Chapter 3 - The Glock on the Shelf
He gave me a room, clean clothes, food, warmth, and guards outside the door. Freedom was the only thing he withheld. After he left, I waited five minutes before searching the perimeter. Doors, windows, cameras, vents, blind spots—the routine came back without thought.
Then I saw the gun.
A Glock 19 leaned against the shelf near the window, too visible to be accidental. A test.
I picked it up, checked the magazine, and disassembled it with the automatic ease of someone who had done the same thing blindfolded at thirteen. Slide, spring, barrel—each piece laid neatly on the bed.
Then Alexi’s voice came from the doorway. "Do event planners usually know how to disassemble guns?"
I froze. He stood there watching me, satisfaction and curiosity darkening his eyes.
"You left it there on purpose," I said.
"I did."
I looked down at the dismantled weapon. There was no way to make myself harmless now. Alexi stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Now," he said softly, "I know you are definitely not an innocent event planner."
"People have hobbies, Alexi."
"Disassembling Glock 19s with military precision is not a hobby, Esme. It is a reflex." He reached out, his long fingers brushing the steel barrel lying on the sheet. "Tell me who sent you. Was it the Bratva out of Saint Petersburg? Or did someone else hire a very pretty ghost to get close to me?"
"No one sent me," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level.
"Liar." He closed the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He didn't pick up the gun; instead, his hands gripped my waist, lifting me effortlessly and setting me down on the edge of the bed, right over the scattered pieces of the weapon.
"You saved my life," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "And then you proved you are dangerous enough to take it. Explain that paradox to me."
"I didn't want you to die," I said, staring straight into his dark eyes.
"Why?"
Because if anyone was going to destroy Alexi Ivankov, it was supposed to be my family, or it was supposed to be me—not some pathetic poisoning by a jealous bride. But I couldn't tell him that.
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"Let's just say I have a personal distaste for poison," I murmured.
He studied my face for a long, agonizing moment, searching for a crack in my composure. Finding none, a dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth.
