Chapter 4 - The Fortress on the Lake
The Markov estate sat on a jagged limestone cliff overlooking Lake Michigan, a sprawling fortress of dark stone, reinforced glass, and wrought-iron gates that looked like something out of a Gothic romance. Inside, however, it was a sanctuary of minimalist luxury—warm fireplaces, towering bookshelves, and leather furniture that swallowed the sound of the storm raging outside.
Viktor had arranged for a dry change of clothes—an oversized cashmere sweater and silk trousers that felt impossibly soft against my skin. I sat by the roaring fireplace in Adrian’s private study, holding a cup of steaming black tea, watching the rain lash against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The door opened silently, and Adrian entered. He had changed into a dark gray turtleneck and black trousers, the faint scent of cedar and gun oil trailing behind him. He walked over, setting a small leather-bound ledger on the mahogany desk before pouring himself a glass of amber scotch.
“Your cousins,” Adrian said quietly, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk and watching me over the rim of his glass.
I froze, the mug halfway to my lips. “What?”
“Trevor Ashford is a minor player in a larger corporate web,” Adrian explained, his gray eyes steady. “He works as a junior acquisitions analyst for a real estate firm owned by Arthur Vance—one of the financial backers of the Wolves syndicate. When Trevor cheated on you, he thought he was climbing a ladder. When he saw you with me tonight, he panicked because he realized his boss's biggest enemy just claimed the woman his firm was trying to squeeze out of her family inheritance.”
My breath caught. “My grandmother’s estate... the commercial property downtown. Vance’s firm has been trying to force a buyout for months, and Trevor was helping them manufacture financial distress.”
“They thought breaking your heart would make you pliable,” Adrian said, his jaw tightening into a hard, dangerous line. “They miscalculated. Everyone who touches what is mine learns the cost very quickly.”
“Adrian, you don't have to fight my battles,” I said, setting the mug down and standing up to face him. “I walked into Maverick’s looking for a prop. I didn't ask you to declare war on a syndicate for my sake.”
Adrian crossed the room in two long steps, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His hand reached out, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that contrasted sharply with the lethal reputation he carried.
“You did not ask,” Adrian murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly timbre that vibrated straight to my core. “You simply stepped into my line of fire, and I realized I had spent years waiting for a target worth protecting. You are not a prop, Camilla. You are the only real thing in a life built on ghosts and glass.”
“And what happens when your enemies try to use me again?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly as his thumb brushed my lower lip.
“They will try,” Adrian admitted without hesitation, his eyes flashing with cold steel. “And they will fail, because tomorrow morning, Arthur Vance’s firm will belong to us. And Trevor Ashford will find out what happens when he owes a debt to the Bratva.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
“Nothing illegal,” Adrian smiled, a dark, wicked expression that made him look magnificent and terrifying all at once. “Just a complete corporate liquidation. By tomorrow afternoon, he will be broke, unemployed, and packing his bags for a city very far away from Chicago.”
The sheer scope of his power—and the fact that he was wielding it entirely to avenge a wrong done to me—left me breathless. I reached up, my fingers resting against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath the cashmere fabric.
“You're terrifying, do you know that?” I whispered.
“So I’ve been told,” Adrian replied softly, his arms sliding around my waist, lifting me effortlessly so my feet rested on his shoes. “Do you want me to let you go, malaya? Last chance to walk out those front gates and back into an ordinary life.”
I looked into his storm-gray eyes, remembering the cold emptiness I had felt walking into Maverick’s, and the fierce, burning life I had found in his arms in that rain-slicked alley.
May you like
“An ordinary life is overrated,” I whispered.
And then his lips met mine.
