My eyelids snap open as a shrill, earsplitting sound fills the air.
The house alarm has been triggered, I realize.
Roman bursts through my bedroom door wearing only a pair of unbuttoned jeans and clutching a gun. He grabs me by the elbow with his free hand and hauls me out of bed.
He freezes when the sheet slides off of my body to reveal I'm not wearing pajamas, his fingers continuing to bite into my flesh. When I wince, he comes alive and drags me to the bathroom.
“Stay in here until I return," he orders gruffly.
“What's going on? Did someone break into the house?" My mind conjures up an image of Victor Dmitriyev, knife in hand, coming for me just like he promised. A sliver of fear scampers down my spine.
“I don't know, but I'm sure as f**k going to find out. Don't open the
