The lie comes easily, though it’s closer to the truth than she knows. She was targeted, just not in the way she thinks.
“Have there been other attempts?”
“Nothing serious. A few men who thought they could intimidate me by threatening my wife. They learned otherwise.”
“What did you do to them?”
The question is asked with genuine curiosity, not horror. Interesting.
“What needed to be done.”
She nods like this is a reasonable answer, which tells me more about her mental state than hours of conversation could.
“Are you worried it might happen again?”
“Not while you’re with me. No one would be stupid enough to try.”
“Because you’d kill them.”
“Without hesitation.”
Most women would be disturbed by such a casual admission of violent intent. Katya just looks… satisfied. Like my willingness to murder on her behalf pleases her in some fundamental way.
Very interesting.
“Excuse me, miss.”
We both turn to a man in a sharp suit, swaying beside our table. Drunk, flushed with arrogance, and staring at Katya in a way that makes my hands itch. One wrong move, and he won’t be breathing by the end of the night.
“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” he slurs, ignoring my presence. “You’re absolutely stunning. Would you like to join me for a drink?”
Katya looks from me to the man before nodding in my direction. “I’m married.”
“He could watch.” The drunk reaches for her shoulder. “I don’t mind an audience.”
That’s when things get interesting.
I’m about to pounce, but Katya moves before I can. She catches his wrist before he can make contact, and I see the exact moment she applies pressure to a nerve cluster that makes him yelp in pain.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice is deadly quiet.
The drunk tries to pull away, but she pins him with a thumb positioned perfectly to do serious damage if he resists. Her face is calm, almost serene, but her eyes have gone the kind of cold that would terrify anyone sober enough to recognize a trained killer.
“You’re hurting me,” the man whimpers.
“Only a little. But I will hurt you much more if you don’t walk away right now.”
I should intervene. Should play the protective husband and defuse the situation before she reveals too much of who she really is.
Instead, I find myself aroused by the display of controlled violence. She’s magnificent like this, deadly, beautiful, and completely in control.
“Let him go, kotyonok,” I finally tell her, though part of me wants to see how far she’ll take this.
She releases his wrist, and the drunk stumbles backward, clutching his arm.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he’s already backing away.
“Is there a problem here?” Our waiter rushes over, probably alerted by other staff who recognize a situation that could escalate badly.
