The rain fell in relentless sheets, soaking me to the bone as the sleek, black Aston Martin purred to a stop before me. The tinted window lowered just enough for me to catch a glimpse of Alex Volkov’s sharp, cold features. His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, and I swore the temperature around me dropped.

“Get in,” he said, his tone steady but commanding. Alex never raised his voice—he didn’t need to. Authority rolled off him in waves, as effortless and unyielding as the rain pounding the streets.

I hesitated, clutching my damp coat tighter around me. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, walk away, pretend I hadn’t seen him. But running from Alex Volkov was like trying to escape a shadow; impossible and pointless.

When I didn’t move, his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to open the door for you,” he said dryly, his voice laced with something dangerously close to amusement.

What a gentleman.

Swallowing my reluctance, I pulled the passenger door open and slid into the car, the luxurious leather interior cocooning me in warmth. The scent of cedarwood and something distinctly Alex filled the air, making it harder to focus.

He didn’t glance at me as he shifted the car into gear. “You look like you have something to say,” he remarked, his eyes fixed on the rain-slicked road ahead.

“Why am I here?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

His smirk deepened, though his gaze remained on the road. “Because I told you to be.”

“And that’s supposed to be enough?”

“For you? Yes.”

The casual arrogance in his tone made my jaw clench. “I’m not one of your pawns, Alex.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a softer, more dangerous register. “You’re not a pawn. You’re much more valuable than that.”

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified, but with Alex Volkov, the line between the two had always been razor-thin.