She kisses me again—slowly now, almost tenderly—but the smile she leaves me with is pure predator. “No. I don’t think I am.”
She lies against me, my cock still buried deep within her, the city lights burning on the glass like sparks from a fire I’ll gladly set.
Outside,Moscow waits with its threats and betrayals. But inside these walls, in this moment, I see her clearly—my most dangerous addiction.
God helpanyone who tries to take her from me.
17
Katya
Boris checks his phone every time he switches guard positions, which gives me about twelve seconds when nobody’s watching the east gate.
I’ve been taking note of security weaknesses all week, moving through the penthouse like someone conducting an invisible inspection.
I time rotations. I mark blind spots. My body files it under muscle memory.
Which should probably concern me more than it does.
I trace my tattoo with my thumb as I study the morning patrol from the bedroom window.
Three guards with predictable routes who put far too much faith in cameras that can be disabled. If someone wanted to breach this building, the path is obvious.
Footsteps in the hallway announce Dmitri’s approach before he appears in the doorway, dressed for business despite the early hour.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Well enough. You’re up early.”
“Security consultant arrives this morning. Figured I should be presentable when he assesses how badly we’ve fucked up our defenses.”
I turn from the window. “You hired someone?”
“After what happened to you, it seemed like the smart move.” He lifts his arm and leans against the doorframe.
“Maybe your professionals aren’t as trained as you thought.”
“Maybe not.”
I follow him to the kitchen, where he’s started coffee. The routine feels domestic, normal, except for the way we position ourselves to watch the entrances.
“What kind of consultant?” I ask.
“Former military. Specializes in high-risk residential security.” Dmitri hands me a mug. “Comes highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“People whose recommendations matter.”
It’s a vague answer, but pushing would seem odd. I sip my coffee and watch him check his phone.
“Will I be meeting this consultant?”
“Probably. He’ll need to assess the entire building, understand how we live here.”
His voice drops lower on the last part. The way he says “how we live” sounds intimate, possessive.
“Understand how we live?”
