I sit on the top deck of the new yacht, gazing out at the blue expanse of sea all around us. The sun is high in the sky, beaming down brightly and casting a hazy glow of optimism across our little section of the world. I smile despite myself, despite the dangers we have narrowly escaped, despite the weight that I am still lifting off my shoulders.

It’s the weight of a decision I made recently, the result of Vladimir extending to me an offer I never even knew was on the table. He made me swear to be loyal to him, to offer up my heart and soul to him completely and without shame. I did so willingly, as I have quickly realized that even though we haven’t even been a part of each other’s lives for a whole week yet, I know for sure that I never, ever want to be parted from him. I can’t even imagine doing that now, to be perfectly honest.

Still, he asked me that difficult, heavy question… will I stay or will I go off on my own?

I was startled by the ultimatum, which is how it felt to me. Not so much an offer as a fork in the road. I peered down the wooded, bushy path to so-called freedom. I gave it a long, hard look to think it over. He was offering me a chance to escape him, to run to the police or some honest-faced woman in an Italian marketplace, to tearfully beg for a chance to call the embassy and get Interpol on the line.

I could have left him then, walked off the old yacht and left him in the past, foregone all of the just-blossoming dreams I was starting to have about a possible future, however nebulous and dangerous it may be.

I could have returned home—not to Russia unfortunately, as I know now that continent will never be safe for me again—I left too many enemies there to ever go back. But I could have gone back to New York. Back to early mornings in a cramped dormitory, drinking single-cup coffee by the wide window as the sun peeked out over the rectangular, metal-gray heads of the city scape. Back to afternoons strolling through Central Park or down the winding, bustling streets of Chinatown, taking in the sun and smells and yes, the smog. Back to long, sepia-toned evenings tucked away in some cozy corner of the library with my nose pressed into an old book with pages so old and so delicate they could have been made of dried rose petals.

That old life would still fit me if I were to change my mind and return to it, but it wouldn’t hang right. It’s like a dress washed too many times and shrunken down to squeeze uncomfortably under the arms or around the neck.

The hems all frayed and falling apart, unraveling around me faster than I could inexpertly stitch it back together. I could wear it until it fell apart, and then I would have to find a new dress—just the same as the old one but stiffer and less like home.

But I didn’t. I didn’t choose that old familiar way back to what I know and understand. I chose to stay with Vladimir, as if there was ever any other choice for me. I don’t want to go back to my old self, that old dress with the frayed hems and the moth-eaten age. I want something new and shining and spinny and bright. Something that sparkles in the sun. Something that makes my heart pump a little faster, electrifies the very blood in my veins.

I want adventure. I want excitement. I want to see new sights and taste new flavors on my tongue. I want to dance to music my feet have never tapped to. I want to swing and twirl and dance in the setting sun on the top deck of this new, slightly smaller but still resplendent Italian yacht with the most captivating man I have ever known.

Vladimir is the north star. No matter how my compass spins, it will always point to him. My heart knew that was the answer from the second we met, it has just taken my mind a little time to catch up. To come to terms with all I am leaving behind in exchange for this new, unknown life with him. And I don’t regret my choice. I can smile in the sun and know I made the best decision.

Because yes, I could survive without him, maybe.

If I tried very hard and kept myself so busy and overworked that I never had a spare moment to reflect on him, if I pushed him so deep into the back of my mind that he was more of a constant thrum than a deafening roar in my head, maybe I could get by.

I would throw myself back into my books and research.

Maybe not to Russian literature again. It would sting too harshly to read those beautiful, dark, tragic lines of prose and not think of Vladimir. Not just painful, but impossible. I would never find another man like him.

There is no one alive quite like him.

He is special, and I am special by association, because he chose me. He could have turned me away. He could have given me up when the going got rough. He could have tossed me off the deck into the sea to drown if he had so wanted to. I have been utterly at his mercy, and yet he has given me so much more than simple mercy.

He has given me pleasure and thrills and affection and protection—all the things I never believed any man or woman or thing could grant me in this harrowing world. But I was wrong. I was proven wrong when I met him. And now I cannot fathom my life without him in it.

And so it was an easy choice, in that regard. It was the only choice for me.

I smile and wave at him from my spot on the top deck where I’m stretched languidly like a cat in the sun. He’s up in the hawk’s nest, peering out over the deep blue all around the yacht, charting our course as we float out onto the vast Atlantic. We just passed through the Strait of Gibraltar, and it was a tense day or so for us.

If anyone was to attack us or apprehend us, it would have happened then, because the strait is a narrow passageway. The horrible men who are tracking us could have spotted us from either shore—from the green rocky coast of southern Spain or the golden sandy beaches of Morocco.

I spent a lot of that time hiding in the master bedroom below deck. This yacht is a little less impressive than the last; it doesn’t have a smaller boat within it, for instance. But it is still pure luxury, from the golden fixtures to the silky sheets on the bed, the latter of which we have made great use together.

As it turns out, there is no better way to while away the long hours at sea than to explore one another’s bodies. And by now, I am convinced that Vladimir has charted every inch of me by heart. He knows every shudder and sigh so intimately that I sometimes wonder if we have met before, maybe in a past life.

I’ve never been the kind of girl to believe in things like that, but if there is anyone on the planet who could ever make me rethink my perspective, it’s Vladimir.

“You look beautiful out there,” he calls to me, leaning out the open window as he pilots the wheel. I blush and tuck my hair back behind my ear, beaming at him.

“You are too sweet to me,” I answer shyly.

“I only speak the truth, my little princesa,” he replies with a wink.

I feel that wink all the way down my body, lingering in the tingle between my thighs. That man has such a mystical hold over me. Everything he says and does turns me on. Just one little glance and the switch is flipped. I’ve never experienced anything like it before, but I am obviously pretty damn grateful for it now. I try not to question why I adore him the way I do. It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that we are together and we are happy, and now that we are out of Gibraltar, we should be safe, as well.

But no sooner has that thought crossed my mind than I hear a strange buzzing sound, one that makes me squint up at the sky as a shiver rolls down my spine. It’s so quiet out here that I can pick up on faraway noises, and this one… well, it doesn’t sound natural. I blink up at the sky and feel my blood run cold as a spherical, dark shape moves out from behind a cloud. Suddenly, the buzzing sound makes perfect sense.

A helicopter. Hovering far above us, but coming closer and closer.

“Vladimir, look!” I cry out in terror, pointing up at it. He follows the line of my gesture and I watch as his face darkens with worry.

“Come to me, malyshka! Quick! Off the deck!” he commands, beckoning to me. I hop up and run on trembling legs, darting up the steps to the captain’s nest, feeling sick to my stomach. “Get back, as far back as you can. Out of sight. Hurry, hurry!” he urges me.

I scurry to the back of the room, huddling down on the floor with a deck chair in front of me. I can just barely make out the helicopter descending quickly through the wide clear windows. Vladimir is violently wrenching the steering wheel to the right, forcing the yacht to veer off in that direction. The whole yacht tips slightly and a wave of nausea and dizziness rolls over me, making my head spin. I cling to the deck chair and remind myself to breathe in and out as Vladimir pilots the ship, doing everything in his power to evade the approaching aircraft.

“Who are they? What do they want?” I cry out.

“I assume they want you, my little girl,” he hisses back, “but I’ll be damned if I let them take you from me. Hold on tight, my love. This could get a little rough.”

“Yes, sir,” I whimper, closing my eyes tight. But I can’t keep them shut for long. As terrified as I am, it’s far worse to not watch the scene unfolding. The helicopter is descending quickly, and they seem to be perfectly capable of keeping up with our veering off-course. The aircraft is attempting to land on the deck of our yacht! Vladimir growls with rage and wrenches the steering wheel again, the whole boat shuddering with the effort of turning even further while I curl my legs to my chest in the fetal position. My heart is pounding so hard that it physically aches, but I know my only hope is to trust in Vladimir’s abilities.

However, the people chasing us have another, dirtier trick up their sleeve. Even as we try to evade their landing, they open fire on us, a hail of bullets peppering the top deck with a deafening racket. I scream in pure horror as it dawns on me that our unwelcome guests have come prepared—with submachine guns!

“What do we do?” I scream, tears burning in my eyes.

Vladimir looks back and forth between me and the helicopter a few times, clearly conflicted on what to do next. He groans in frustration, deciding that I am more important. He rushes over, pulls me to my feet, and hoists me up in his arms. I cling to him desperately while the men in the aircraft continue to fire bullets at our deck, even as they descend to start landing on it. Vladimir hurriedly takes the stairs down, two at a time while still carrying me. We can feel the yacht thrumming with the weight and movement of the helicopter as it lands on the deck above us. My savior throws open the door to the master bedroom and carries me inside.

“Get under the bed, malyshka,” he whispers. “Go, go, go!”

“What about you?” I whimper.

“I will defend you to the death, my love, but I will not make it easy for them,” he growls, that familiar fire blazing in his dark eyes. “Now, go. Hide. I will protect you, Autumn. Always.”

Even though it shatters my heart to leave him, I follow his instructions and lie down on my belly to scoot underneath the cushy bed. Meanwhile, I can hear the heavy clomping footsteps of men up deck, the helicopter having successfully landed on our yacht. Vladimir darts to the door in a mad dash to get out and lock me in, but before he can get out, the door bursts open and three men come flooding into the room.

I let out an involuntary squeak of terror and retreat even further under the bed, covering my mouth with my hand as I gasp, my eyes wide and horrified. I can see four sets of boots, one of which belonging to my dashing, selfless love. The men are all shouting at him in rapid Russian, spitting at him with hatred and ferocity.

Vladimir gives as good as he takes—better, in fact. I only catch every few words, but I can tell he isn’t backing down. I hear the sickening crunch of fists on jaws, arms cracking, knees shattering. A few gunshots ring out, my ears stinging with the impossibly loud noise. I keep my eyes trained on the shoes I know to belong to Vladimir as he deftly fights them off. I know he doesn’t have a weapon on him. I know he’s unarmed against three armed men. And yet, one by one I see the guns clatter to the ground, presumably knocked out of their hands by none other than Vladimir himself.

I silently root for him, watching his feet dance nimbly around his attackers, delivering kicks and punches and grunts of fierce aggression. My heart soars with affection for him, and I realize yet again just how powerful my protector really is. He fights them off, taking them all on at once, as though he’s been training for this moment his entire life. I find my confidence in his abilities mounting higher and higher as he disarms and punishes the men who threaten our life together.

He’s so strong and competent it almost frightens me. I can only see from their ankles down, but I can hear everything, and from what it sounds like, Vladimir is kicking their asses left and right. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t hold back one bit. I know his genuine affection for me is spurring him on to be even more powerful than he already is. A strange thought pops into my head: how could Russian literature be so sad when men like Vladimir exist?

I scream in fear when two bodies thump to the floor, pools of blood spilling out in crimson all around them.

Neither one of them is Vladimir.

My heart surges with joy. The third man turns and runs out of the room, but Vladimir is hot on his heels. With the puddles of blood spreading out closer and closer to me under the bed, I hastily wiggle out from underneath it and go running after the two surviving men—one of them my savior and the other a dirty coward.

I stumble up the steps to the top deck just in time to see the helicopter starting to clumsily take off, the one surviving man at the helm. I clap my hands over my mouth and scream when I see Vladimir take a confident leap and grab hold of the landing skids with both hands. With incredible ease, he swings himself up and clambers into the cabin of the aircraft to wrangle the wheel away from the other man.

I can only stand below on the bullet-riddled top deck and watch the struggle ensue, every fiber of my being desperately wishing for Vladimir to survive.

To my relief, it doesn’t take him long to seize control of the helicopter just as it is starting to disappear behind a thick cloud far above us. The next thing I know, there’s a gigantic splash. I rush to the side of the boat, my heart pounding as I search frantically to see what or who fell into the Atlantic. A body comes floating crookedly to the surface and for a horrible, clenching moment, I think it might be Vladimir.

All time seems to stop. The body is tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same kind of dark clothing Vladimir wears.

“No,” I murmur, all the wind seemingly knocked out of my body. The yacht, unmoored and unmanned, floats aimlessly closer and closer to the body in the water. I strain my eyes as I stare at the body, panic settling in as I hear the helicopter whirring overhead. Whoever is steering it is steering it downward further and further—it’s going to land on the deck again.

If that is Vladimir in the water, then I hardly care who’s in the aircraft.

It doesn’t matter. There is no life for me without him.