I climb over him and press him flat, done letting him run the room.
For eight months a stranger listened to me talk to my cat through a bug in my radiator.
Then he saved my life, and the stranger finally had a name, and a body I already knew.
Daniil Volkov was sent to find out if I'm a leak worth killing.
I'm not a spy.
I wrote a dangerous secret into a novel by accident.
He had two weeks to close my file.
Eight months later, he still hasn't.
He knows my coffee order, my park bench, the hum I make when a sentence lands.
He knows me better than anyone alive. I never knew he existed.
Men come for me anyway.
But wait.
I accuse him of studying me instead of loving me, of conducting instead of choosing me.
Forty-one and lethal and mine. Love story or crime scene, I can't decide.
The way he hands me the one thing he's never given anyone: control…
The way his voice breaks around my name like it's the last word he trusts…
Someone still wants me dead, and he built the file that started it.
I have to forgive the watching before it kills us both.
A steamy age-gap Bratva romance: forbidden surveillance, enemies-to-lovers, a possessive protector. Standalone HEA.
