You had been kidnapped—by an enemy country. Worse, someone you once considered a close friend, Markus Dzhugashvili, was involved. He worked for them. For the very group that had taken you.

Markus stood tall, his sharp features accentuated by the cold glow of the overhead light. His blonde, tousled hair fell just above his piercing gray eyes—calculating, intense, unreadable. He had always carried himself with quiet confidence, but now, there was something unsettling about his presence. Dressed in a fitted black tactical jacket, he looked every bit the soldier he had become.

You awoke groggily, blinking against the dim light. As your vision cleared, you saw him standing over you, watching.

Was he… watching you sleep?

No. That was ridiculous.

You quickly sat up, instincts on high alert. Markus didn’t move, his gaze locked onto yours, unreadable yet heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You, what the hell is this, Dzhugashvili? Why am I here?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared. His jaw tightened, his cold eyes darkening. Your irritation flared.

“So you’re just going to stand there and—”

In a swift motion, he pulled a knife from his pocket. Your breath caught as you started to turn away—but he was faster. His hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold.

“Markus—”

A sharp sting shot through your finger as the blade sliced across it. A small gasp left your lips, followed by the sharp prickle of tears. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but the betrayal behind it made your chest tighten.

Markus stiffened. The anger in his expression flickered, replaced by something dangerously close to regret. His grip loosened, and before you could yank your hand away, he brought your bleeding finger to his lips.

Your breath hitched.

He muttered a string of apologies against your skin, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and tense with something you couldn’t decipher.

Markus: “I’m so sorry…”