful, too. Don’t forget it.”
What I forget is anything we should be doing, such as following these Internet tracks or studying

or working on an art project. Instead, I want to draw patterns on her body with my tongue and fingers.

Abruptly I stand and lift her into my arms. Her hands delve into my hair and she spreads kisses

along my jawline, behind my ear, and down the column of my neck.

When I reach our bedroom, I throw her onto the pile of covers. Grasping the back of my T-shirt

with one hand, I tug the offending fabric off and toss it to the side. My jeans and underwear follow
close behind. She lounges against the headboard, an inviting tangle of bare legs and lush curves. Her
knit skirt is flipped up to her thighs, and her deep V-neck shirt parades the erotic valley between her
breasts. I keep the apartment warm so that she wears as little as possible inside.

With her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, she is as enticing as Venus, as alluring as

Aphrodite. I climb onto the bed on my knees to worship her. Reaching under her skirt, I pull off her
panties. Bringing them to my nose, I inhale her musky scent. Then I wrap her lace and cotton around
my full erection. “I fantasized about you. About your body taking mine. About my cock inside your
sweet cunt.”

“You’ve a dirty mouth,” she says. The smile dancing around the corners of her mouth is Mona

Lisa mysterious.

I draw a hand across my lips. “My words, you mean?”
“Yes. The things you say turn me on.” She curls her fingers for me to come toward her. “But

don’t stop.”

Never.
“Your feet are beautifully formed,” I say. I know she is ticklish so I press hard against the pads

and then the arch. She moans her appreciation. Encouraged, I provide her other foot the same
attention. Then I place both on my thighs and press forward.

She opens and her skirt falls to her hips. I stop only when her cunt is fully exposed to my gaze.

My folded legs hug her hips while the heels of her feet dig into my thighs.

I wet my index finger and then draw it down, tracing the folds and swollen lips of her sex. Her

eyes glitter with excitement. I take her hands that were braced against the mattress and place them on
either side of her thighs. “Hold yourself.”

She does as I order. Her legs are smooth and strong. The lamplight in the room casts a warm

golden glow over all the rises and enticing shadows in all the valleys.

I stroke her with that single finger, up and around her clitoris, and then down around her lips. My

finger gets wetter with each pass. In my mouth, my tongue feels thick and heavy. It is hard to form
words.

“I have studied different masters and their work is undeniable. But even they would have trouble

translating the wonder of your body onto a canvas.”

“You are impossibly dramatic,” she chides.
“Am I? Or merely truthful.” I bend forward and pull the V of her shirt until one large, juicy tit

pops out. The fabric binds her movements and displays her charms in exaggerated fashion. The hard
peak waves in invitation, and I am all too happy to provide it attention. I fasten my mouth over her
bud, sucking it into the hollow of my mouth, laving it with my tongue. The tip of my cock brushes
against her stomach, leaving a wet trail of my excitement along her belly.

Lust seizes me, and the slow seduction I thought to deliver is swallowed by my need to be inside

her.

“Kotehok,” I groan, releasing her breast. “I am desperate for you.”
Innocent though she may have been when we met, she is now a siren. Daisy sits up and removes

her shirt. The motion causes her full breasts to bounce enticingly in front of me. With another swift
motion, we rid her of the skirt and then we are skin to skin, flesh to flesh.

Taking myself in hand, I arrow into the hot, wet depths of her body. A groan of tremendous

pleasure escapes me as I sink into the welcome embrace.

I push myself up on one arm to watch as I advance and retreat. My cock is shiny from her juice,

and I shudder at the sight of her cunt swallowing every hard inch of me.

My hand traces the swell of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the high curves of her breasts. “I

wish I had dozen hands and dozen mouths so that I could taste and touch every inch of your body
while I fuck you.”

Her hands tremble at the base of my spine, but her hips grip me fiercely as I plunge into her time

and again. Her mouth finds my shoulder, my neck. Her whimpers of pleasure slither under my skin
and bake into my muscles, slide into my bloodstream until I am delirious with her delight.

I whisper my vows of devotion against her sweat-dampened skin as I pump against her. My hips

spread her thighs farther apart. Some part of me recognizes I should slow down, be more gentle, but I
cannot with her.

My desire runs too hot. My lust is too powerful. Between her legs is an aphrodisiac that severs

my control and unleashes the animal inside. I want to throw back my head, beat my chest, and howl at
the moon like a wolf who has captured its prey.

Yet I also want to lie under her warm hand, kiss her foot, and do nothing but live to protect her.
“Nikolai, my love,” she gasps, a thready, needy sound. I recognize its meaning, what she wants

of me. Slipping a hand between us, I capture her clit between my fingers and pinch lightly. She rides
my hand and cock fiercely until her ecstasy overtakes her and she comes apart in my arms. While
she’s still quivering from her release, I pound into her, one hand braced by her head and the other
latched to her hip, bringing her closer, closer, closer to me until it is I who is shouting and shaking as
my come jets into her with the force of an unplugged dam.

Collapsing next to her, I murmur my love. “My heart, my Daisy, I love you. Only you. I cannot

live without you.”

Tenderly she kisses me. “You won’t have to.”

Chapter 11

Daisy

My normal lunch table is empty.

I guess it’s not my “normal” lunch table, but ever since I’ve claimed Christine as a friend, it’s

been our place to eat, talk, and share notes about our architecture class. Though I’ve done most of the
sharing, I don’t mind. Christine is my friend, and if my giving makes her life easier, I will gladly do
so. But today, she’s not here. Miserable, I wait as my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and extra
banana-nut muffins go uneaten. Eventually, I trash them.

I don’t know what to do. I’m sure she’s avoiding me because of what happened at our last lunch.

She’s embarrassed because she thinks I’m judging her.

I’m not. I’m judging Saul. Christine, though . . . I understand Christine. I know what it’s like to

love someone but desperately hate their actions. My relationship with my father was like that until I
ran away. He tried to control me, to squash down my rebellious tendencies. To hide me away from
the world to keep me safe. And all the while, I plotted my escape. Christine might be plotting her
own. The thought brightens my gloomy mood. If there’s a way I can help her, I will.

I start by pulling out my homework and making a copy of it. I change my writing so it looks more

like Christine’s shaky hand and write her name at the top. I even change a few answers so they don’t
match mine, and I feel quite proud of myself for being so sneaky.

When I get to class, I see Christine’s seat is empty. I sit in my regular one and worry until the

bell rings, and the lecture begins. A moment later, Christine rushes into class and slides into her seat.
My relief at her presence disappears. The bruise around her eye is nearly gone, but a fresh one circles
her wrist just where her sleeve meets her hand.

As the professor comes around to pick up our homework, he extends his hand to Christine.
She gives a small, ashamed shake of her head. No homework.
My heart pangs in sympathy and I pretend to pick a paper up off the ground. “Here you go,

Christine. You must have dropped this.”

Her eyes widen as she takes the paper from me, realizes what it is, and then hands it to the

professor. He barely glances at it before heading down the aisle once more. I’m convinced he doesn’t
actually look at our homework, just wants us to participate.

As the professor leaves, Christine gives me a shy, hesitant smile and I beam at her.
I’ve got Christine’s back.

***

That night as we do the dishes, I tell Nick about Christine’s absence. About the new bruises on her
arm. Instead of offering sympathy or solutions, he shakes his head at me.

“Stay away from her, kotehok. She is involved in trouble.”
I refuse to. “She needs a friend now more than ever.”
But the look he gives me is wary, and his eyes are old and too knowing. “Your heart is good,

Daisy, but I do not know that your friend wants help. What would you do if someone tried to take you
from me?”

“But that’s different,” I sputter.
My words make him smile. “Da, we are different, love. But I would kill any man or woman that

tried to come between us. Perhaps this Saul feels this way about his Christine, hmm?”

I frown as I wipe my hands free of the sudsy water. I don’t like that Nick is warning me away

from her. Christine needs me. I know she does. I see in her the girl I was before I ran away: trapped,
miserable, and friendless.

I won’t abandon her.

***

The next time I head to the commons for lunch, Christine is at her regular spot. Cheered by her
reappearance, I sit down happily and offer half my sandwich.

Christine waves it away with a weak smile. “I already ate, but thank you.”
I doubt it, but I keep smiling. “Of course.” I take a bite of my ham sandwich and choke down the

dry mouthful. As I do, I pull out my notes from class and offer them to her so she can make her own
copies.

She flashes me a grateful smile and I don’t even mind.
“How’s your eye?” I ask her.
Christine flinches back. “Fine.”
“Haven’t run into any more doors?” I tease gently, trying to defuse her panic.
She looks relieved and smiles at me. “Nope.”
I force myself to keep eating even as Christine works on my notes. I keep trying to think of topics

to discuss and discarding them. Eventually, I settle for buttering her up. “So that was your boyfriend
from the other day? Sal?”

“Saul,” she corrects, and the wary look is back in her eyes.
“He seems very protective of you,” I say. “He must love you very much.”
Her smile slowly blossoms across her face. “He is. He’s such a great guy. So smart and strong

and very protective of me. He only wants the best for me.”

I want to vomit at the rapture I hear in Christine’s voice. Instead, I put down my sandwich. This

is the most eloquent she’s been. “I bet. Have you two been together long?”

“Since high school. How about you and Nick?”
“Less than a year,” I tell her with a smile. “But he’s my soul.”
She nods in understanding. “Saul and I met at a game store,” she tells me. “I worked there part-

time while in high school, and he used to come in and play. I’d give him a discount because he was
cute, and he eventually figured it out and asked me out.” She grins.

“Is Saul a big fan of gaming, then?”
She nods and hands my homework back. “He’s majoring in programming. He’d love to do video

games for a living, I think.”

“Cool,” I say, though I’m mentally noting this down. “What kinds of games?”
“Oh, I don’t know. First-person shooters?” She shrugs. “I mostly play Japanese RPGs, so we

don’t play the same types.”

I don’t know anything about video games, but I get cold when she mentions “shooters.” I wonder

if Nick will know much about games? He seems to know a little about everything, though he prefers to

spend his time with me instead of playing video games.

Even as I think this, I worry. Nick is stressed lately, and he worries about me. His cover as Nick

Anders will be compromised if he takes up his job as a hit man once more. I can’t allow that to
happen. I love Nick more than I love my freedom, but I also can’t let Christine suffer.

It’s clear I’ll have to handle this on my own.
“Do you play video games?” Christine asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shake my head. “No,” I tell her. “I’ve never tried one.”
“You should,” Christine says. “I can give you a suggestion or two if you want to play

something.”

“I could come over and you could show me how to play something.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Well, I was tight on money last month and uh, I pawned my

systems.”

I nod sympathetically. Maybe now is a good time to approach Nick’s suggestion. “You know,” I

tell her. “Nick and I live in a big apartment building that has a lot of empty units. You’re welcome to
move into one if you need help getting on your feet.”

The look in her eyes becomes soft. “You’re a good friend to offer that to us, Daisy.”
“Or just you,” I say automatically. “You could go there in case you wanted to get away from

Saul.” I try to keep my tone light. “You know, just for a day or two.”

“Why would I want to leave Saul?”
I shrug. “I’m just saying. If you ever fought or something. I want you to know there’s a safe place

to go.”

But she sees right through my cheeriness. The word “safe” triggers a flinch. Her expression

shutters again, and she flings her books into a pile. “You know what? You don’t know anything about
me, Daisy. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need protecting from my boyfriend.”

“Christine, wait.” I get to my feet, concerned at her anger. “I’m just trying to help—”
“I don’t need your help!” Her bellow of anger is surprisingly strong, considering Christine’s

voice is always meek and quiet. “Just fuck off, Daisy, and leave me alone. You think you’re so
perfect but you don’t know anything.”

I’m taken aback by her strong language, her attack on me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends

don’t tell friends to fuck off. And I certainly don’t think of myself as perfect. It hurts that she thinks
I’m judging her when all I want to do is help her. Protect her.

As she stalks away, I watch her beaten-up backpack bounce on her narrow shoulders. Then, I get

up and gather my things, heading after her.

Nick would follow his mark. He would find out where his prey lives, find out its patterns, learn

everything he could before taking action.

I can do that, too. If I follow Christine, I’ll find out where Saul is. I’ll find out where she lives,

and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to help her.

And I can do this all without involving my sweet Nick. Because I can’t live without him, and I

won’t put him in danger. Not over this.

Chapter 12

Nikolai

I follow Daisy as she follows Christine. Neither women are very aware of their surroundings.
Christine’s apartment is nearly a mile from the campus, and the surroundings are shabby even though
the snow covers many sins.

Still the state of disrepair is obvious. Christine hurries inside the house that appears to be cut

into several apartments, while Daisy loiters on the corner. She watches for several minutes, longer
than I would expect any civilian to wait in the cold. Her patience is rewarded when the lights on the
top floor go on. The cold does not appear to affect Daisy. When the shouting begins, she creeps closer
as if she can somehow make out what the inhabitants are saying.

If she’d come to me, I could have lent her my listening kit. Alas, that is at home in my studio. But

then if she had come to me, I would have told her to not interfere. Ignoring others’ pain is one way to
survive in this world. But Daisy’s heart is too big. She cannot ignore the injustice and . . . this is part
of her loveliness. I can but watch and protect.

My need to smooth her path, erase any ugliness in her life, threatens to overwhelm me, but I beat

it back. When her father held her hostage for so many years, she grew to resent restraint.

More than anything, I know she will run from me if my bonds are too tight. The struggle between

my innate desires and what I understand to be appropriate behavior is difficult, but I will prevail, for
to lose Daisy would render life meaningless.

The words on my chest burn.
The exchange between the occupants of the top floor floats down to the ground in

indistinguishable sound clips. It is impossible to decipher what they are saying, only that there is
anger and unhappiness filling the air. Daisy stares and shivers. I start toward her, her discomfort
strafing my stomach. While I could withstand the cold for hours, seeing Daisy shiver even once is
agonizing.

But before I reach the corner, she turns away and moves in the direction of our apartment

building. I drop back so she does not see me. We walk to our home, her about a hundred yards in front
of me.

Because I am always watching, I see the man from the shooting range leaning against his dark

car. He steps toward Daisy, and my hand reaches inside my jacket, molding around the gun handle.

She whips inside our building before he can reach her. Sprinting forward, I catch him by the arm

before he can follow her inside.

“Why are you here?” I demand.
He turns his dark visage on me and with no small disdain says my name. “Nick Anders.”
“Yes.”
Shaking me off, he steps back out of the light of the doorway. I follow him, pushing him toward

the side of the building. The building sits on a quiet street. There are other students housed here but
also young families. I do not know if I can kill this man without being seen, but he represents a threat.
My instincts tell me he is dangerous, and I have survived this long only by being cautious.

“I did a search on you. In fact, I called Erie County in New York City to see if the records

department had a copy of your birth certificate. The only Nick Anders that they knew of had died in
1944 from paralytic polio. He fit your description, though. A Russian immigrant with dark brown
hair, about six feet tall. Strange isn’t it?”

“No,” I manage to answer evenly. I try to keep my responses short because Daisy has informed

me my accent becomes more prominent when I am . . . tense. “Many immigrants from Russia can be
found all around the States.”

“I checked out your girlfriend, Daisy Miller. Her mother was killed years ago by a junkie who

was released on parole after only serving a few years. Her dad didn’t take it well. The folks in her
town say he locked her away, afraid that he’d lose her as well. He became a recluse until the junkie is
shot in the head. Then he up and moves out of his fortress and into the city, in this very building.” He
ticks off each incriminating fact and watches me carefully for a response.

My desire is to drive the butt of my gun into his windpipe and wrench his head around until his

spinal cord snaps. “My family moves from Russia so that they can live free of the intrusive police
who look at everyone with suspicion. Are there so few crimes in this area that you are free to harass
innocent citizens?”

Red splashes across his high cheekbones, and I know then that this is no authorized investigation.

Regardless, he presses on. “I saw you at the shooting range. You’re very skilled. And afterward? You
didn’t come here. You parked your bike outside another building and disappeared.”

“Again, I ask you why you are following me. Perhaps I submit a report to your superior and ask

him the question you refuse to answer.”

“You do that and you’ll have more cops than me up your ass. Where’d you get the money to buy

this building? How come you have no tenants? If I dig deeper, how many bodies will I find?”

None, because I am a careful man—or I was before Daisy.
The only person who has suffered at my hands since Daisy is Sergei Petrovich, and his body was

disposed of in a land far from here, far from the reach of this detective.

“Be careful what holes you poke,” I warn. “There are hidden dangers everywhere.”
He stares while contemplating my threat and then holds up a hand. “I’m going to reach inside my

jacket for a card, not a weapon.”

It is good that he has warned me. I accept the whisper-thin card and read the lettering that

declares him to be Detective Oliver McFadden with the violent crimes unit. I tuck the card into my
jacket pocket. Later I will find out everything there is to know about Detective McFadden, from the
restaurants he frequents to the type of underwear he buys.

If he desires to watch me, then I will watch him even more closely.
“If any violent crimes occur that require your services, then I will contact you.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
As he turns away, I call to him softly, “Detective McFadden, I would not endanger a soul on that

campus. My beloved attends classes there, and it is my greatest desire that she be safe and happy.
There are many reasons why I am not the man you seek.”

He swings back quickly. “I don’t think you are the university shooter, if that’s what you’re

implying.”

“I imply nothing. I am responding to your litany of complaints and questions about my existence.

Your attention does not frighten me, but do not mistake this. If you endanger Daisy or her father in any
way, there will not be enough pieces left of you for even your loved ones to identify.”

At my threat, he gives me a bemused smile. “But you don’t give a rat’s ass about yourself?”

“I can take care of myself, Detective, and anyone that I love.” The chill is seeping into my bones,

and I need to go inside and warm myself in the sunshine of Daisy’s love. “Good evening to you.” I
nod and open the front door of the building.

He calls out. “I knew it wasn’t you when the forensics reports came in. Not your bullets and—”

He pauses until I turn back. “And I know you by now that you don’t miss what you are aiming at.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Remember that and we shall all be more content with our lives.”
Inside I find Daisy staring out the front window. No doubt she could see me and the detective

arguing. As I hang up my jacket, I ponder what I should tell her.

When I first met her she was as innocent as a lamb, but her association with me has brought

death and darkness into her life. She’s killed a man for me. I can hide nothing from her.

Striding across the room, I draw her into my arms and kiss her with all the passion and gratitude

I have inside me. She responds instantly, her tongue chasing mine. The heady scent of her skin invades
my senses. Sweeping her into my arms, I carry her to the sofa and lay her down on the soft cushions.

“My darling Daisy, I have confessions to make.” Her beautiful face shows only trust and belief. I

am so humbled by her love and wonder what I have done, ever, to deserve such a marvel.

“I know you do.” She smiles and curls a hand around my neck, pulling me to her for another wet

kiss that makes my body roil with heat and desire. I can hardly think when she touches me, when her
lush frame is pressed against mine. I settle between her legs, pushing my heavy arousal into her.

“Where shall I start?” I murmur against her cheek.
“How about with why you followed me to Christine’s?”
Jerking back, I stare at her in surprise. “You knew then?”
“Of course I knew. I always know that you are with me. Why don’t you just come and walk

beside me?”

“Because I am trying not to stifle you.”
“You’re still following me.”
“It is my compromise. I cannot allow you to be hurt, but I try not to interfere.”
She tugs me down, and I lay my head against her breasts and am comforted by the steady, even

heartbeat.

“I know. It’s why I’m not mad at you.” Her fingers run through my hair, petting me as if I am her

lap dog. And I am. I am her fierce protector, and her warm body heating the sheets at night.

“This girl.” I pause, searching for the right words. “She matters to you.”
Her nails lightly scratch my scalp. I close my eyes and lean into her caress and feel the deep sigh

that fills and then empties from her body. “She reminds me of myself. Trapped in a situation, and she
doesn’t know how to get out of it. My father only hit me once, slapped me, but he hurt me in many
other ways. I love him and it was hard to leave. I think Christine is like that. She loves Saul and is
afraid to leave him.”

“I can easily dispose of him.” Another time this statement may have been true, but now with

Detective McFadden watching me, perhaps it might pose a greater difficulty. For once, I am at a loss
at what to do. I fear I am placing Daisy in danger with my mere presence.

If I were not here, there would be no inquiry into her father’s illness, the junkie’s death, or my

mysterious beginnings. Yet I cannot bring myself to leave her. I am so selfish. I desire to be with her
more than I desire to live, yet could I look at her without shame if I allowed her father to be arrested
or for me to bring danger to her doorstep?

“You’re tensing up,” she notes. “Tell me the rest of it.”
With no small measure of unhappiness, I relate the encounter with Detective McFadden. “He is

wary of me and disturbed that the person I pretend to be is not one that is identifiable. He asked about
your father. The man we killed.”

She scowls. “That man deserved to die. I wish I had shot him, too.”
“Shhh,” I caution. “I do not want you to admit these things. They should remain in your heart, not

given voice.”

“I don’t want spend my life hiding, and I don’t want you to leave me for my own good.”
I am glad my face is buried in her breasts so she cannot see my grimace and guilt. “Then what

shall we do?”

“Find the shooter. Get rid of Saul. Save Christine.”
“There are many Christines in this world, kotehok.”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But Christine is the one I know of. She’s the one I can help.”

Chapter 13

Daisy

My world has always felt a little small. Focused. When I lived trapped with my father, I existed in a
bubble of approved television, approved clothing, approved books, approved everything. My world
was narrow. When I ran away and met Nick, my world expanded, perhaps a bit too much. There was
so much to take in, to see, to do, to feel, that I think sometimes I shrink back into my cocoon when I’m
agitated.

Like I’m doing right now.
“Daisy,” Nick says softly as he enters the kitchen. “How many cookies do you make for us?”
I vigorously stir the cookie dough with my wooden spoon. “I thought you said you liked

cookies.”

“Da,” Nick says with a chuckle. He pries the bowl from my hands. “I like cookies. I like two or

three of them, not three hundred.”

Guiltily, I let him take the bowl from me. “I’m sorry. I just . . . need to keep busy.”
He drops the bowl into the sink without a care that there’s good cookie batter going to waste, or

that it’s probably going to clog the sink unless I use a lot of hot water to rinse it out right away. That’s
the thing with Nick—he’s utterly careful with me and utterly careless with our apartment. I find it
adorable and frustrating at the same time. But his attention turns back to me and he pulls me into his
arms. “You are worried, are you not? You are not good at hiding these things, kotehok.”

I nod and burrow my face against his neck, just below the tattoo of the bloody dagger. I breathe

in his scent and wonder why I cannot be just happy and perfectly content that we are together and life
is wonderful. I wonder that I cannot let things go.

“Because you have a big heart full of love, Daisy,” Nick says, smoothing my hair, and I realize I

have said these things aloud. “You worry over Christine.”

I do. She didn’t go to class last week. I keep detailed notes in case she needs to copy them, but if

she doesn’t show up, what can I do? How can I help her if she hides away from me?

My concern for Christine also hides the fact that I’m even more concerned for Nick. He has

police sniffing around him, and even though he says he is not in danger, I worry that Nick is wrong.
Nick knows many ways to kill a man, but in some aspects, he is as naïve about people as I am. I still
remember how poorly we fit in at our party. There are things Nick thinks he knows and has no clue
about, and I pray that this police officer is not one of them.

“Shall we bring cookies to your father and his dog?”
“Not today,” I say. My agitation over Christine has spilled over to my father. I can’t see him, not

when I’m upset over Christine’s situation. I might say things I regret. I love my father, I do. I love him
more now that I am free from his controlling hand and have distance. Christine and Saul just remind
me of the situation I was desperate to escape for so very long. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper
against his neck, my lips moving against his warm, wonderful skin. “Please, let’s just go do
something, just the two of us for a night, Kolya. I don’t want to think about Christine, or school, or my
father. I just want to think about you and me and how happy we are.”

“Then let me take you out,” he tells me, his hand clasping mine and linking our fingers together.

“We shall go to a fine restaurant and drink good wine and eat overpriced food. I will let all the other
men see the beautiful woman I am with and they cannot have. They will all be terribly jealous, and
then after I have paraded you in front of others, I will take you home and we will make love for
hours.”

I giggle, feeling a little better. “You’re so dramatic, Nick.”
“Ah, but it makes you smile,” he tells me. “And for that, it is worth it.”

***

The next morning, I wake up with a bit of a wine hangover, a soreness between my legs from our
vigorous drunken lovemaking, and a better mood. Nick and I had such fun last night, and even though
we spent a fortune on overpriced food and drink, it allowed me to forget things for a few hours.

I truly do have the most wonderful man. I tell him this as I shower his face with kisses, and then

head to the kitchen to make him breakfast. We kiss and cuddle for a bit, eat, and then head out, hands
linked, for classes.

My good mood continues through my Financial Management class, even though the workload is

dry and boring. I’m humming to myself as I enter the commons for lunch, not expecting to see
Christine. I’m anticipating a quiet study time and nibbling on a few of the endless cookies filling my
kitchen at home.

But Christine’s there. Excited, I approach the table, happy to see her. She reaches for something

on the table as I walk, and I realize her arm is moving awkwardly. As I get closer, I see the dark blue
covering her arm isn’t a sleeve, but a cast.

My fury and helplessness explode in my mind again. If I had Nick’s gun right now . . .
I picture Sergei’s head splattering on the plastic sheeting. I picture the surprised look on his

face, and then the way his forehead seems to cave in right down the center, turning into raw meat.

I’ve killed before. It’s not pretty, and it’s not an answer. I force myself to calm down. I like

Christine, but I can’t kill for her. I’d only kill again to save my Nick; for him, I’d do anything.

For Christine, though, I can be pushy and interfering.
So I sit down next to her at the table. I don’t even bother unpacking my books. I just clasp my

hands in my lap, look at her, and wait.

Her frightened, unhappy gaze meets mine, and I try to ignore the scratch across one of her

cheeks, the new bruising around her throat.

Instead, I nod at her arm. “Fall down again?”
Christine’s lip trembles, and she tucks her cast close against her chest. “Daisy . . .”
“Don’t explain,” I tell her. “I’m your friend, Christine. I care about what happens to you, and I

don’t like seeing you in this situation.”

“You just don’t understand,” she says, her voice whisper soft. “I love him.”
“I do understand. I was once in a position like you,” I tell her. I make my voice gentle even

though I want to scream at her, shake the sense into her head that she so desperately needs. “My father
controlled every aspect of my life. What I wore, what I watched on TV, what I read. I wasn’t allowed
to be my own person. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house without his permission, and that was only
for things like grocery shopping. If I stayed out too late, he’d rage at me. He slapped me once, too.
And even though I loved him, I dreamed every day of escaping.”

Her eyes widen, and then they brim over with tears. “He just loses his temper sometimes,” she

whispers. “He’s really a wonderful man.”

“Even if he is, it sounds like he has issues with control. Can you deny this?”
She says nothing, and I know I have guessed right, and I am saying things she has thought herself.

I’m getting through to her, and I’m glad.

“I’m not saying you have to leave him,” I tell her in a gentle voice, even though every part of me

is screaming look at the bruises on your neck, Christine, and tell me this is a man that loves you.
Tell me you are just not a thing to him, a possession to be owned and kept in its place until he has
use for you. “What I am saying,” I continue, keeping my voice calm, even, and logical, “is that you
should have someplace you can go when you’re afraid. When you need to retreat for a few hours until
he calms down. Doesn’t it make sense to have a place like that?”

She nods and swipes at her eyes, awash with tears. “B-but I can’t afford something like that. I’m

not like you. I don’t have extra money. I have to work both jobs just to try and cover tuition. Saul
handles the finances. I give him my checks and he takes care of things.”

“You don’t need money,” I say gently. “I’ll gladly help you. Like I said, Nick and I have a

building, and it’s full of empty apartments. You can take one, and he never needs to know about it. I
promise.”

She shakes her head. “He’ll know. He’ll wonder where I’ve gone if I’m gone for long. He keeps

tabs on me wherever I go.”

“Then let’s go now,” I say, getting to my feet. “I have the keys on me. We’ll ditch class.”
Christine stammers. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“I do,” I tell her firmly. I take her hand and draw her to her feet. “My greatest hope is that you’ll

never have to use it, but I want it there for you in case you do.”

She thinks for a moment, and nods, a determined look on her face. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Great,” I say. “We’ll take a taxi and be back in time for the end of class. No one has to know.”
Her wobbly smile is the only thanks I get, but it’s the only thanks I need.
I shove cookies into Christine’s hands as we ride in the taxi over to our building. She’s my

project, my friend, and a bit of my old self, and I want her to be happy. Once the cab pulls up to my
familiar apartment building, I push a handful of money into the cabbie’s hand. “Wait here,” I tell him.
“We’ll be gone fifteen minutes, max.”

He nods and puts the car in park, then pulls out his phone to play a game.
I more or less drag Christine into the building after me, my eagerness propelling both of us

along. “You’ll like it here,” I babble happily as I push open the door to our empty lobby. “There’s
lots of two-bedroom places, but you can have just a one-bedroom for now unless the two-bedroom is
what you want. Each apartment has its own washer-dryer hookup and a dishwasher, though not all of
them are working. I can ask Nick to check it out if yours isn’t one of the working ones, though. The
only other person living in the building at the moment is my dad and his dog, but you won’t meet him.
He’s an agoraphobe and won’t leave his apartment.”

She looks around nervously. “This entire building is empty?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “We want to rent out apartments but we’re having a hard time finding the right

tenants. But we won’t charge you anything, I promise. You’re a friend.” I beam at her and then lead
her up the stairs to the second floor, since the elevator’s on the fritz at the moment.

Once upstairs, I drop by my apartment and pick up the master key, and then the keys to an

apartment on the third floor. “We’ll put you in 301,” I tell her as she gazes around my cozy place with
something like envy. “You’ll like it. It has a great view and it’s close to the stairs.”

Like a puppy, she follows me as I tromp up the stairs and open 301. It’s clean and neat inside,

the walls freshly painted. There’s a bit of furniture here. “My friend Regan stayed here for a time,” I
tell Christine. “But she’s moved to Texas with her boyfriend so her furniture’s not getting any use. I’m
sure she wouldn’t mind you using it.”

Christine steps into the room, staring in awe at Regan’s futon, the beat-up furniture, the horror

movie posters she left behind when she moved. “I-I’m not sure what to say, Daisy.”

“Just tell me you’ll use it the next time Saul loses his temper,” I entreat her, my voice

encouraging.

“You mean like right now?” says an ugly voice.
Christine’s face goes bleach white, and she moves behind me. I turn, and there’s Saul in the

doorway, a vicious look on his face.

He’s followed us, and we’re trapped between him and the door.

Chapter 14

Nikolai

As Professor Hare discusses the visual sensitivity of Escher’s tessellations and his unique use of
texture created from lines and spacing, I tap the printout of the Hitman message forum. Three of the
shooting deaths have created a pattern. The shooting here on campus is consistent in all else but the
end result. No one here died—a break in the tessellation.

The evidence points to a less-than-adept shooter, one who is new or perhaps has never shot a

gun outside a game. I do not have the resources to find this person. I am not an investigator. If given a
target, I can find everything about that person, but working backward from a clue? That is not a skill I
have developed.

I want this world to be safe for Daisy, for us. But to go to Detective McFadden with this

information is to invite even more scrutiny. He will ask more questions, and I will have no answers to
give.

The single most important reason I am not the shooter McFadden seeks is that I do not miss. If

my target were here on campus, that target would be dead and I would be gone.

But I am not that man—or I am trying to be reborn. McFadden is preventing that, but he might not

represent the most danger. People—boys—trying to win a false prize by taking a fake game into the
real world? Those are a greater danger.

Resolved, I send a text message to the number on McFadden’s card.
I have something for you.
I’ll meet u @ ur apt.
I am in class.
When is ur class ovr?
He types his messages like Daisy did when she had a cheap phone that required her to use

numbers instead of letters. I smile fondly at the memory of breaking it, which required her to accept
the more expensive phone that I had purchased. It was more a gift for myself so that I could bask in
the pictures and messages she sent.

As all of my gifts are.
She believes me to be generous. I have tried to explain every gift to her is a gift to me. It is not a

concept she has yet comprehended.

When Professor Hare finishes his lecture, I jog over to the Architecture and Design complex

where Daisy has her classes. When she doesn’t immediately emerge as is her normal pattern, I enter
the building. Her classroom is the third door down. It’s empty. The entrance is devoid of her
presence, as is the study center where she eats, recently with the new girl.

My heart rate speeds up. It’s pounding fast and loud, drowning out the sounds of the students—

their chatter, the shuffling of their feet against the floor, the thud of their books and bags against tables
and floors. She’s not here. I would know if she was here.

I text her.
Waiting for you . . .

When I receive no response, I send her an image—a picture of a flower. Hers.
Are you with Christine? I will wait.
There is nothing. So I call, intrusively interrupting her space. But the fear that is gripping me is

too strong to ignore.

Her voice chirps and I open my mouth to respond only to realize it is her voice mail . . . leave a

message.

Hope fading, I open the application that I know she would not approve of and search for the

location signal from her phone. It is wrong, tracking her, but we do not have ordinary lives with
ordinary enemies made up of miffed former lovers and unhappy neighbors or jealous students.

I have many people in my past who know how to snuff out life with one hand, one bullet, one

drop of poison.

The signal shows that she is at home.
So.
She is safe, I try to tell myself. Unharmed and likely baking even more cookies. My phone

buzzes, alerting me to a text, and I flip the screen open anxiously.

It is only McFadden.
Ready to meet. Will head to ur apt.
Home. It is a place to start. The phone signal means nothing. I have been fooled by this before.

But it is better than searching this big city for one girl. I will start at the beginning and move forward.
If I have to, I will capture McFadden and torture him in every way possible to obtain his cooperation
in finding her.

I will . . . fuck . . . I will terrorize this city until she is returned to me safe and unharmed.
The apartment building is quiet when I arrive. A cab drives off just as I pull up. The lobby lights

are on, per the city codes, but inside there is almost no noise. Daisy’s father in his apartment on the
ground floor makes almost no sound. Sometimes I can hear the light scrabbling of the nails of his dog
against the wood floor, but most of the time it is as if Daisy and I live on an island. I have always
liked it that way, finding any reason at all to reject every potential tenant. But now I wonder if
isolation is wise. I have lived by myself for over ten years. Daisy is the first person I have allowed
inside, not just into my heart but my life. I am jealous of sharing her with anyone, even Christine, even
with another tenant whom I know she will befriend with her warm smiles and her cookies.

Slipping off my boots, I take the stairs to the second floor. Our elevator is not working and with

no tenants, I have had no desire to repair it. One less avenue of escape or entrance.

My sock-covered feet make no noise as I glide to the door. The handle moves easily and without

resistance at my light touch. Unlocked. She is inside then. Standing on the right side of the wall next to
the knob, I twist it and push it open. Back flat against the wall, I wait for a gunshot, a noise, anything.
But it is eerily silent. Gun out, I go in low and then rise, spinning toward the windows. Empty.

To the kitchen. Nothing but empty cooling racks she uses for her cookie making.
On the counter is her phone. It’s cool to the touch. The last messages are from me. I squeeze the

sides hard enough to bend the metal.

Swiftly I move through the rest of the apartment, but it is as I feared. She is not here. In hurried

but economical movements, I shod my feet, pocket my gun, and snatch the motorcycle keys from the
bowl near the entrance.

As I race down the stairs, I hear a thump and then a muffled high-pitch noise as if someone is

screaming behind a hand.

There is someone on the third floor. Hurrying there, I see the door to apartment 301 is slightly

ajar and light is spilling into the hallway. I nudge the door open but do not waste time.

Another quieter but sharp sound fills my blood with terror. I charge in.
On the floor to my right is Christine. Her head is turned away, but there is blood around her face.
Where is Daisy?
I hear a crack of flesh against flesh. Sounds of struggle leak out of the rear bedroom. I race

toward it and kick open the door, my gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger.

The sight that greets me is horrifying. I take it all in, barely processing each detail. A large male

form is on his knees. His jeans are sagging around his ass. One hand is fumbling in front of him while
the other is covering the face of my Daisy. Her feet are thrashing, but her upper legs are pinned to the
ground with his knees.

I lunge forward and pull him backward, tossing him to the side. He roars in anger at being

deprived of his foul deeds. His fist glances off my cheek, but his much heavier frame takes us to the
floor.

We grapple. I am surprised at how strong he is. I strike an elbow on his head but he is barely

dazed. It is then I realize his eyes are unfocused. Drugged. He will not even feel the pain. His teeth
are bared and he grins at me.

“Motherfucker, you want to dance with me? Then come on.” It is as if this violence is as

intoxicating as sex.

I glance over at Daisy; she is huddled against the broken frame of the futon.
Surging forward, I grab his head in both my hands. He is a drugged meathead and too slow to

evade me. With a vicious jerk, I sever the spinal cord and drop his gormless body to the floor.

In the corner of my eye, I see a whirlwind of color and I turn, just in time to catch Daisy as she

jumps into my arms.

Her entire body shakes as she sobs into my shoulder.
“Shh,” I whisper, stroking her hair and holding her firmly against me. I will take her downstairs,

draw her a bath, and this will all become a memory. “You are fine. I am fine. Feel our heartbeats.”
They are both thrumming rapidly at the wall of our chests, like trapped butterflies trying to free
themselves.

“He followed us,” she sobs. “Then he hit her so hard. Is she okay?”
Wriggling free, she escapes me and runs into the front room. And stops short.
Kneeling above Christine is McFadden. He has rolled her over and is talking in his phone.

Behind me I wonder if he can see the dead man. I glance at the open door. It is possible that I can be
in the wind before he rises. I have my keys. This money, identity, guns in my safe apartment. The urge
to flee is overwhelming until Daisy reaches out and clasps her hand in mine. Unknowingly she tethers
me to her or perhaps, as she gives me a wry smile, she knows me all too well.

There are options here. I can kill McFadden and hide him as well as the man in the back room.

Given a day, I can dispose of both bodies so that no one can find them. Without a body, there will
only be mysteries that will be unsolvable. Alternatively, Daisy and I can leave. We would have to
abandon her father, but we could arrange for care. There are places in this world where even
McFadden would not be able to locate us.

Leaving Daisy is not one of those options.
He straightens. “I’ve called 911. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Want to tell me what

happened?”

I step forward, angling my body slightly in front of Daisy. She will have none of it, and

impatiently shoves me lightly to the side.

“Christine’s boyfriend has been abusing her. He followed her here and he, um, tripped and fell

and hurt himself.”

McFadden rolls his eyes. “Where is he now?”
Before Daisy can lie in an attempt to protect me, I speak. “The man was a threat. I took care of

that threat. It is of no concern.”

“Assault and battery is a crime in the U.S., Mr. Anders. It’s my job to look into these crimes.”
His eyes flick behind me, down the hall, no doubt contemplating why Daisy and I emerged from

the bedroom instead of sitting beside Christine. I do not believe I can convince him we were engaged
in sexual activity. He is no fool.

“I want to hurt no one,” I answer slowly, trying to convey to him that I am no danger to the

citizens he protects, only those who would bring harm to Daisy. “We are new college students trying
to find a place for ourselves. We want to learn and live in peace.”

“And love,” Daisy interjects quietly.
“Yes, and love.”
Because he is not a fool, I pray that he understands my unstated message. We watch as he

evaluates us, weighs our statements.

Finally he speaks. “Do you need help cleaning up before the EMTs arrive?”
Daisy and I stare at each other and then at McFadden, who stands patiently, his hands loose at

his sides, as if he has not just offered to engage in a criminal activity.

I nod slowly. “I have big trash in the bedroom. It should be removed before the emergency

services arrive.”

“Good thought. Do you have trash services on the premises?”
“No.” I shake my head. Daisy has moved to kneel by Christine, but her eyes are big as saucers

over this conversation. “I will have to take the trash to special dumping site.”

“Let’s go then.” He rubs his hands together.
Confused but not unwilling to turn aside this offer of assistance, I walk to the kitchen sink and

pull out a big black trash bag. Together we move to the back bedroom. The man is there, and lividity
is starting to set in. The twist marks around the neck are purpling, and blood is beginning to pool at
the points of his body making contact with the floor.

“Big piece of trash,” McFadden agrees. Together we fold the male in half and roll him into the

garbage bag. I tie up the ends and heft him over my shoulder.

“It’s not as easy getting rid of dead bodies here,” McFadden jokes as I carry the body down the

three flights of stairs.

“Bah,” I say. “In Russia, we give dash cams at the nursery parties. One can hardly piss without it

being recorded.”

The trunk of Daisy’s Audi pops up with a press of a button, and I ease the body inside. Once the

trunk is shut, I turn to McFadden. “Why are you helping me?”

“I told you. I didn’t believe you were the shooter.”
“But you think I am something.” Even as we speak, I am moving back into the building. The

bedroom will need to be remediated with bleach, and I would like to do that before other law
enforcement personnel arrive.

“Sure. You have that look.”
I stop on the stairs and stare backward. “What look is that?”
“You’re always watching. You know who is around you at all times. When I watched you shoot,

you sensed me immediately. And, your precise shots. It all added up to something odd.”

“I see. I give myself away then.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“To everyone?”
“Maybe not to regular joes, but to someone who is paid to distrust everything and everyone?

Yeah.”

Heart heavy, I climb the stairs.
“Not everyone is going to assume that you are something bad,” he calls after me. “Just not a

regular art student.”

Halfway up the third floor stairs I remember the printout. It’s a way for me to even the scales.

“Come then. I have something for you.”

Outside the door of my apartment is my abandoned backpack. In it is the sound amplifier. There

is a gun in my pocket and knives in my boots. The entire building is one that I have purchased with
money I earned as a paid assassin. No, I am not a regular art student. I will never be one.

Inside the front pocket, I pull out the sheet and hand it to him. He peruses it silently as we move

to the third floor and into the apartment. I bring with me cleaning supplies and begin to spray the floor
of the bedroom with a mix of bleach, lemon, and water.

Behind me I hear him suck in a breath. “A game?”
“Da, I do not know who these are. Which are playing the computer game and which ones have

taken it off-line. It appears the Mall of America will be targeted next.”

“Biggest public space,” he muses to himself. “Did you break any laws to get this?” He shakes

the paper at me.

I pretend to look offended. “Nyet. It is out in the open. They speak in loose code and believe

they are clever.”

“Stupid assholes,” he mutters. He pulls out his phone. “Pierce. McFadden here. I’m looking at an

online forum for the new game Hitman. No, I’m not playing video games. I think some punks are
playing Hitman in real life. Next stop MOA. I’m finishing up a DV and will be in soon.” He pauses to
listen and then says, “No, the perp ran when the boyfriend of a friend interrupted.”

He ends his call just as the sirens signal the arrival of the emergency services.
Before he leaves, I have to know what kind of threat he poses. “Why do you not arrest me?”
“I’m interested in justice and keeping the streets safe. How that’s done? I’m not really interested

in the details. I didn’t become a cop because I believe in the badge. I became a cop because it’s the
way I can keep those safe who need to be safe, and I get the badge to cover it.”

We speak the same language.
“You have a Daisy then?”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want a Daisy. No offense. I’m not into relationships and

permanent entanglements.”

“Then what are you fighting for?”
He shrugs. “What do we all fight for? To make the world a safe place for those we love.”
“So you have a Daisy but she doesn’t love you back?”
At this he scowls and turns away, stomping into the living room. No answer is voiced but none

needs to be. His actions speak more loudly than his words.

Chapter 15

Daisy

Trembling, I try to stay out of the way of Nick and the cop as they get to work. I don’t like the way
this man moves so casually, helping Nick dispose of a body.

He’s got something on us. He could stop our happiness.
My mind’s racing with wild thoughts. I want nothing more than for Nick to stop what he’s doing

and come hold me. I want him to come and comfort me, to tell me it’s all right, that the man holding
me down would never have raped me. That my throbbing cheek won’t turn into a bruise where he
struck me. That the idea of him showing up five minutes later was impossible.

Nick would have been there. I know he would have. But I still want him to hold me.
Unfortunately, he’s cleaning things up, and so I have to be brave. I move to Christine and try to

rouse her. When Saul found us, he refused to listen to Christine’s excuses, her entreaties as to why she
was with me. Saul immediately decked her in the face, knocking her out. Part of me hopes he didn’t
kill her, and a small, ugly part of me hopes that he did. Because if Christine is not dead, how do we
explain that Nick killed Saul for her own good? It’s clear to me that she still loves that horrible man,
even though he attacked her and then me.

There’s a throw pillow next to her head, and I stare at it long and hard. It would be so easy to

push it over her face, to hold it there until she stopped breathing. She’d never gain consciousness.
Never be able to point a finger at Nick and accuse him. We’d be safe.

I could kill her, like I killed Sergei.
The thought is ugly, and it leaves an awful taste in my mouth. I push the pillow away, as if doing

so can make the thoughts leave my head. I would gladly kill for Nick again, but Sergei was evil.
Christine is just a victim.

I tap her cheek to wake her, making my decision.
She rouses, and I help her sit up. “Are you all right?”
“Saul,” she moans, her eyes fluttering open. “Where’s Saul?”
I look around, but the men are no longer in the room. They’re “disposing” of the evidence before

the police get here. “He ran,” I tell her. “He knocked you out and then attacked me.” I touch my
throbbing cheek, and her gaze goes there. I want her to see what her boyfriend did to me. I want her to
realize he’s dangerous to everyone.

“He hit you?” Her voice is a tiny whisper.
I nod, my own eyes tearing up. “He tried to rape me. But Nick . . . he stopped him. They

screamed at each other, and then Saul . . . he ran.” The lie sounds awful in my mouth, but I don’t know
what else to say. That Nick broke his neck and is even now disposing of the body with a dirty cop?

It would put everyone in danger. And I won’t lose Nick because of Christine.
To my surprise, though, Christine bursts into noisier tears. “He said if I ever tried to leave him,

he’d disappear. That I’d never see him again.”

My mouth goes dry. Could we be so lucky? “He—he said something like that when he left,” I lie.

“He was shouting. Really mad.”

But she just buries her face into my shoulder and cries. “I’ve lost him.”
And I pat her shoulder and try to soothe her, even though I’m brimming with relief.
We have an easy out. If Christine, who professes to love her boyfriend, readily accepts that he

will just disappear from her life, we can use this.

I’m willing to sell this lie to whoever will buy it.

***

Hours later, McFadden—the dirty cop—drives Christine home. We have all given our statements,
been examined by paramedics, and the cops are now on the lookout for a man who matches Saul’s
description. They won’t find him, of course. Even Christine seems to think he won’t be found if he
doesn’t want to be found.

It’s perfect. The police will look for a while, and then everyone will stop asking . . . except for

maybe Christine. But my adoration for her has palled in my desire to keep Nick safe.

Does having a hit man for a fiancé mean that I will never be able to get close to anyone but him?
If so, I choose him. I always choose Nick. My Kolya.
The door to our apartment closes, and then it’s just me and Nick, alone once more. The stiff

upper lip I’ve had for the last few hours crumples, and I collapse against Nick. I’m no longer crying
—my eyes are red and swollen from the last few hours of crying—but all of the strength is gone from
my body. I’m done, mentally and physically.

“Shhh, Daisy. I have you.” Nick grips me under my legs and swings me into his arms, taking me

to bed. “You’re safe.”

I shake my head. I’m not worried about my own safety any longer. My fear at my near rape has

been replaced with a hard kernel of fear for Nick, for McFadden, who I’m not sure we can trust. For
Christine, who I briefly wanted to smother with a pillow this afternoon before she could endanger us.
For me, because who am I becoming if I would so casually think to kill my friend?

Nick sets me on the bed, and like a doll, he undresses me, taking off my shoes and removing my

torn clothing. His hands glide over my skin, and I know it’s to check and make sure for himself that I
am all right. He kisses my mouth, hard. “Wait here.”

He returns a moment later, and I hear the shower running. Then, he strips off his shirt and begins

to remove his own clothing. “You will feel better when you are clean, kotehok,” he tells me. “And I
will not let you out of my sight ever again, so I will shower with you.”

My Nick. Always so dramatic. Instead of being irritated at this high-handed comment, my heart

squeezes with love. He always puts me first, no matter how much it inconveniences him. God, I adore
this man so much. I would do anything for him.

“Maybe . . . maybe we should leave,” I tell him as he pulls me to my feet. He’s now naked, and

his lean, ink-covered body is bare before me, gorgeous and dangerous all at once. “Maybe we should
go to Europe. Here, you stick out. But there, you might be safer . . .”

He chuckles as if things have not gone to hell this afternoon. “I think McFadden will wish for me

to stay around a while longer. I know how men like him work. I do the dirty work, and he takes the
credit for closing his cases. It will suit us both, kitten.”

“But he has leverage against us,” I tell him, feeling helpless and miserable. “We need to think of

ourselves. We can put Christine in the apartment next to my father’s so he can watch her. And maybe
we can talk McFadden into taking an apartment here, too. Then we’d have something over both their
heads so if they try to use it against us, we have them—”

I don’t realize how panicky I am until Nick cups my face between his big hands and forces me to

look him in the eye. “Daisy,” he murmurs. “It will be all right. I promise. Do not worry.”

“I won’t let anyone take you from me, Nick,” I say fiercely.
“No one shall.” He smiles and plants a kiss on my mouth. “Now, come, and let me wash you

clean of today’s worries.”

I don’t speak again until we’re in the shower. Nick and I chose this apartment because it was the

one with the biggest bathroom, and the shower is one of those tub-less ones with multiple shower
heads and glass walls. It’s luxurious in an apartment that is otherwise plain. I suppose it’s our way of
living a little. I’m glad for it now, though, because here, in the spray of the water, I wrap my arms
around Nick and press my face against the spiderweb tattoo on his shoulder.

“I thought about killing her,” I tell him. “Suffocating her with a pillow so she couldn’t tell on us.

So we’d be safe.”

“Oh, Daisy.” His hand strokes my wet hair back from my face. “You are not a killer. Leave such

things to me.”

“But I would have,” I tell him, full of desperation. My nails dig into his damp skin. “I would do

anything to keep you. You understand that, right?”

He smiles at me, and his hand slides down my back, fingers running along my spine. “I feel the

same. Every day, it is a difficulty to let you go to class and leave my side, because I wish for nothing
more than to be with you always.”

Nick’s hips shift a little, and then I feel his cock pressing up against my body, hard and insistent.

I’m a little shocked by that, and my eyes go wide. I pull back to look him in the face. “Adrenaline?” I
ask him.

“Your wet body,” he corrects me. “But I will ignore it. Just relax against me.” Nick’s hands drag

me back against him. “You have had a bad day.”

The absurdity of that statement makes me giggle. I tuck my head under his chin and let him hold

me in the shower. Yes, I have had a bad day. One of the worst. But it could be worse. I am still here,
and I am still with Nick.

In the end, I suppose that is all that matters.
I can’t stop thinking about McFadden. For the longest time, Nick’s secrets belonged to just him

and me, then Regan and Daniel. Now this new man has been brought into our circle, and I don’t even
know if I can trust him. “Promise me something, Nick.”

“Anything.”
“That if you start to suspect McFadden of anything, of playing us . . . that you’ll kill him and

we’ll cut ties here and go to another country. Somewhere safe. Canada. Mexico. I don’t care where as
long as I’m with you.”

“Da,” he tells me. “It is not the worst plan to have an exit strategy. We do not need one yet,

Daisy. But when the day comes, we will be ready. I am always ready.”

I nod against his chest, feeling better already. Nick is always prepared. He always has the right

answer.

“What about your father?” he asks me.
I pull back and look up at my beautiful Nikolai. “If we had to run, we’d leave him behind. It

would hurt, but not nearly as much as the thought of having to be parted from you.”

He groans and pulls me against him. “You are my heart, Daisy.” He begins to kiss me, pressing

his mouth against my face, my jaw.

“You are mine, Kolya,” I breathe. He’s still hard and I feel his erection against my wet skin.

This time, it doesn’t strike me as shockingly out of place, but right. Just right. And this time, I want
him as much as he wants me.

I wrap a hand around his length and begin to stroke, my mouth seeking his even as my hands seek

his erection. Our mouths connect in a mesh of slicking tongues and soft groans. He tastes heavenly, my
Nick. Like masculine spice and love and sex and intensity and all of the good things he’s brought to
my life. And I’m so in love with him that my tears spring forth again.

“No crying,” he murmurs hoarsely against my mouth. “Only love. Only you, Daisy. Only me. We

are here, and we are together. All else is not important.”

I nod and kiss him again, my hand moving lower to cup his sac, to tickle him in his private

places, the only ones that tattoos have not touched with their lurid ink. He is a dark god, my Nick, but
he is mine, and my hands will worship his flesh.

His hands glide over my breasts, and I arch against his hand, needing more. He teases them with

his fingers, and then his mouth dips low, heading for my breasts. I release his cock and move my
hands to his shoulders so he can touch me as he will. He cups both my breasts, squeezing them
together, and the stark tattoo of his art on my breastbone is squished between the two globes he’s
plumping with his fingers. Nick pushes his face against my skin and licks the crease, then moves to my
nipples. He runs a fingernail over one, then soothes it with his tongue, and I moan at the shockwaves
of pleasure it sends through my body. He knows just how to touch me, how to make me go wild until
I’m panting for him.

One hand slips away from my breast, and while Nick is holding one captive and sucking my

erect nipple, the other moves between my legs. He finds my clit and begins to press it with his thumb,
then moves it back and forth, rubbing hard.

I cry out and cling to him harder, because I want to collapse at his touch, but the shower is

slippery and the tile hard. “Nick, please. I want you inside me.”

His mouth nips my breast one more time, and then he releases me and gives my ass a noisy slap.

“Turn, Daisy.”

I do gladly, greedily, and press my hands flat to the tile, presenting him with my ass. I spread my

legs, eager to have him between them, to have him filling me and making me come so hard that I see
stars.

As I push my ass toward him, he stands again and his hand reaches between my legs and slaps

my pussy. I gasp, startled by this, but aroused, and I buck against his hand. “Nick,” I breathe. “Kolya.”

He growls low in his throat, and then his hand latches at my hip and I think yes, yes, now

moments before he sinks deep. I cry out with how good he feels, that first push into me always
startling with its intensity.

Nick’s other hand moves between my legs, and when he thrusts into me again, his finger pushes

against my clit. I rub against it when my body rocks forward, and a mew of pleasure erupts from my
throat.

“Mine, Daisy,” he rasps, and his cock drives into me from behind. “You are all mine.”
“Yours,” I pant, wriggling against the fingers pressing against my clit. Oh God, he feels so good.

I’m going to come too fast. As he continues to thrust into me and growl possessive words, I close my
eyes and brace against the shower wall, lost in how he’s making me feel.

When he spanks my clit again, though, I gasp, and from there, the orgasm bursts through me. I

clench around his cock, my legs quivering and tense, every muscle locking with the force of my
release. Nick’s hand leaves my clit and braces against my hip, and then he’s holding me in place
while he thrusts into me, his movements wild and surging. He breathes my name as he comes, the

sound curiously soft and gentle even though his movements are anything but. He pushes our joined
bodies forward and pins me flat against the tile, my breasts shoved against the wall, and pumps into
me again, milking his own orgasm.

“Always mine,” he murmurs thickly.
“Always,” I agree.

***

After a weekend spent cuddling with Nick in bed and holing up in our apartment, I’m ready to face the
world again. Christine makes it easy on me, though. She’s not at class this week, and things are quiet.
I find that I don’t mind having lunch by myself quite so much, and take new delight in the sight of
Nick’s beloved face waiting for me when I leave class. Did I ever feel like we needed more people
in our lives? How odd. I have him, and I feel complete.

Nick is all I need.
I’ve started visiting my father again, now that Christine is no longer muddying my thoughts with

reminders of old memories, old worries. We’re easy again, and my father’s proud because he’s
started taking his dog out on the stoop at night to do his business. The apartment no longer smells like
dog pee, and my father is going outside voluntarily. Both things are wonderful, and I bring him
batches of cookies to make his day brighter.

The next week, when Christine is not at class again, I approach my architecture teacher and ask

about her. She’s dropped the class, my teacher tells me. His frown shows he disapproves. It’s too late
in the year for her to get a refund, but I doubt Christine cares. I feel a twinge of guilt, imagining that
she’s out there somewhere, desperately hoping that Saul will return. And then my guilt is overtaken by
scorn. She hopes he will return so he can beat her and ruin her life?

We’ve done her a favor, Nick and I, and she can’t even know about it.
Nick and McFadden have talked once in the last two weeks. They went out and got a beer down

at a bar one night, and I visited my father. When Nick returned, his mood was curiously light.
McFadden reported that there were three teenagers involved in the shooter game. The goal was to
shoot something to prove that you could have killed someone. The man who’d sustained the gunshot to
the head had died as a result of very poor aim. The teen had been attempting to shoot the stop sign. A
stupid, stupid tragedy. Nick cursed in Russian and said that he’d offered to kill the three boys in order
to rid the gene pool of such idiocy and that for at least a minute, McFadden considered his proposal.

Fortunately for all of us, McFadden said that the legal system should take care of them. Nick has

no belief in that, and I admit I don’t have much either, but we’re safe and together so we don’t spend
more time worrying about the matter. That’s for McFadden to deal with.

I realize in bed that night, when Nick is asleep against me, that perhaps McFadden is filling a

role for Nick that he did not realize he needed—that of a friend. A peer. Who better to understand an
ex–hit man than a dirty cop?

Perhaps I should ask if McFadden has a girlfriend. I wouldn’t mind someone to go shopping

with. Then I squish the idea down, shoving it away. I don’t need anyone as long as I have my Nick. I
wake him up then, pressing kisses against his back, against the dark tattoos that crawl over his pale
skin. “Kolya?” I murmur into the night.

“Hmm?” He rolls over and pulls me against him, kissing my temple. “What is it?” His voice is

sleepy, but content.

“Want to take a cooking class with me?”

“I will do whatever you like, my Daisy,” he murmurs, then yawns. “We will enroll in the

morning.”

I smile and burrow against his chest.
I need no one but my Nick.

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LAST KISS

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One Month Ago

Vasily

“You think to lead the Petrovich Bratva?” Georgi Petrovich cries from far down the table. He is so
far removed from the main branch of the Petrovich family tree he barely warrants a place here. “You
aren’t even blood Petrovich!”

“Am I not?” I ask. There’s no need to raise my voice. Any emotion indicates weakness. I am not

a weak man. “What makes a Petrovich?” I stand then and begin to walk around the table. “Is it blood?
Then half of you should be executed on the table for failing to have the requisite DNA. Who shall go
first?”

I point to Thomas Gregovorich, a loyal member of the Bratva for at least two generations. His

father served during the Cold War and the KGB.

He gives a small nod in deference acknowledging that the Bratva was a true brotherhood made

up of allegiances rather than blood.

“Or you, Kilment, when we took you and your brother in when you were left orphaned on the

street, did you believe you became a true Petrovich when you made your first kill? Conducted your
first job? When we speak of the Bratva, we speak as one voice. What is done to one, it is done to all.
Or does that maxim no longer hold true, Georgi?”

There are low murmurs of approval and Georgi sits back, folds his arms and looks petulantly at

the table. We are meeting today to discuss the future of the Bratva after the death of Sergei Petrovich.
A death I helped orchestrate, and many suspect it, which makes it difficult for me to enact my next
step—to kill Elena Petrovich. Two Petrovichs dead so close together smells of a coup. We are an
unstable lot and lopping off the head of this snake would result in chaos. In order to achieve my ends,
the Bratva must be stabilized.

However, in this den of iniquity, it is not love that holds the loyalty of each man. It is fear. The

Petrovichs have held power over us all by setting us one against the other. To rise above, I have
eliminated all weaknesses.

What sets me apart is all that I am willing to do. Each of these men at the table has limits. I have

none.

The men that sit at this table are divided. Some view me with awe and respect and others

disgust. The latter are the ones I respect because a man who would kill his own sister, a man such as
I, deserves to be in a dungeon, locked away from all of humanity.

Instead I stand here as the potential leader of this room of villains and thieves. And it is a

position I seek, not because I lust after power, but because if I control the Bratva then nothing is out
of my reach. I have one goal now.

“Will you kill your mother to save the Bratva, Thomas? And you, Pietr, when your sister

whispers to her lover Pavil Ionov, do you worry that she’s telling secrets? Or Stefan, your son, I saw
him the other day holding hands with . . .” I stop behind Stefan’s chair and rest both hands on the
back. I can almost feel him inhale the fear. “. . . a smart young thing. They looked to be enjoying
themselves.”

Peitr coughs. “So you are willing to kill us all to maintain hold of the Bratva? That is not a good

reason to follow you.”

“No, but you all know that I will sacrifice everything and everyone to protect the brotherhood.”
They are all silent because unlike the others, my sister Katya is gone. Disposed of by my own

hand at the order of Elena Petrovich.

I end my stroll around the room behind my chair. “I am the one who led us away from munitions

and dirt to telecom interests. In less than a decade, the Bratva’s primary businesses will be
legitimate, which means that you no longer have to hide behind your armored vehicles. You no longer
have to rely on bodyguards that could be bought off. You need not fear the KGB or the militsia. You
can invest in your futbol teams and mansions in Londongrad without fear of reprisal.”

Leadership means effective utilization of the carrot and the stick. I lead with the stick. Always.

The Petrovichs believe in only the stick. For them the carrot does not exist or is viewed with
suspicion.

The boyeviks—the young muscle our old warlord Aleksandr groomed from urchins on the street

to protect the brotherhood—grow tired of the constant threat to their homes and family. They sleep
with one eye open, their hand over their heart, wondering if the brother next to them will be killing
their mother or raping their sister in retribution for some Bratva infraction.

The older generation such as Thomas and Kilment and those who sit on the Petrovich Bratva

counsel are loathe to hand over the power of this organization to me, a mere foot soldier sold by his
father to repay debts. With Sergei dead and the vicious Elena the only real Petrovich left, I am left
with a choice. Attempt to wrest control of the brotherhood from the old guard or walk away.

And I would walk away. I have some money stored but I’ve been a Petrovich for a long time and

there are many enemies that would crow over my death. No, in order to survive, the Petrovich Bratva
must remain strong.

If I have learned anything, it is that people with nothing are victims. It is those with power and

money and might who have the ability to protect others.

Thomas rubs a hand across his jaw. “There is one thing you could do.”
“That is a legend, Thomas,” Kilment groans.
“I will do it.” Legends persist because people believe and if belief means I can bring down

Elena Petrovich and secure a peaceful future, then I will pursue this foolishness until the painting is
mine. Their desire to recapture the past is absurd and yet another reason the old guard should be
replaced. “You wish me to procure the Caravaggio.”

Cries of wonder and confusion fill the room.
“So you know,” Kilment says flatly.
I pretend no ignorance for it is a story that Alexsandr shared with me long ago. “I know that a

famous triptych painted by Caravaggio once hung in the palaces of the Medici in Florence, perhaps
the Careggi Villa. It was commissioned as an altarpiece but considered to be too profane as many of
his pieces were judged. It was gifted by the Medici to Feodor I who then lost it, and Russia entered
the Time of Troubles. When the Boyars rose to power in the 1700s, it is rumored the painting was
recovered by Peter the Great. Citizen Petrovich’s grandfather was gifted this set of three paintings
and it hung in the great hall of the Petrovichs until it was lost, sold, stolen during Sergei’s time. Many
say that he who holds it, holds the world.”

Thomas nods at this recitation but Kilment looks unconvinced.
“It is known as the Madonna and the Vor,” I conclude. The Petrovichs loved the painting

because the woman who sat for Caravaggio was purportedly a true Mary Magdalene—a whore. And
the vor? It is a man-wolf who is eating Mary, and despite the gruesomeness of the depiction there is
an expression of ecstasy on her face. I saw it only once, when I was given to Elena Petrovich like

some birthday treat. It seemed fitting that Sergei sold it to fund some sordid perversion of his own.
“But why is it that it is of any importance? It is a mere painting.”

Thomas stares at me. “It is a symbol of our wealth and power, and we have lost it. And no

Caravaggio, one of the greatest painters of all time, can be dubbed a mere painting. It belonged to
Peter the Great. It is priceless, one of a kind. Why would we not want it? That it is in the hands of
someone else is shameful, a blot against the Petrovich name. Now more than ever, we must show our
enemies we are strong.”

“So you want it, but why is this your loyalty test? Have I not proven myself again and again?

Have I not shed the blood of my own family for the brotherhood?” I spread my scarred hands out as if
they hold the proof of my allegiance.

“The Caravaggio has been lost to us for years. Many of us have tried to find it but have failed,”

Thomas admits. “If you find it, you will show yourself to be a man of resource and cunning, a man
who is unafraid. You will restore the pride to the brotherhood and prove your worth as a leader.”

I hold back a lip-curl of disgust at this. Leadership is not running around the world seeking one

painting. Leadership is moving our assets out of dangerous and risky ventures and into more stable
enterprises. Leadership is generating loyalty by providing a way for the members to feed their
families and protect their loved ones.

This is a snipe hunt, an impossible task designed to make me fail and appear weak amongst those

who would support me. Or worse, in my absence they will eliminate those they deem a threat. To kill
me here would generate a revolt.

No, this is not about a painting. This is punishment, revenge, retribution. But I am one step ahead

of them. I guessed that this is the task they would set before me. They think I will be gone long,
chasing my tail for months. I will be happy to prove how wrong they are.

Thomas sits back and looks around the table. He has been a member of the Bratva for a long

time. They respect his voice. “Bring us the Madonna and the Bratva will be yours.”

I smile and raise my palms in a gesture that says fait accompli. “Then it is done.”

***

I am not so sanguine two hours later as I sit across the table from Ivan the Terrible. Ivan Donostev is
the leader of the Donostev Bratva, an organization whose base is in St. Petersburg. The Donostevs
posture that they are descendants of confidents of the tsars. Perhaps they are, but we are all criminals.
We bathe in the blood of our enemies and eat our own young.

“I hear the Petrovich Bratva is troubled, my friend,” he says with studied casualness. Ivan has

held power not because he is particularly clever but because he is a man of his word—a rarity in
these parts. People trust him—and fear him. He trades in favors and you do not know when your favor
will be called in, only that when the time comes you must heed his call or reap terrible consequences.

I owe this man a favor and I knew from the moment I saw his name on the screen of my phone

that my reckoning had arrived.

“When there is a change in leadership, some are disconcerted. That will change,” I reply.
“My people tell me that the counsel has set a challenge for you. Meet it and the Petrovich

brotherhood is yours.”

I meet his boast that he has infiltrated our organization with my own. “And my people tell me

that your son has no interest in following in your footsteps. What will happen to the Donostevs then?”

“Bah! Vladimir is young. He wants to drink and fuck. Let him have his fun.” He swallows his

vodka and gestures for me to drink. I do, tipping the glass and allowing the clear liquid to coat my
tongue and glide down my throat. “Enough of the niceties. Fifteen years ago, you asked a favor of me.
I granted it. Now it is time for you to repay your debt.”

“Of course.” There is relief in finally discharging my debt. For so long I’ve wondered, not what

I would be asked to do, but when. The uncertainty will soon be behind me. “What is it?”

“I want you to bring me the Caravaggio.”
His request astonishes me.
“Why does everyone love this painting?” I’m truly bewildered.
He holds out his arms, heavy jewels adorning nearly every finger. Put him on a throne and one

would easily mistake him for a prince of old. “I’ve always wanted it. It hung in the palace of Peter the
Great. It was commissioned by the great Cosimo Medici.”

“And you thumb your nose at the Petrovichs.”
He grins. “That too.”
“No.” I refuse tersely. “Ask something else.”
“I want nothing else.” He waves his hand. “You know they are setting you up. This painting

means nothing to them. They want you out of Moscow so that they can weed out those amongst your
young soldiers who look up to you. The old guard will not give up power so easily.”

I stare impassively. The old guard is senile. Their plays are so obvious they are read by

outsiders. “I did not know you had interest in the Petrovich holdings. You’ve always said Moscow is
full of peasants.”

He flicks his fingers in disgust. “I do not want your precious Bratva. I have no interest in your

businesses. And frankly, Vasya, neither should you. Let the Petrovich Bratva burn. Find me the
painting and you can bring her home. Fifteen years is a very long time to have not laid eyes on your
precious sister. What would you do to have your family restored to you?”

I fight not to bare my teeth at him, not to jump over the table and strangle him until pain replaces

his smug smile.

“I know they expect me to fail and be distracted for months but when I return with the

Caravaggio, they will not be able to deny me. They have set up themselves.”

“So you have found it?” He quirks his eyebrow.
I shrug but do not answer.
“Well, well. I am impressed, Vasya. It is a shame I did not find you all those years ago. You

would have made a marvelous part of the Dostenevs. Still, I want the painting. You will have to find
a way to bring me the painting and still gain power within the Bratva. For you see, Vasya, if you do
not bring the painting to me, I will summon your sister home and she will become exactly what you do
not wish—a target for all your enemies. I helped save your sister once. It is easy enough to help kill
her too. Choose your course wisely.”

***

“They are setting you on a fool’s errand,” Igorek announces as I enter my office. He is standing next to
the single window that overlooks a dirty alley and the brick wall of the building next door. Igorek is a
young warrior with a brother and a mother to protect. He worries, for good reason, that he and his
loved ones would be imperiled if I am gone for a long period of time. He is not the only one who has
invaded my sanctum. Aleksei, an enforcer who I trained with as a boy, is also present.

“Only if I cannot return with the Madonna. When I present the painting to them, they will be

forced to back me. I will remove Elena to some dacha in northern Russia and we will jettison any
who would hew to the old ways.”

“Merely remove her?” Igorek raises an eyebrow.
“What else would I do with her?” I meet his inquiry coolly, for speaking out loud of the murder

of Elena Petrovich would not be met in all quarters with approval. She needs to die, but I cannot kill
her until the Bratva is firmly under my control.

“Mne pofig,” he shrugs. I don’t care.
Of course he cares or he would not suggest it. I, too, care, but it is not the time or place. “Once

the Bratva is mine, then we will talk about protecting our own.”

“Fine, so you look for a painting that has been lost for decades?” Igorek is skeptical.
Aleksei, whom I’ve known longer, is much less circumspect. “The Madonna? Holy Mother of

Mary, are you crazy? Did killing Sergei cause you to lose your motherfucking mind?” Aleksei, an
enforcer, kicks at a chair and stomps around the room, looking for more things break. I pull down a
Meissen vase that is part of a set we recently discovered being transported inside a large set of
ornamental—but very cheap—concrete dogs imported from China. Peddling antiques is more
lucrative than I had anticipated. We started just a few years ago, as part of my goal to supplant
income from the sale of krokodil and humans.

Sergei had been lured to the easy money but trafficking in drugs and people is not only dangerous

but short lived. The problem with Sergei was that he lacked vision. Now he’s dead, his body dumped
in a hog lot so that the only thing he’s possibly seeing now is the inside of a pig’s belly. An
ignominious end to the crime boss of one of the largest brotherhoods in Russia, but a fitting one.

“It’s out there.” I sit at my desk and check my emails. I’ve been searching for the Caravaggio for

months now and while I have not found it, I believe I have discovered a person who can.

“You should shoot yourself now and save yourself the misery.” Aleksei exhales grumpily and

seats himself in one of the two low-backed leather chairs in front of the desk. I suppose it is my desk
now. Once Sergei sat here and before him Roman Petrovich.

I hate the Petrovichs, all of them both dead and alive. They had promised me safety but

delivered only fear and torture. But my revenge will be to rule over this entire Bratva until the
Petrovich name is only known in connection with me, Vasily.

“What is your plan?” Igorek asks.
“There are rumors on the deep web of a collector who has not only the Madonna but the Golden

Candelabra as well as a few other holy relics.”

“Wonderful,” Aleksei scoffs. “You know not but of rumors. Even if these rumors are true, one

would have to assume that these artifacts are owned by a capitalist and are held in a safe that is
virtually impenetrable. Just shoot Elena Petrovich and be done with it.”

“If I kill her, who else will I have to kill? Thomas? Kilment? All of them? How about you,

Aleksei? Or Igorek? And do I just kill the male members or every issue to the fifth cousin?” Aleksei
pales at his name, at the mention of his family. “While it is better to be feared than loved, each act of
ill will toward one’s own people must be done only when there is no other action. If bringing this
painting back means new leadership without bloodshed, it is worth the risk.”

He is unconvinced by my speech but he has a new wife and a babushka coming. Either of those

could be used as bargaining chips against him.

“Igorek, you talk to the others, prepare them for my absence and be on watch.”
He nods. “How long will you be gone?”
“Not long.” My inbox dings and I read the email swiftly. Finally. I give the two a ghost of a

smile. “There is one person who can find the source of the postings on the deep web. One person who
can lead us to the Madonna. And one person, I suspect, no modern security system can withstand. The
Emperor.” I lean back in my chair and point to the computer. “The Emperor appeared out of nowhere
eighteen months ago and built an untraceable trading network for drugs, guns, flesh. And each of these
transactions was paid in digital currency which flowed back to the Emperor in the form of tribute. He
has made a fortune. A man who can create that? There is no bit or byte that can hold secrets from
him.”

“And you think you’ve found him?” Igorek asks.
“I know I have. He is in Brazil. He is in the employ of the Hudson gang or perhaps another local.

But Brazil is the base according to the information we have been able to glean. I have paid for
information that should be delivered to an associate of mine. With that, we should be able to locate
and extract the Emperor.”

“And how will you get the Emperor to work for you?” Aleksei is still dubious.
“By giving him whatever it is that he wants.”

Jessica Clare is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Hitman novels, which
include Last Hit, Last Breath, and Last Kiss. She also writes under the names Jessica Sims and Jill
Myles. She lives in a teeny tiny town in North Texas that has no Starbucks, which is a cruel and
unusual punishment. She spends her time with her husband, pets, and Keurig. Because, coffee.

Jen Frederick is the USA Today bestselling author of the Woodlands series as well as the Hitman
series. She lives with her husband, child, and one rambunctious dog. She’s been reading stories all
her life but never imagined writing one of her own.

Looking for more?

Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.

Discover your next great read!

Document Outline

Other Titles by Jessica Clare and Jen Frederick
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Special Preview of LAST KISS
About the Author

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