Emilia
I wake to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar warmth of another body beside mine.
For three seconds, panic claws through my chest. Then memory floods back. The masquerade. The poison. The Hunt. Konstantin.
I turn my head carefully, not wanting to wake him.
He's sprawled on his stomach, one arm thrown across my waist, his face turned toward me. Without the mask, without the careful control he wears like armor, he looks younger. More human.
The tattoos covering his back are intricate, beautiful in a violent sort of way. Orthodox crosses. Cyrillic script. Stars and skulls and symbols I recognize from my father's world.
Each one tells a story. Each one marks a choice, a kill, a moment when Konstantin Grinevsky became more weapon than man. My fingers itch to trace them, to learn what each mark means. Instead, I carefully extract myself from his hold and slip out of bed.
My dress is a crumpled pile of midnight blue silk on the living room floor. My shoes are somewhere in the ballroom. My mask is gone. I'm standing naked in a stranger's suite with no clothes and no clear plan for what comes next.
I find one of Konstantin's shirts draped over a chair, black, expensive, and smelling like him, and pull it on. It falls to mid-thigh, turning me into a cliché from some romance novel. I should hate it, but I kind of love it.
Tension tightens my chest as I breathe in his scent. I was so certain that killing Troskoy was the answer. Six years of planning, preparing, building toward that single moment when I'd slip poison into his glass and watch my family's murderer die.
And Konstantin stopped me. No. Konstantin showed me there was a better way.
I move to the window, looking out over the hotel grounds. In daylight, it's less intimidating. Just gardens and forest and expensive architecture.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass. Messy hair. Kiss-bruised lips. Konstantin's shirt swallowing my frame.
I look thoroughly debauched.
I look alive.
"You're up early."
I turn to find Konstantin leaning against the bedroom doorframe, wearing nothing but low-slung pants. The morning light catches every plane and angle of his body, turning him into something carved from marble and violence.
"Couldn't sleep," I say.
"Regrets?" He moves toward me, all predatory grace.
"About last night?" I consider the question seriously. "No. You?"
"No." He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "But we should talk about what happens next."
"You meant what you said. About helping me destroy Troskoy."
"Every word." His hand comes up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "But you need to understand what that means."
"It means betraying the Reznikov’s."
"It means potentially burning my entire life down." He says it calmly, like he's discussing the weather. "The Reznikovs don't forgive disloyalty. If they find out I helped you, they'll kill me. Slowly."
The casualness of it makes my stomach clench. "Then why—"
"Because I'm already dead." The words are quiet, certain. "I've been dead for years, Emilia. Just a weapon they point at problems. I follow orders. I kill. I do whatever they need, and I don't ask questions."
His jaw tightens.
"I used to tell myself it was loyalty. Duty. But the truth is, I stopped caring about anything a long time ago. I stopped feeling."
"Until last night."
"Until you." He frames my face with both hands. "You make me feel things I thought were gone. Anger. Want. Purpose. And I'd rather die helping you get justice than spend another decade as an obedient monster."
The raw honesty of it steals my breath.
"I don't want you to die," I whisper.
"Then we'll have to be smart." His smile is sharp, dangerous. "Lucky for us, you're a genius with computers and I know where all the Reznikovs' bodies are buried."
"Literally or figuratively?"
"Both."
Despite everything, I laugh.
Konstantin's expression softens. "There it is."
"What?"
"The woman under the revenge." He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. "The one who laughs. Who feels. Who survived and kept her humanity."
"I'm not sure I'm as human as you think."
"You're more human than I'll ever be." He says it like a fact. "And that's why this is going to work."
I want to believe him. Want to believe that we can actually pull this off. Destroy Troskoy, survive the fallout, maybe build something together out of the ashes.
But six years of survival have taught me to be practical.
"We need a plan," I say.
"Agreed." Konstantin steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth. "First: coffee. Then we strategize."
He moves to the kitchen area, and I follow, perching on one of the bar stools while he makes coffee with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Tell me about Troskoy's assets," he says while the machine hisses and steams. "You said you mapped his empire."
"Seven offshore accounts. Four shell corporations. Three large estate properties purchased under assumed names." I tick them off on my fingers. "Plus his legitimate business—import/export, mostly—and his connections within the Bratva."
"The accounts and corporations we can drain. The properties we can destroy." Konstantin sets a cup of coffee in front of me; black, no sugar, somehow exactly how I take it. "But the connections are trickier."
"Why?"
"Because Troskoy is useful to a lot of people. The Reznikovs included." He leans against the counter, his own cup cradled in his hands. "If we destroy him too obviously, they'll step in to protect their investment."
"So we have to make it look natural."
"We have to make it look like his own mistakes catching up to him." Konstantin's smile is cold. "Fortunately, Troskoy has made a lot of mistakes over the years. We just need to make sure the right people find out about them."
Understanding clicks into place. "You want to turn the Bratva against him."
"I want to make him radioactive. Toxic. So that by the time he's bankrupt and broken, no one will lift a finger to help him." Konstantin takes a sip of his coffee. "And then we let him live with what he's lost."
It's vicious. Thorough. Everything I should have thought of myself.
"How long will it take?"
"Depends on how careful we need to be." He sets down his cup. "If we move too fast, people will get suspicious. If we move too slow, Troskoy might figure out what's happening and try to protect himself."
"So we need to find the sweet spot. Fast enough to hurt him, slow enough to avoid detection."
"Exactly." Konstantin moves around the counter, stops in front of my stool. "Which means you're going to need to stay close to me for a while."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Close how?"
"Close enough that if anyone asks, I can say you're under my protection." His hand finds my knee, warm through the fabric of his shirt. "Close enough that if Troskoy comes looking for answers about last night, I can make sure he doesn't find you."
"You want me to stay here. With you."
"I want you alive and safe while we dismantle his empire piece by piece." His eyes search mine. "Unless you'd rather do this alone."
I should. I've been alone for six years. I know how to disappear, how to protect myself.
But the thought of walking away from Konstantin, from this partnership, from the way he makes me feel alive again...
"I'll stay," I say quietly.
Relief flashes across his face, quickly hidden.
"Good. Then let's get to work. But first…"
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and hungry, and he leans in without a word, his breath warm against my skin. I grip the arms of the chair as his hands part my thighs wider, and then his mouth is on me, soft at first, teasing with the flat of his tongue.
A gasp escapes my lips, and I arch back against the chair, the laptop forgotten behind me. He licks slowly, deliberately, tracing circles around my clit that make my hips buck involuntarily.
It's intense, the way he devours me like he's starving, his fingers digging into my thighs to hold me in place. I thread my fingers through his hair pulling him closer, and lift my knee, resting my heel on the edge of the chair. He groans against me, the vibration sending sparks through my core.
He doesn't rush, building the pleasure layer by layer, his tongue flicking and lips sucking in ways that make my vision blur.
I glance down, watching him between my legs, his broad shoulders flexing as he works me over, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
My body tenses, the pressure coiling tight in my belly, and I moan his name, urging him on.
He slides a finger inside me, then another, curling them just right while his mouth focuses on my clit, sucking harder now.
The combination pushes me closer to the edge, my breaths coming in short, desperate pants.
I rock against his face, chasing the release, and he meets every movement, his free hand sliding up to pinch my nipple beneath his shirt.
The orgasm hits me like a wave, crashing over me in shuddering pulses that leave me trembling in the chair.
He doesn't stop, licking me through it, drawing out every last quiver until I'm boneless and gasping.
Only then does he pull back, his lips glistening as he looks up at me with a satisfied smirk.
I reach down, cupping his jaw, still catching my breath.
"That was..." I whisper, though my body hums with aftershocks. He stands, bending over me, and kissing me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
"Now we're ready," he murmurs against my lips, and I can't help but laugh softly as we turn back to the laptop together.