Konstantin
She tastes like expensive vodka and fury.
My hand tangles in her hair, angling her head so I can deepen the kiss. She makes a sound against my mouth, surprise or pleasure or both, and then she's kissing me back just as fiercely.
This is a mistake.
I know it's a mistake even as my other hand finds her waist, pulls her flush against me. I know it the moment her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a tilting world.
I should stop.
I should step back, give her space, remember that she's here for answers and revenge, not for this. But then she bites my lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and every rational thought dissolves into heat and want.
I walk her backward until her back hits the wall beside the window. She gasps, and I swallow the sound, one hand braced beside her head while the other explores the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.
She's all softness over strength, curves that would make a weaker man beg. I'm not a weak man, but right now, with her mouth on mine and her body pressed against me, I feel like I could be.
"Konstantin." My name is a whisper against my lips.
The sound of it nearly breaks me.
I force myself to pull back, to put inches between us even though every instinct screams at me to crowd closer.
"We should stop." The words scrape out of my throat.
"Should we?" Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"You came here for answers. Not this."
"Maybe I want both."
Fuck.
"Emilia." I frame her face with both hands, make sure she's looking at me. "If we do this, it's not part of The Hunt. It's not because I caught you, or because you surrendered. It's because you want it. Because you choose it."
Understanding flickers across her expression.
"Are you asking for consent or waiting for me to beg?"
"I'm asking for honesty." My thumb brushes across her cheekbone. "Tell me what you want."
She's quiet for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with each breath. I can feel the heat of her skin through the soft fabric of her dress, can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"I want to forget," she finally says. "Just for tonight. I want to forget about Troskoy and revenge and being alone for six years. I want to feel something other than rage."
The raw honesty of it does something to my chest.
"And you think I can give you that?"
"I think you already are." Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, until her fingers find the edge of my mask. "Can I?"
I nod, and she slowly peels away the red silk.
Without it, I feel exposed in a way I rarely allow. But she doesn't flinch from what she sees. Instead, her fingers trace the scar that cuts through my left eyebrow, the evidence of a knife fight from years ago.
"You're covered in violence," she murmurs.
"So are you."
Her lips curve into something that's almost a smile. "Maybe that's why this feels right."
Then she's kissing me again, and this time I don't hold back.
My hands find the zipper of her dress, slide it down slowly. The midnight blue silk pools at her feet, leaving her in black lace that makes my mouth go dry.
She's beautiful. Scars and curves and fierce determination wrapped in pale skin.
The scar across her chest is raised, angry even after six years. I trace it with my fingertips, following the path the bullet took.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"Not anymore. Not physically." She watches my face. "Does it bother you?"
"No." I lean down, press my lips to the center of the scar. "It's proof you survived. Proof you're strong enough to take everything back from the man who tried to erase you." I return my mouth to hers, hungry and desperate to drink her in.
"Bedroom," she breathes.
I lift her again, I'm starting to like the weight of her in my arms, and carry her through the suite to the massive bed that dominates the bedroom.
When I lay her down on the dark bed, she looks like some kind of vengeful angel. Red hair spread across the pillows, pale skin against black sheets, eyes burning with want and something deeper.
I taste the salt of her skin as my lips linger on that scar, a jagged reminder of everything she's endured. Her shiver runs through me like electricity, and I pull her closer. My hands slide down her sides, mapping the warmth of her body beneath that black lace.
She's alive under my touch, fierce and unyielding, and it awakens something primal in me that I've kept locked away for too long. I lift my head to meet her eyes, those depths pulling me in, and she nods once, a silent permission that unleashes the restraint I've been holding onto.
My fingers hook into the straps of her bra, easing them down her shoulders with deliberate slowness, savoring the way her breath hitches. The lace falls away, revealing her to me fully, and I can't help the low growl that escapes my throat.
She's exquisite, her breasts soft and inviting, nipples hardening under the cool air of the suite or maybe just from the heat building between us.
I cup one in my palm, thumb circling the peak, and she arches into my hand, her head falling back against the wall with a soft gasp that sends blood rushing south.
I lean in, my mouth replacing my fingers, tongue swirling around her nipple before I suck gently, then harder, drawing out a moan from her that vibrates through my chest. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, urging me on.
I oblige, switching to the other side while my free hand trails lower, over the curve of her stomach, and dipping beneath the edge of her panties.
She's wet already, slick and ready, and the discovery makes my cock strain against my pants, aching for release.
"Konstantin," she whispers, her voice laced with need, and it's all the encouragement I require. I slide my fingers through her folds, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with firm pressure, watching her face relax in pleasure.
She bucks against my hand, her hips grinding in rhythm with my movements, and I add a finger inside her, then another, curling them to hit that spot that makes her cry out. The sounds she makes are intoxicating, raw and unrestrained, fueling the fire that's consuming me.
I kiss my way up her neck, nipping at her pulse point, tasting the rapid beat of her heart as I pump my fingers faster, my thumb never leaving her clit. She's trembling now, close to the edge, and I want to push her over it, to feel her come undone around me.
"Let go, milaya," I murmur against her ear, my voice rough with desire. "I've got you."
She shatters then, her body clenching around my fingers, a wave of wetness coating my hand as she moans my name like a prayer.
I hold her through it, my arm around her waist keeping her upright as the aftershocks ripple through her.
When her eyes flutter open, hazy and satisfied, I withdraw my hand and bring my fingers to my lips, tasting her essence, sweet and musky, while she watches with parted lips.
I shrug out of my jacket, my shirt following quickly, buttons popping in my haste.
Her hands explore my chest, tracing the scars that mirror her own in their violence, and it feels right, like we're two broken pieces fitting together in this moment.
I undo my belt, freeing myself, and she reaches down, wrapping her fingers around my length, stroking with a confidence that nearly buckles my knees.
Her legs wrap around my waist as I lean over her.
She guides me to her entrance, and I thrust in slowly at first, inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat enveloping me.
She's perfect, gripping me like she was made for this, for me.
I start moving, deep and steady, building a rhythm that has us both panting.
I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent, a mix of perfume and arousal that's driving me wild. She's meeting every thrust, her moans growing louder, and I feel her tightening around me again, pulling me closer to my own release.
Her nails dig into my back, urging me faster, harder, and I give her what she wants, pounding into her with abandon, the slap of our bodies echoing in the room. Sweat slicks our skin.
"Come with me," I rasp, my hand slipping between us to rub her clit once more.
She cries out, her second orgasm crashing over her, and it's enough to send me tumbling after, spilling inside her with a guttural groan.
Waves of pleasure rip through me until I'm spent, holding her close as we both come down from the high.
We stay like that for a while, breaths mingling, bodies entwined, the world outside forgotten in this stolen moment of connection. I finally pull out of her, and roll to the side. We’re both silent.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're worth staring at." Her gaze traces the tattoos that cover my chest and arms. The marks of my rank, my kills, my loyalty to the Reznikov’s. "Do they mean something?"
"They used to." I stroke my fingertips over her skin. "Now they just feel like another mask."
"Then take it off." Her hands slide up my chest. "Take everything off and just be here with me."
So I do.
I worship every inch of her skin, learning the sounds she makes when I find sensitive spots. Behind her ear. The curve of her breast. The inside of her thigh.
She's responsive, gasping and arching into my touch. Her hands explore me just as thoroughly, fingertips digging into my shoulders when I make her moan.
"Konstantin." My name is a plea.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. All of you. Now."
I pull her onto me, over me and settle between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance.
I push inside her in one slow thrust, and we both groan at the sensation.
"Fuck," I breathe as I take her in. “You’re beautiful.”
We start to move, finding a rhythm that makes her head tip back.
This isn't gentle. Isn't sweet.
This is need and violence and two broken people trying to feel whole for just a few hours.
I hold her hips, and watch as her fingers find her clit. She cries out, her inner walls clenching around me.
"There," she gasps. "Right there, don't stop—"
I don't.
I drive into her from below, chasing both our releases with single-minded focus.
She comes first, her whole body going taut before she shatters around me. The sensation of her pulsing around my cock pushes me over the edge, and I follow her into oblivion with her name on my lips.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
Then she starts laughing.
"What?" I ask, as she slides from me and then sits over me, my half-hard cock nestled against her center.
"I came here to kill a man." She's grinning, wild and free. "And instead I'm in bed with the Reznikovs' enforcer."
"Technically, you came here to poison a man. You ended up in bed with me because I stopped you."
"Best mistake I ever made."
The words do something strange to my chest.
I pull her down so she's draped across my chest. Her fingers trace idle patterns over my tattoos.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now we sleep." I press a kiss to her hair. "And tomorrow, we start destroying Artur Troskoy."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "You really meant it. About helping me."
"I meant it."
"Why?"
It's the same question she asked earlier. But now, with her naked in my arms and my body still humming from the best sex I've had in years, the answer feels different.
"Because you deserve justice," I say. "And because I'm tired of being the Reznikovs' weapon. Maybe it's time I chose my own targets."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything worth doing is dangerous."
She lifts her head, studies my face. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A monster." She says it simply, honestly. "The things I've heard about Konstantin Grinevsky... I expected someone cold. Cruel. Empty."
"And instead?"
"You're still cruel." Her lips curve. "But you're not empty. And you're definitely not cold."
I pull her up for a kiss, slow and deep.
"Sleep, milaya," I murmur against her mouth. "We have work to do tomorrow."
She settles against my chest, and within minutes, her breathing evens out into sleep.
I lie awake longer, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck I've just gotten myself into.
Because helping Emilia Markova destroy Artur Troskoy doesn't just mean betraying the Bratva's politics.
It means betraying everything I've built my life around for the last decade.
But as I look down at the woman sleeping in my arms, this fierce, broken, beautiful survivor, I realize I don't care.
I'm choosing something for myself.
And if it burns my entire world down?
At least I'll burn for something that matters.