The woman put up more of a fight. She was trained; I could tell from her stance when she turned around. But her training was civilian self-defense, maybe some basic military combatives.
Nothing compared to what I was capable of. When I snapped her neck, the sound echoed through the empty office like a gunshot.
The third one ran. Stupid move, but I let him think he had a chance.
I let him get almost to the exit before I put the knife in his back. He died knowing he’d been hunted by something far more dangerous than himself.
And I enjoyed every second.
“Katya.” A voice cuts through the dream, dragging me back to consciousness. “Wake up, kotyonok.”
I surface with a gasp, my hands still in fists.
My heart still pounds with the sick satisfaction of watching those people die.
The dream felt real. More real than anything in this manufactured life.
“You were having a nightmare,” Dmitri says, steady and close. His hand finds mine, forcing my clenched fingers open one by one. “But I’ll decide what’s real for you, kotyonok.”
I blink until my eyes adjust and find him sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt. His hair is mussed like he’s just woken up.
“What time is it?”
“Three in the morning. You were thrashing around and crying out.”
The way he watches me makes my skin prickle with awareness. Not fear, but something else.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away.
My body reacts before my head does, a sharp twitch like I’m bracing for a hit.
His eyes tighten for a second. Not worry. Something else. Like he knows more about that reflex than I do.
But his fingers only brush my cheek, and the tension breaks. The heat that follows catches me off-guard.
“You’re covered in sweat.”
The touch sends electricity down my spine, and I hate how my body responds to him.
Heat pools low in my belly, and my breath catches in my throat. Even terrified and confused, I want him.
“The dreams feel so real,” I whisper.
“Dreams feel real. That’s what makes them dangerous.” He traces his thumb along my jawline. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I snap, flinching at my own tone. “I want to forget it.”
His shoulders lower, and he lets out a sigh, almost like he’s relieved. “Then let’s focus on something else.”
He leans closer, and his hand slides from my cheek down to my neck, where his fingers rest against my pulse point.
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
His mouth crashes against mine, demanding and desperate, like he’s been holding back for weeks and has finally snapped.
