The guest room was dark.
Konstantin sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. The lamp was off. The curtains drawn. But even in the suffocating blackness, he could see her—Seraphina—her silhouette illuminated faintly in the flickering glow of the surveillance feed on his burner phone.
She was in her study. Again.
Typing.
Searching.
Digging.
The woman was relentless.
He'd been assigned to protect her from outside threats.
> No one had warned him she'd be the threat. To herself. To him. To everything.
He dragged a hand down his face, slow and tired. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. It was the bone-deep kind—the kind that came from carrying too many secrets and staying too long in the shadows.
He didn't sleep. Not really. Not for years now.
Not since he was fourteen and his father handed him a knife and said, "The world doesn't wait for cowards."
Not since he joined the bureau. Not since the lies began to outnumber the truths.
Not since he started missions like this one.
Konstantin reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a small folder—the kind meant for classified files. Clean. Unmarked.
He flipped it open and pulled out the letter.
The letter from her grandfather.
The one she'd found in the attic.
The one that shook her world.
The one she wasn't supposed to see.
He unfolded it carefully, like it might catch fire if he wasn't gentle. His eyes scanned the familiar lines. Not because he needed to read them again—he had memorized every word the first night.
> They'll call it a suicide. But you'll know better.
Take care of her. If you can.
He exhaled slowly, leaned back against the headboard, and closed his eyes for a moment.
> Take care of her...
What a fucking joke.
This whole mission was a joke. A circus covered in blood and buried skeletons.
"Remember," his boss had said, the voice smug and thick with alcohol. "This is a secret mission. She should be kept in the dark at all times. No exceptions."
Right.
No exceptions.
He could still picture the man—Director Nolan, bloated from too many steak dinners, his belt digging into the fat rolls above his pants, a smug grin smeared across his face.
That bastard had sold out more people than he protected.
Bribes. Payoffs. Cult connections.
The same cult that had ruined families, assassinated whistleblowers, staged suicides, burned down schools and orphanages and called it "cleansing."
And now, their latest obstacle?
Seraphina.
The granddaughter of a woman who'd gotten too close. Who had uncovered something she wasn't supposed to see.
So they did what they always did—sent a message. First with a cat. Then with a head.
And finally, with a noose.
Konstantin gritted his teeth.
He had been called in too late to save the grandfather.
But not too late to bury the trail.
His mission was simple:
> Stay close.
Eliminate threats.
Keep her away from the truth.
Make sure she never connects the dots.
Three months. That was all.
After that, Seraphina would be scrubbed clean—every file sealed, every trace burned. The last living link to Lillian's investigation would fade into obscurity.
The bureau would call it a win.
He would get paid.
And she would survive... none the wiser.
That was the plan.
> So why did it feel like he was already failing?
He tapped the screen of his phone again.
The camera feed flickered to life.
She was still there.
In her study.
Hair up in a messy bun. Fingers flying over the keys.
Lips pursed in that quiet way she did when she was deep in thought.
Even from behind a screen…
Even through a grainy lens…
She was captivating.
Annoying. Defiant. Reckless. Stubborn.
But captivating.
He had told her there would be no cameras in bedrooms or bathrooms.
That had been a lie.
Just like everything else.
There was a hidden camera in her bedroom. One in the mirror frame. Another in the bathroom vent. He had installed them the first night, under cover of darkness while she slept like the dead.
And he watched her.
Every night.
Not because he wanted to see her naked or catch her brushing her teeth—though he had, more times than he should have.
No.
He watched her because she made him nervous.
Not in the way enemies did.
Not in the way other women sometimes tried to.
But in the way truth made him nervous.
In the way people with too much fire and too much curiosity did.
> He'd known from the first day—when Ellie introduced them at her front door. When Seraphina narrowed her eyes at him like she'd already decided he wasn't welcome. When she stood her ground even though he was twice her size and carried a weapon on his hip.
He had known.
She was going to be a problem.
A curious little bird with ink-stained fingers and a tongue that didn't know how to stay still. She would keep pecking at walls, clawing at secrets, unraveling lies until something came loose.
She would dig and dig and dig…
Until she found what she wasn't supposed to.
He should've reported her.
Filed a threat escalation form.
Recommended sedation or relocation.
But he hadn't.
He didn't know why.
Maybe it was the fire in her. Maybe it was the letters her grandfather used to write—he'd read the others too, stolen from her childhood box of memories, each one inked with affection and quiet desperation.
Maybe it was how lonely she looked when she thought no one was watching.
Or maybe it was the way she still looked like someone worth saving.
> Even if he had to lie to do it.
Even if he had to burn her world to keep her breathing.
Konstantin set the letter aside, pulled his gun from the drawer, and checked the chamber. Loaded. Clean. Ready.
He glanced back at the feed.
Seraphina leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. She looked tired. Frustrated. She minimized the browser window and stared blankly at the screen for a while.
Then—without warning—she turned toward the camera.
As if she knew.
As if she could feel the eyes on her.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Her brows furrowed. She squinted.
And then she shrugged and stood, walking out of frame.
Konstantin closed the feed.
But the image burned behind his eyes.
Three months. That was all.
Three more months until she was out of danger.
Until she was erased.
Until he could walk away.
> So why did the thought of leaving her feel like betrayal?
He didn't have the answer.
Only the growing certainty that the longer he stayed, the harder it would be to finish what he came here to do.
--------
Seraphina woke up to the shrill buzz of her phone vibrating aggressively against the nightstand. She groaned, rolled over, and squinted at the screen.
Reminder: Book Signing — 11:00 AM | Harper's Book Emporium
She dropped the phone face down and buried her head under the pillow.
> Nope. Not today. Not in this lifetime.
But her alarm began to chirp next.
She cursed under her breath, dragged herself out of the warm cocoon of blankets, and stumbled toward the bathroom like a woman sentenced to death. She knew what today was, and she hated every second of it. Book signings weren't all glitz and glory. Not when you were behind on your manuscript. Not when your deadline was so close you could hear it breathing down your neck. And certainly not when your agency was emailing you every two hours with thinly veiled panic and emoji-stuffed reminders.
She turned the shower knob with more aggression than necessary and stepped into the blistering spray.
Steam filled the room in seconds, fogging up the mirror and curling through the air like ghosts. She stood there, head tilted back, letting the water sear her skin as if it could somehow burn away the exhaustion, the pressure, the irritation of having a very large, very stoic federal agent living rent-free under her roof.
By the time she got out and changed into something halfway decent—black slacks, a maroon blouse, and her signature ankle boots—she already felt the beginnings of a tension headache behind her eyes.
She padded downstairs, hoping for something simple. Toast. Maybe coffee. Anything warm and edible.
But what she found instead made her stop in her tracks at the foot of the stairs.
Konstantin Ivanov was in her kitchen.
Again.
And not just existing in her space—he was at the counter, dressed in black slacks and a grey henley that fit too well for her own sanity, casually blending something green and violent looking in her blender.
The sound was loud and ominous. The kind of mechanical growl that promised pain.
She stared in disbelief. "What in the hell is that?"
He didn't even look up as the blender whirred. "Breakfast."
She raised a brow, arms folding over her chest. "Looks like algae blended with heartbreak."
The machine powered off with a loud pop. He removed the lid, poured the sludgy green concoction into a tall glass, and finally glanced at her with that annoyingly neutral expression.
"Spinach. Kale. Ginger. Protein powder. Chia seeds."
She blinked at him. "You forgot disappointment. And despair."
He took a sip and didn't flinch. "It's efficient."
She stared at the now-empty blender, horrified. "Did you just raid my fridge for your little swamp potion?"
"You had kale," he said simply.
"Had being the keyword. I was going to use that."
"For what? Writing inspiration?"
Her mouth dropped open. "It's the principle, Ivanov. You don't just… consume someone's groceries like you live here."
He didn't miss a beat. "I do live here."
She narrowed her eyes. "You occupy space here. There's a difference."
"Semantics."
"You know, you really need to start buying your own stuff. And paying rent. Or contributing to the electricity bill. Something. Otherwise, I swear to God, I'll lock the fridge and start ordering groceries under a fake name."
"I didn't ask to be stationed here," he said dryly. "Complain to the Director who assigned me."
"I will. Expect an email. A strongly worded one. Possibly written in blood."
"Make sure it's formatted properly," he replied. "They don't read emails unless they're MLA or APA standard."
She grabbed a granola bar and bit into it aggressively, eyes still locked on him. "Then I'll hide my food and we'll see what your overpriced federal badge gets you when you're starving."
He sipped his smoothie again. "You wouldn't last two days pretending to be organized enough to remember where you hid anything."
She paused, then growled. "I hate you."
"Noted."
There was a pause. A moment of silence filled only by the sound of his glass meeting the counter and her chewing that sounded more violent than nutritional.
"I'm coming with you today," he said suddenly.
Seraphina nearly choked. "Excuse me?"
He turned toward her, arms crossing. "The event. Public venue. Crowds. Potential threats. I'm coming with you."
She groaned. Loudly. "Of course you are. Because I can't even go outside without you lurking in the background like some grumpy Russian batman."
"It's my job."
"You're supposed to protect me from threats. Not ruin my social life."
"You don't have a social life."
She scowled. "Ouch."
He gave her a bland look. "I'm not wrong."
"Well, maybe I don't need one when I have you constantly judging every decision I make—including what brand of peanut butter I eat and how I organize my mugs."
"They were organized by color and emotion. One of them was labeled 'existential dread.'"
She huffed and turned away, grabbing her tote bag from the kitchen chair. "Fine. But if anyone asks, you're my… I don't know… driver or body double. Or some weird performance artist who only speaks in insults."
"I'll just say I'm your bodyguard."
"Too boring. At least make it sound spicy."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he picked up his jacket, slung it over one shoulder, and waited by the door like this was the most normal interaction in the world.
Seraphina adjusted her blouse in the hallway mirror and sighed.
> Book signings were stressful enough without having a moody, smooth-talking Russian fed at her heels.
But here they were. Living the dream.
---
They stepped outside together, the autumn air crisp and cool. The sky was a stretch of soft gray, and the street glistened faintly from rain the night before.
Seraphina got into the driver's seat of her car while Konstantin took the passenger side. The silence between them wasn't heavy—not today—but it still buzzed with unspoken things.
As she pulled out of the driveway, she caught a glimpse of him adjusting the holster under his jacket.
Ready. Always.
> She wondered if he ever relaxed.
They didn't speak much on the ride.
He tracked every vehicle that passed them. Every pedestrian. Every possible threat.
She played music low—some acoustic playlist the agency told her was "soothing for nerves," though all it did was make her want to nap.
Her phone buzzed a few more times with posts and tags and excited fan notifications. She ignored them.
By the time they arrived near Harper's Book Emporium, it was ten minutes to eleven. The line outside the bookstore wrapped around the corner, dozens of fans chatting, holding her books close to their chests like precious relics.
Seraphina parked across the street and killed the engine.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
She let out a long, slow breath, staring at the crowd. "Let the circus begin."