The Death Dealer

They call me The Death Dealer.

Fifty-five years old. Silver in my hair, violence in my eyes, and thirty-eight years of vengeance carved into every scar.

I was paid five million to erase Andrey Ivanov, the man who filmed my mother dying when I was seventeen.

I walked into his palace ready to paint the walls with his blood.

Then I saw her.

Zoya.

His twenty-three-year-old daughter.

Icy-blue eyes, ivory skin, and a pulse that beat faster the closer I got.

One look and the death in my veins became useless.

I took her instead and made her my captive. She was meant to be my revenge, but she’s becoming the only thing I’ve ever been afraid to lose. I’d never let her know, never let her see that weakness.

I’ll hunt her if she runs. I’ll burn Moscow to ash if anyone tries to take her from me.

Because the monster hired to kill a king just stole his princess, and a man like me didn’t let go of the one thing that finally made him feel human.