All Chapters of Under The Devil's Eyes : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

‎Third-person POV‎The Romanov mansion stood on the cliff like a fortress waiting for war.‎Every guard felt it. Every servant sensed it. Even the gulls wheeling over the ocean seemed to scream warnings.‎Downstairs, the past and present collided in the grand salon.‎Viktor Romanov had returned.‎He strode through the front doors as though the fourteen years of exile had been a long weekend. Tall, silver-threaded, the scar on his face catching the chandelier light like a blade. He poured himself vodka from Maxim’s private decanter and toasted the brother who had once held a gun to his head.‎“To family,” Viktor said, smiling with too many teeth.‎Maxim did not drink.‎Flashback – St. Petersburg, winter 2011‎Snow lashed the frozen Neva.‎On a warehouse roof, twenty Romanov soldiers lay dead below, throats cut, eyes staring at the black sky.‎Maxim’s pistol was pressed under Viktor’s chin.‎“You stole three hundred million. You sold our routes to the Albanians. You thought I wouldn’t f

‎Nora’s POV‎Houston, Texas – Saturday, October 18, 2027‎(Two years later)‎I wake up to sunlight pouring through the blinds like warm honey, painting stripes across the hardwood floor of my tiny one-bedroom in Montrose.‎Twenty-four looks different on me.‎My hair is longer now, sun-bleached at the ends from weekend farmers’ markets and rooftop movies.‎There’s a faint scar on my left ribcage that aches when the weather changes, a souvenir from a night I still don’t let myself think about before coffee.‎I stretch, toes curling against cool sheets, and smile at the quiet.‎No gunshots in the distance.‎No armed men outside the window.‎No Mikhail.‎Just the hum of the fridge and the smell of yesterday’s coffee lingering in the air.‎I pad barefoot to the kitchen, start the pot, and lean against the counter watching the drip.‎Two years.‎Two years of clean mornings, of paychecks that are mine, of nights where I fall asleep without waiting for boots in the hallway.‎Elias has been cl

‎Nora' POV‎ We stumble through Caleb’s front door giggling like an idiot, one heel already lost somewhere between his car and his porch.‎The charity ball was a champagne-soaked blur of chandeliers and fake smiles, and the only thing keeping me upright is Caleb’s arm around my waist and his stupidly warm laugh in my ear.‎“Careful, sunshine,” he murmurs, catching me when I almost face-plant into his entryway table. “I need you in one piece.”‎I spin in his arms, nearly toppling us both, and kiss him sloppy and hard.‎He tastes like champagne and mint gum and everything safe.‎“Take me to bed, Whitlock,” I demand against his mouth.‎He grins, scoops me up like I weigh nothing, and carries me down the hallway while I kick off my remaining heel.‎It hits the wall with a dramatic thud.‎The bedroom is dark except for the city glow through the blinds.‎He drops me on the bed and I bounce, laughing, pulling him down with me.‎Clothes come off in a chaotic tangle: my emerald dress gets stuc

‎The Blue Tile Bar, Houston – Friday night, late. ‎Nora’s POV ‎The bar is slammed. ‎Friday night, live band murdering Springsteen, tips flowing like tequila. ‎I’m in my element: shaking cocktails, flirting for extra twenties, laughing loud enough to drown the static. ‎Then the door opens and the air changes. ‎Two men walk in and the entire room feels it. ‎Mikhail Romanov and Aleksei Volkov. In the fucking flesh. ‎In my bar. ‎My stomach drops through the floorboards. ‎Lola freezes mid-pour. “Holy hell. Are those Russian archangels?” ‎I want to die. ‎Mikhail’s gaze finds me instantly. ‎Of course it does. ‎He smirks: slow, filthy, like he knows exactly what I look like naked and screaming his name. ‎I flip him off behind the bar towel. ‎He laughs, low and delighted, and starts walking straight toward me. ‎Lola elbows me. “You know Captain America’s evil twin?” ‎“Unfortunately.” I mumur, irritated. ‎She fans herself. “Introduce me to the dark one. I volunteer as tribute

Nora’s POV The apartment smells like garlic, white wine, and home. I’m wrist-deep in shrimp scampi, humming off-key to whatever indie playlist Elias put on, when the doorbell rings. I wipe my hands on the apron Caleb bought me last Christmas (it says KISS THE COOK, BUT ONLY IF YOU BROUGHT WINE) and jog to the door. Elias stands there in his best button-down, cheeks pink, holding the hand of a tiny girl with lilac hair and the softest smile I’ve ever seen. “Nora, Lila. Lila, Nora,” he says, voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. Lila waves shyly. “Hi. You’re prettier than the pictures.” I melt. I also elbow Elias hard in the ribs. “She’s really pretty,” I mutter under my breath. He glares, but he’s grinning so wide his face might split. I usher them in, take Lila’s denim jacket covered in enamel pins of cartoon cats and tiny plants, and lead them to the dining table I actually set with real plates tonight instead of paper ones. Elias pulls out Lila’s chair like a gentleman