“Privacy is important to my clients. They pay for confidentiality as much as they pay for my services.”
She presses her lips together, and I can see the wheels turning behind those beautiful eyes. Amnesia or not, she’s too sharp not to catch the subtext.
The waiter returns to take our order, giving me the perfect excuse to watch her scan the menu. Everything’s in French, and I’m looking for any hint of struggle.
She doesn’t falter, ordering in flawless French, exactly what my research predicted. Still, it might raise questions, so I decide to nip them in the bud before she starts asking.
“Your French is excellent,” I comment after the waiter leaves.
“Is it? I didn’t even think about it. The words just came naturally.”
“You always were gifted with languages. Russian, English, French, Italian. … You said it helped with international exhibitions.”
Another lie, but another one based on truth. According to her FSB file, she speaks six languages fluently. Useful skills for an international spy, less common for someone who supposedly spent their career in Moscow art galleries.
“What else am I good at?” she asks, and there’s something almost flirtatious in her tone.
I reach across the table and trace my finger along the back of her hand, enjoying the way she shivers at the contact. “Many things. Though some talents are better demonstrated than described.”
“Dmitri,” she says, and my name on her lips sends heat straight to my cock.
“Yes, kotyonok?”
“Why do I feel like I don’t know myself anymore?”
“Because you’re healing. The woman you were before the accident… she was shaped by experiences you can’t remember. This is your chance to decide who you want to be.”
“And who do you think I should be?”
The question carries more weight than she realizes. I could tell her to be compliant, submissive, and grateful for my protection. I could mold her into the perfect trophy wife: all beauty, no brains.
But that’s not what I want. The woman who infiltrated my organization and almost destroyed everything I’d built… she was magnificent in her deception. Reducing her to anything less would be like clipping the wings of a bird of prey.
“Be yourself,” I tell her. “Whatever that means.”
Our appetizers arrive, providing a temporary distraction from the weight of the conversation. I watch Katya eat and note the precise way she handles her silverware, and the economical movements that speak of training in etiquette. Or training in weapons.
They leave similar marks on a person’s behavior.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” she says between bites.
“Ask.”
“This morning, when I had that flashback… you said I took self-defense classes. But what I remembered didn’t feel like something you’d learn in a class. It felt…”
“Felt like what?”
“Lethal. Like I was trained to kill, not just defend myself.”
I set down my fork, giving her my full attention. “What do you remember?”
“Someone grabbing me from behind. A knife at my throat. But instead of being afraid, I was… planning. How to break their grip, where to strike to cause maximum damage, and how to turn their weapon against them.” She looks down at her hands. “Those aren’t normal thoughts, are they?”
“You were attacked before, and you had to defend yourself in a situation where half-measures wouldn’t have been enough.”
“Someone tried to hurt me?”
“Moscow can be dangerous, especially for beautiful women married to men like me. Someone targeted you to get to me.”
