Confusion clouded my thoughts as I took in the masculine, well-worn office. My breath stilled when I met eyes with a man leaning against the front of the desk. The man I ran into. The man I got a glimpse of before I fell at his feet, unconscious. Everything came back to me. The scarred man. The near rape. All I could think at that moment was, so far, Moscow really sucked. The dark-haired Russian held my stare with a distant look of interest. I swallowed and pulled my gaze away when the doctor placed his chair next to me and sat. I eyed the briefcase beside him warily, knowing if he pulled a needle from it, I’?d take my chances out on the street. Getting a closer look, the doctor paused and tilted his head. “Ty vyglyadish’ znakomo. My ran’ she ne vstrechalis’?” Sludge stuck to my thoughts like gum. He spoke too fast for me to understand any of it. The doctor adjusted his glasses, scrutinizing me. “Mozhesh’ skazat’ svoye imya, dorogoya?” I thought I heard “imya.” Was he asking for my name? I wasn’t sure, so I only blinked. He frowned in concern. “Ty dolzhen byl otvezti yeye v bol’nitsu.” I only recognized “bol’nitsu.” The hospital. However, I realized his words weren’t meant for me but for the only other man in the room. The one built like a brick wall, as uncomfortable as it had been to run into him. At first glance, he looked like a gentleman, like he belonged in a CEO’s boardroom, looking down at the world through floor-to-ceiling glass. Though, if one stared longer than they should, everything about him—the way he leaned against the desk, arms crossed; the way shadows fought in his eyes; how black ink decorated his fingers—opposed it. A powerful, maybe even dangerous edge lay in the relaxed set of his shoulders. He was war embodied, tailored in an expensive black suit, sans tie and jacket. I knew his was the one I wore now. As if he could feel me staring, the man caught my gaze. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. Like Russian roulette. A revolver and one bullet. A single wrong blink, and I’d be dead. But it also evoked a