CHAPTER 25
DIMITRI
Four days.
It's been four days of stolen glances, of heavy silences, of running into each other in hallways and veering away like magnets with shifting polarity.
Four days since I had her against the wall of that cell, since I felt her surrender beneath my hands, since I buried myself inside her like a man finding water in the desert.
Four days of exquisite torture.
Not even after interrogating her in my office has this attraction living inside me faded.
From my vantage point in the security room, I watch her move through the Tsarina's main lobby. She moves with that feline grace that captivated me from the very first instant.
She turns toward the spa area, a small purse hanging from her shoulder. It probably holds her swimsuit, a towel, maybe some hair product—the one that makes her smell good enough to eat.
I know she's hiding something, but I also know I don't give a shit.
A decision forms in my mind, as sudden as it is inevitable.
The games are over.
I dial a number on my phone without taking my eyes off the screen showing her walking away.
"Viktor," I say as soon as my cousin picks up. "Have you found anything?"
"Good morning to you too, Dimitri," he replies with that sardonic tone he reserves for family. "And yes, I'm working on it. But it's... peculiar."
"Peculiar how?"
"Her record is too perfect," he explains. "Columbia University, outstanding grades, impeccable work history. Not even a traffic ticket. It's as if someone built a model file."
A cold sensation settles in my stomach.
"Are you saying it's fake?"
"Not exactly," Viktor clarifies. "The records look genuine, but there are details that don't fit. Small temporal inconsistencies. And then there's her transfer to UNLV. It was processed with... unusual speed."
"When will you have something concrete?" I press him, watching Sloane disappear through the spa entrance.
"Give me a couple more days. I'm following a few interesting leads."
"Keep me posted," I conclude, ending the call.
I stand up. I can't wait for Viktor to complete his investigation. I need answers now. And I know a foolproof way to get them.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm heading to the Tsarina spa, the most exclusive and luxurious area of the complex. My black swim trunks contrast with the white Egyptian cotton robe we provide at the hotel. Every step I take is filled with purpose.
The receptionist, an impeccably groomed young man, tenses visibly when he sees me.
"Mr. Morozov." He greets me with a slight bow. "We didn't know you'd be coming today. Do you wish for a specific treatment?"
"No. I just want access to the thermal pool," I reply, my tone making it clear I don't require any further attention.
"Of course. It's practically empty at this hour," he informs me, clearly relieved. "There is only one guest using it right now."
A fleeting smile crosses my face.
"Perfect."
I stride through the facilities like I own the place, which is technically true. The scent of essential oils, mineralized water, and cedar wood permeates the air. A nearly imperceptible ambient melody creates an atmosphere of studied tranquility. Everything is designed to relax, to lower defenses.
Exactly what I need.
I find her alone, just as I expected. The thermal pool, a masterpiece of black marble and underwater lighting, is set into the floor like an underground lake. Steam rises in lazy spirals from the surface, creating an ethereal halo around the sole occupant.
Sloane is floating on her back, her red hair fanned out like a flame over the dark water. Her eyes are closed, her face relaxed for the first time since I've known her. Vulnerable. No masks.
I pause for a moment, allowing myself to watch her. She's wearing a black one-piece swimsuit, simple yet elegant, that accentuates the creamy pallor of her skin. Her long legs move occasionally to keep her afloat, creating small ripples in the water.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I want her for myself.
I shed the robe with a fluid motion and enter the water without making a sound. The temperature is perfect, right on the verge of being too hot. Like her.
The sound of my entry alerts Sloane. Her eyes snap open, green and alert, locating me immediately. The initial surprise on her face gives way to a wariness I recognize all too well.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, regaining her vertical position, her feet seeking the bottom of the pool.
"It's my hotel," I reply simply, advancing toward her with slow, deliberate movements. "And I felt like a swim."
SLOANE
My heart lurches when I see Dimitri gliding through the water like a marine predator. I hadn't heard him arrive, so lost was I in the sensation of weightlessness and warmth the thermal pool provided. This moment of peace, the first in weeks, shattered by his overwhelming presence.
His bare torso emerges from the water as he moves toward me, every muscle perfectly defined, the tattoos covering his arms and part of his chest glistening wet under the diffuse light. Water droplets slide down his skin as if even they were tempted to trace him.
"There are five other pools in this complex," I point out, backing away instinctively until my spine hits the marble edge. Trapped. "Did you really have to pick this one?"
A slow, almost predatory smile curves his lips.
"This is the best one," he replies, stopping barely three feet away. "And it's also where you are."
The steam surrounding us seems to intensify his scent: leather, wood, that metallic tang that always accompanies him. How can he smell like that even in the water? It's as if his essence is so potent that no element could dilute it.
"I was just about to leave," I lie, searching for an escape route that doesn't involve brushing against his body.
"I don't think so," he says, his Russian accent heavier than usual, husky, intimate. "You just got here. And we haven't had a chance to talk since... our last conversation."
The memory of our previous encounters sends a wave of heat through my body that has nothing to do with the water temperature. The cell. His office. The veiled threats that sounded more like promises of pleasure.
"We have nothing to talk about," I retort, squaring my shoulders, refusing to show weakness.
Dimitri takes another step toward me. The water ripples between us, creating small currents that caress my skin like ghostly fingers.
"I think we do," he murmurs, his gaze locked on mine. "For example, we could talk about why you're avoiding me."
"I'm not avoiding you," I lie again. "I just don't have anything to say to you."
His laugh is low, raspy, almost a growl.
"Always so defiant." He observes me, and there's something in his tone that sounds almost like... admiration? "It's one of the things that drives me crazy about you."
My heart hammers in my chest so hard I'm afraid he might hear it. We're alone in the pool, but it's a public space. Any guest could walk in at any moment. A level of risk that adds an extra layer of excitement to the tension already growing between us.
"What do you want, Dimitri?" I ask directly, tired of this cat-and-mouse game.
His gaze roams my face, lingering on my lips a second too long before returning to my eyes.
"You," he replies with a brutal honesty that leaves me breathless. "I want you, Sloane."
The sound of my name on his lips, with that foreign cadence that makes it sound like something precious, sends a shiver down my spine. There are so many layers to those three simple words, so many possible meanings, so many warnings.
"You don't know what you're saying," I respond, my voice weaker than I'd like. "You barely know me."
"I know you better than you think," he counters, taking another step closer.
Now he's so close I could touch him if I reached out.
So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, distinct from the water surrounding us.
"I know you're hiding something. I know you want me as much as I want you.
And I know that, whatever you do, whatever you say, there's something inevitable between us. "
His words resonate with a truth I can't deny, no matter how much I want to.
"It's just physical attraction," I try to rationalize, more to myself than to him. "Chemistry. Nothing more."
"Then let me take you to dinner," he proposes, changing tactics so abruptly it throws me off. "Tonight. Just the two of us. No games, no interrogations. Just dinner."
I look at him with suspicion.
"Why?"
"Because I'm hungry," he replies with that crooked smile that melts something inside me. "And because I want to spend time with you with your clothes on. For a change."
A blush rises up my neck to my cheeks, and I know he notices because his smile widens.
"It's not a good idea," I murmur, but without real conviction.
"Most things worth doing never are," he replies, and then, without warning, his hand slides under the water to rest on my waist.
The contact, even through the fabric of my swimsuit, sends an electric shock through my entire body. His fingers are firm, warm, possessive.
"You'll have dinner with me." It's not a question or an invitation. It's a statement. An inevitable fact. "At eight. I'll come get you at the penthouse."
I should protest. I should remind him that he can't give me orders, that I'm not one of his employees or assets. I should maintain the professional distance my mission requires.
Instead, I find myself nodding.
"At eight," I confirm, my voice barely a whisper.
His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me imperceptibly closer.
"Good," he murmurs. Then, with a boldness that knocks the wind out of me, he leans in and places a soft, almost chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth. "Until then."