12. Erik
ERIK
T he kitchen's overhead lights cast harsh shadows across Katarina's face as she pushes food around her plate. My boots scuff against the tile, announcing my presence. Her shoulders tense, but she doesn't look up.
The distance between us stretches like a physical thing. Gone is the teasing smile, replaced by a rigid posture and downcast eyes. My chest tightens at the sight.
“May I sit?”
Her fork pauses mid-bite. “It's not my table.” Her voice carries none of its usual fire.
I pull out the chair across from her, metal legs scraping against the tile. “I know things have been...” The words stick in my throat. Complicated? Intense? Nothing seems adequate.
“You don't need to explain.” She finally meets my gaze, green eyes hollow. “I'm just a prisoner who you fuck when the mood strikes. Message received.”
Her bluntness hits like a punch to the gut. Is that truly how she sees this? How I made her feel?
“That's not—” I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “I don't view you that way.”
“Really?” Her laugh holds no humor. “Could have fooled me with how quickly you disappear afterward. At least own what this is.”
The truth burns in my chest. I've treated her like a weakness to purge rather than a woman deserving of basic dignity. My rigid control has become its own form of cruelty.
“You're right.” The admission costs me, but I force it out. “I've handled this poorly. All of it.”
Surprise flickers across her features before she schools her expression. She sets down her fork with deliberate care. “And what exactly is 'this,' Erik?”
“I don't know.” The words scrape my throat raw. My fingers drum against the table's edge. “This is... new territory. You drive me crazy in ways I can't—” I drag a hand through my hair. “Every time I'm near you, my control slips. I can't think straight.”
The hard line of her mouth softens. She twirls pasta around her fork, studying me. “Must be difficult for someone like you. Always in control.”
“You have no idea.”
A ghost of her earlier smile touches her lips. She glances at her plate, then back at me. “I made too much. Would you like to share?”
My chest constricts. The offer dangles between us—simple yet loaded with implications. Sharing a meal means letting down barriers and becoming more than captor and captive. Everything in my training emphasizes the importance of maintaining distance.
But the pull toward her proves stronger than years of discipline. “Thank you. That would be nice.”
I stand, hyper-aware of her eyes following me as I grab a clean plate from the cabinet. The ceramic feels cool against my palms while I spoon a portion of her pasta onto it. Steam rises from the noodles, carrying the scent of garlic and herbs.
“This looks good.” I settle back into my chair, closer than before.
“It's just pasta.” But her cheeks flush at the compliment.
The first bite confirms my words—she knows her way around a kitchen. We eat in silence, but it's different now. Less hostile. More intimate.
I'm crossing lines I never should. But watching her twirl pasta around her fork, guard slightly lowered, I can't bring myself to care.
The pasta settles warm in my stomach as I watch her methodically clean her plate. The question burns on my tongue before I can stop it. “What do you do? When you're not working?”
Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Those green eyes study me like I've spoken in tongues. “I... work.” She sets the utensil down. “The tech industry doesn't exactly leave much room for hobbies.”
“No downtime at all?”
“My work is my downtime.” A small smile plays on her lips. “I love what I do. Creating new security protocols and finding vulnerabilities before others can exploit them. It's like solving puzzles but with real stakes.”
I nod, understanding, hitting deeper than expected. How many times have my brothers asked similar questions? What do you do for fun, Erik? When do you relax?
“You sound passionate about it.”
“I am.” She pushes her plate aside, leaning forward.
“Most people think cybersecurity is just firewalls and passwords.
It's so much more. It's anticipating human behavior, predicting how someone might try to breach your defenses.” Her eyes light up as she speaks, hands moving to emphasize her points.
“Kind of like what you do, actually. Just digital.”
The comparison startles a laugh from me. “Never thought of it that way.”
“Let me guess, your work is your life, too?” There's no judgment in her tone, just recognition.
“Hard to separate myself from it.” I run a finger along the edge of my plate. “When your skills mean life or death...”
“You can't just clock out at five,” she finishes.
Our eyes meet across the table, understanding passing between us. We're more alike than I'd care to admit. Both of us are shaped by our responsibilities, both finding purpose in protecting what's ours. Different methods, the same drive.
“Though I do read sometimes,” she adds softly.
“What do you read?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Everything. Fiction mostly.” Katarina traces the rim of her water glass. “Romance, fantasy—anything that helps quiet my mind when I can't sleep.”
“You have trouble sleeping?” My fingers twitch with the urge to reach across the table.
She meets my gaze, shadows under her eyes more prominent now that I'm looking for them. “Often. My brain doesn't know how to shut off. There's always another problem to solve, another line of code to optimize.”
“And now?”
“Now?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “It's its own fresh hell being stuck here. At least before, I could channel all that mental energy into work. Create something useful.” She pushes her plate away. “But here? My mind just spins and spins with nowhere to go.”
The guilt hits harder than expected. I've been so focused on containing her physical presence that I hadn't considered the psychological toll of denying her access to her work. For someone like her—brilliant, driven—it must be torture.
“You really love it, don't you? The work?”
“It's not just work to me.” Her voice softens, passion bleeding through frustration. “It's who I am. And now...” She gestures helplessly at the kitchen around us. “Now I'm just stuck here, knowing my projects are stagnating, my clients probably panicking...”
I run a hand through my hair, wrestling with the conflict inside me. Her words about being cut off from her work echo in my mind. “I could talk to Alexi. See if he can help keep your projects running, maybe check on your clients.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Alexi? Your brother?”
“He's the best hacker I know.” I lean forward, warming to the idea. “He could at least make sure nothing's falling apart.”
A short laugh escapes her. “Right. And I suppose you expect me to just hand over all my access codes and login credentials to an Ivanov?”
What was I thinking?
“Your security protocols are probably half designed to keep people like Alexi out,” I admit.
“Try all designed.” She crosses her arms. “Do you have any idea how many attempts I've blocked from your brother's IP addresses over the years?”
That pulls me up short. “He's tried to hack you?”
“Multiple times.” Her lips quirk. “Never succeeded, though.”
Pride colors her voice, and I find myself fighting back a smile. Of course she's managed to keep Alexi out. I've seen firsthand how brilliant she is.
“Look,” she continues, “I appreciate the thought. But giving Alexi access to my systems would be like...” She pauses, searching for words. “Like me asking to borrow your weapons. Would you trust me with those?”
“Point taken.” I drum my fingers on the table, frustrated at my inability to help. “I just hate seeing you cut off from something you clearly love.”
Her hand covers mine, warm and soft, squeezing gently. “Thank you for caring.”
The touch sends electricity through my veins, but her words hit like ice water. Caring? No. I don't care. Can't care. Caring means vulnerability. Means weakness. Everything I've trained to eliminate.
My walls slam up, muscles tense. She notices—of course she does—and pulls her hand back, the warmth vanishing.
“Are you finished?” She reaches for my plate. All business now.
But something in me rebels against letting this moment end. Before she can stand, I catch her wrist, tugging her onto my lap. She gasps, those green eyes widening as I cup her face.
This isn't protocol. It isn't procedure. Every trained instinct screams to maintain distance. When I press my lips to hers, it's gentle. It's not our usual clash of teeth and dominance. Just soft and exploring.
She melts against me, fingers curling into my shirt. The kiss deepens but stays slow. Sweet. Nothing like the raw need that usually drives us.
I'm breaking every rule. Crossing every line. With her warm weight in my lap and her lips moving against mine, I can't bring myself to care.
I pull back from her lips, drinking in the sight of her flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen mouth. Her fingers stay twisted in my shirt, anchoring us together.
“What was that for?” Her voice comes out husky; her eyes search mine.
“Thank you for dinner.” The words feel inadequate for the storm of emotions churning inside me.
She shakes her head, but a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. Her palms press against my chest as she moves to stand.
My arms tighten around her waist, keeping her in place. The scent of her—something uniquely Katarina—draws me in. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. My lips brush against her pulse point.
“I can't get enough of you.” The confession slips out, raw and honest against her skin.
Her body tenses in my lap, hands pressing firmly against my chest. “Let me go.” The warmth in her voice has vanished.
I loosen my grip, and she slides off my lap, putting distance between us. The loss of her warmth hits like a physical blow.
“We can't do this.” She wraps her arms around herself, refusing to meet my eyes. “This isn't—it makes no sense.”
“Katarina—”
“No.” She grabs our plates from the table, movements sharp and agitated. “You're my captor. I'm your prisoner. That's all this is.” Her voice cracks. “That's all this can be.”
“You don't believe that.”
She yanks open the dishwasher, shoving dishes inside with more force than necessary. “What I believe doesn't matter. You're an Ivanov. I'm a Lebedev. We're enemies.”
I cross the kitchen in four strides, caging her against the counter. Her breath catches as I plant my hands on either side of her.
“I don't want to stay away from you.” My voice comes out rough, desperate. Heat radiates from her body, drawing me closer. “I've tried. God knows I've tried.”
She turns in my arms, pressing her back against the counter. Those green eyes finally meet mine, filled with a storm of emotions I can't decipher.
“Then you're a fool.”
“Maybe.” I lean closer until our breaths mingle. “But I'm done fighting this.”
I brush my lips against her ear, feeling her shiver. “Come to my room tonight. Let me show you what it could be like between us. No games, no power plays.”
Her breath hitches. “Erik...”
“Stay with me. All night.” My fingers trace her jawline. “In my bed, where I can hold you properly.”
She tilts her head back, studying my face. Conflict wars in those green eyes—desire battling with distrust, longing with logic.
“This is dangerous.” Her voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“Everything about us is dangerous.” I rest my forehead against hers. “Come anyway.”
Her hands fist in my shirt, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. “Your brothers...”
“Don't worry about them.” I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “Let me show you how good we could be together.”
She closes her eyes, drawing a shaky breath. When they open again, something has shifted in their depths. “Your room. Not mine.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. “Yes.”
“And if I change my mind?”
“Then you leave. No questions asked.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “I want you willing, Katarina. All of you.”
She nods slowly, decision crystallizing in her expression. “When?”
“Now?” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Is that too soon?”
Katarina's fingers trail down my chest. “No. Now is perfect.”
I take her hand, leading her from the kitchen into the private wing of the compound. My heart pounds against my ribs as we pass through corridors she's never seen. Each step feels weighted with significance.
This area houses the guards and me—our sanctuary from the chaos of our world. No guards patrol here. No cameras watch. Even Alexi's surveillance ends at the threshold.
Katarina's grip tightens as we pass ornate wooden doors. I sense her cataloging everything—the rich carpets, the old-world architecture, the silence broken only by our footsteps. Her analytical mind never stops working.
The familiar weight of my key slides into the lock. I hesitate, hand on the handle. Am I really doing this? Breaking every protocol, every rule I've lived by?
Katarina's thumb strokes across my knuckles, gentle yet demanding. The touch sends fire racing up my arm.
Yes. Yes, I am.
I guide her inside, closing the door behind us with a soft click that echoes with finality.