CHAPTER 30
SLOANE
The Tsarina's private elevator slides silently upward.
I watch the numbers lighting up in sequence, each one bringing me closer to a destination I can't predict.
Dimitri's reflection in the metal doors remains impassive, inscrutable, while my own shows a woman I barely recognize: pale, eyes too bright with fear and adrenaline.
When the doors slide open, my heart lurches.
We aren't in the lobby that leads to the underground interrogation rooms, nor the penthouse where Harper lives.
We're in his apartment. The same place we spent that night, where I woke up wrapped in his warmth, before everything got hopelessly complicated.
The confusion must be written all over my face, because Dimitri lets out a low sound, something between a bitter laugh and a sigh.
"Were you expecting the cells?" he asks, his husky voice breaking the silence that's accompanied us since the library. "Maybe a formal interrogation?"
I don't answer, because the truth is, I did. I expected immediate and severe consequences, not this extended torture of not knowing what he's planning.
Dimitri moves ahead, walking into the apartment with the confidence of a man who knows exactly where he is and what he's going to do.
He heads straight for the wet bar in the corner of the spacious living room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Las Vegas.
The city twinkles below us, oblivious to the drama unfolding up here in this luxury fortress.
"Want a drink?" he offers, as if we were two acquaintances on a normal date and not... whatever we are.
I shake my head, unable to trust my voice. My mouth feels dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Fear has a metallic taste, I discover—like old coins or blood.
Dimitri pours himself a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the city light as it falls into the cut crystal glass. The sound of ice against glass resonates in the tense silence. He takes his time, deliberately, letting me absorb the situation, ratcheting up my anxiety with every passing second.
Finally, he turns toward me, leaning against the bar with a deceptively relaxed posture. His eyes, however, reveal the truth: they're sharp, calculating, assessing every micro-movement of my face.
"You're very quiet, Agent Murphy," he says, with a trace of irony on the word 'Agent'.
"I'm not an agent," I correct automatically, and curse myself for falling into his trap.
A crooked smile curves the corner of his mouth.
"No. You aren't." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "You're a civilian working with the FBI. A criminal law student who decided to play spy."
The words, though spoken without apparent malice, hit me like a slap in the face. Because he's right. That's exactly what I've been: an amateur caught in a game of deadly professionals.
"How long have you known?" I ask, needing to at least understand the magnitude of my failure.
"Since yesterday," he replies with surprising honesty. "Viktor is very efficient at his job."
Viktor. Of course. The brains behind the Morozov operation. I should have guessed he'd investigate me thoroughly the moment I started getting close to Dimitri.
"And last night?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "When you came into my room..."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"You felt me? I thought you were asleep."
Heat rises up my neck to my cheeks. So it was real, not a dream. Dimitri in my room, watching me sleep, his fingers caressing my hair.
"I was... almost," I murmur. "Why didn't you say anything then? Why wait?"
Dimitri takes another sip of his whiskey with studied calm.
"I wanted to see what you'd do." His eyes don't leave mine. "And today you confirmed exactly what I suspected."
"That I was trying to get out?" I ask, confused.
"That you're torn." He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. "Between your duty and something else."
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm afraid he can hear it. He's right, of course. I've been torn from the moment his lips touched mine for the first time.
"It's more complicated than that," I reply, my voice barely a whisper.
"Is it?" He takes another step. "Seems pretty simple to me, actually. You came here for one reason, and you stayed for a completely different one."
The air between us seems charged with electricity, thick and vibrating. It smells like his cologne, expensive whiskey, and danger.
"What are you going to do with me?" I finally ask, the question that's been gnawing at my insides since the moment he appeared in the library.
Dimitri tilts his head, studying me as if I were a fascinating riddle he needs to solve.
"That," he says slowly, "is the real question, isn't it?"
DIMITRI
I watch her tremble slightly while she waits for my answer. Her eyes—that impossible green that’s obsessed me from the start—are dilated with fear and something else. Something I recognize because I feel it burning in my own veins every time I look at her.
Desire. Need. A hunger that has nothing to do with food.
I finish my whiskey in one gulp, letting the burn remind me to keep control. Because what I'm about to do would define insanity by any standard in my world.
"You know what I should do?" I ask, setting the empty glass on the table with a sharp thud that makes her jump. "According to the rules of the Bratva, of my brother... I should kill you."
Her breathing quickens visibly, but she doesn't back away. My brave spy.
"Are you going to do it?" she asks, her voice surprisingly steady despite the evident fear in her eyes.
"No."
The word hangs between us, simple but loaded with implications. I see the confusion on her face, the relief mixed with uncertainty.
"Why not?" she asks, genuinely bewildered.
I move toward her slowly, like a predator approaching a particularly fascinating prey. But it’s not fear I want to provoke—not this time.
"Because I don't give a shit who you work for," I reply with brutal honesty. "I don't care if it's the FBI, the CIA, or the fucking Department of Agriculture. I couldn't care less about the reason that brought you to me."
I stop mere inches from her. Close enough to feel the heat emanating from her body, to smell the light scent of vanilla on her skin mixed with the sharper tang of fear.
"The only thing I care about," I continue, my voice dropping until it's almost a growl, "is that you're mine. Mine, Sloane. And I don't give up what's mine."
Her pupils dilate even more, practically devouring the green of her irises. It's not fear I see now. It's something more potent, more primitive.
"I tried to resist," I confess, allowing myself a vulnerability I’ve never shown anyone. "I swear I tried. I knew you were dangerous from the moment you walked into the casino. Not because of your connections to the FBI, but because of what you made me feel."
I raise a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopping just shy of her skin.
"I love you, Sloane Murphy. I love you with an intensity that scares me. And believe me, nothing scares me."
SLOANE
His words hit me like a shockwave, leaving me momentarily breathless. The world seems to stop, shrinking down to just this man and his impossible confession.
I love you.
Two words I never expected to hear from Dimitri Morozov's lips. Two words that transform the entire paradigm of our relationship. Suddenly, everything takes on a new meaning: his protective fury during the kidnapping, his indulgence of my invasive questions, of my intrusion into forbidden places.
"Dimitri, I love you too." The confession escapes my lips like a prayer.
"I'm not finished." He interrupts me, his hand finally making contact with my cheek. The heat of his skin against mine sends electric shocks through my whole body. "I need you to understand what this means. What loving me would mean."
His fingers slide along my jaw, firm but surprisingly gentle.
"I'm a killer, Sloane," he says, his voice devoid of remorse or justification. "I've taken lives. I've ordered lives to be taken. And I'll keep doing it. Not just because I enjoy it, but because it's necessary in my world."
I swallow hard, feeling the lump forming in my throat. I should be horrified. I should run away. And yet...
"I've seen you," I reply, my voice barely audible. "Not just what you do, but who you really are. I've seen how you protect your own. I've seen your honor, your loyalty."
His eyes darken, and for a moment I see vulnerability in them, something I doubt many have witnessed.
"And that's enough?" he asks. "A code of honor and loyalty to my people makes up for the rest?"
The question floats between us, charged with a weight that could crush us. And that's when I understand that he really needs to know. He needs my answer as much as I needed his confession.
"Yes. I love you," I say simply. "I love you, Dimitri Morozov. With everything you are, with everything that implies."
Something seems to break in his expression, as if a final barrier has fallen. His other hand rises to cup my face, and suddenly I'm completely wrapped in his warmth, in his scent, in him.
"That makes me happy," he murmurs against my hair, his Russian accent more pronounced with emotion. "This way I won't have to kidnap you."
An incredulous laugh escapes my throat.
"Would you have gone to that extreme?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Without hesitation," he confirms with not a shred of doubt. "What I feel for you... it has no logic, it makes no sense. I just know I can't let you go."
His thumbs caress my cheeks, and I realize I'm crying. Silent tears I hadn't noticed until he caught them.
"Studying what I do," I say, trying to order my thoughts, "I'd be very naive if I didn't know there are people who escape justice. People who need... a different kind of intervention."
His eyes shine with something like pride.
"So smart," he murmurs. "You always have been. It's one of the reasons I couldn't get you out of my head."
"I accept the whole package, Dimitri," I declare, finding my voice, my determination. "I accept you, your world, your family. Everything. But I need you to understand one thing."
His hands tense slightly on my face.
"What's that?"
"I won't be a decorative doll," I warn him, my fighting spirit resurfacing. "Don't expect me to become someone who stays quiet and obeys without question."
To my surprise, a genuine smile lights up his face, transforming it completely.
" Lyubimaya ," he says, using a Russian word I don't know but that sounds like a caress, "if I wanted someone like that, I wouldn't have chosen you."
And then he kisses me. It's not a gentle or controlled kiss. It's hungry, possessive, almost desperate. His lips claiming mine as if he wants to erase any doubt, any fear. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the heart beating just as hard as mine beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.
When finally we break apart, gasping for air, he rests his forehead against mine.
"What are we going to do now?" I ask, reality trying to impose itself on this moment of emotional clarity.
"Now," he replies, his hands sliding down my arms to interlace our fingers, "we're going to establish some ground rules so you can exist in my world without putting yourself in danger unnecessarily."
"And after that?"
A wolfish smile curves his lips, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
"After that, lyubimaya , I'm going to take you to my bed and spend the entire day reminding you why you made the right decision."
My body responds instantly to his words, liquid heat expanding through my veins. But there's something else in his eyes, something beyond physical desire.
"And tomorrow?" I insist, needing to know this is real, that it has a future beyond tonight.
His expression softens, and I see a promise in it worth more than any word.
"Tomorrow," he says with absolute certainty, "we start our life together. And God help anyone who tries to keep us apart."
DIMITRI
I watch her as she processes my words. I see the exact moment understanding settles in her, when she realizes this isn't a fleeting fling or a whim. It's a statement of intent. An oath.
Her eyes light up with a determination I recognize, one I admire. There's no submission in them, only acceptance. A decision made with full awareness of what it implies.
"I'm warning you," she says, and there's a trace of humor in her voice that surprises me, "that I'm not easy to handle."
A laugh escapes my throat, rough with contained emotion.
"You think I don't know that? You've given me more trouble in a few weeks than all my enemies have in years."
I pull her body to mine, my hands sliding down to her waist, feeling the warmth radiating through the fabric of her clothes.
"You will be my undoing, Sloane Murphy," I murmur against her lips. "And I can't wait to burn with you."
I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the moment. Her lips part beneath mine, inviting me to deepen the kiss. She tastes like coffee and promises, danger and redemption.
My hands descend down her back, memorizing every curve, every dip. The familiarity of her body against mine surprises me; it's as if I've known it forever, as if it were designed specifically to fit with mine.
"I have to ask," she says when we pull apart, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. "What are you going to do about Cooper?"
The mention of the FBI agent should ruin the moment, but strangely, it doesn't. Maybe because he no longer poses a threat. Or maybe because her question confirms she's thinking long-term, about the consequences, about our future.
"Viktor is handling it," I reply honestly. "He'll be monitored, but he won't be harmed unless he tries something against you."
Surprise crosses her face, followed by something more complex. Relief? Gratitude? Understanding?
"Thank you," she says simply.
"I'm not doing it for him," I clarify. "I'm doing it for you. I know you don't want innocent blood on your conscience."
Her hand rises to caress my cheek, a gesture so tender it almost hurts.
"You know me better than I thought," she murmurs.
"And I'm just getting started," I reply, leaning in to capture her lips once more.
This kiss is different. Less urgent but deeper. It's a seal on an unwritten pact, a promise to know each other completely, with all our shadows and lights.
When we break apart, I take her hand and guide her toward the bedroom. There's no rush now. We have all the time in the world.
Because Sloane Murphy is no longer my enemy, nor my prey, nor even my weakness.
She is my partner. My equal. My everything.
And let the whole world tremble if they try to separate us.