Chapter 7
Sasha
Tony insists on coming with me to my apartment, which seems excessive.
“I can pack a bag by myself,” I tell him as we climb into the armored SUV with two of Boris’ men.
“Humor me.” He settles into the seat beside me. His thigh presses against mine in the confined space, and the contact sends a wave of heat up my leg. The man takes up more room than should be legal. “After the car bomb, Dmitri doesn’t want you going anywhere without backup.”
“You’re not backup. You’re a security consultant with questionable credentials.”
“Right now, I’m whatever keeps you breathing long enough to insult me.”
The drive takes fifteen minutes. My apartment is in a decent neighborhood near the university, close enough to my old consulting clients, far enough from the Kozlov compound to pretend I have my own life.
I’ve rented it since I returned from London for Alexei’s wedding three weeks ago.
The plan was to stay for the ceremony and then fly back to Christie’s.
That plan died somewhere between the gallery attack and the car bombing.
Boris’ two men clear the building first, checking stairwells and exits before giving us the all-clear.
Tony keeps his hand near his weapon as we climb to the third floor.
I watch him from behind, noting the way he checks every corner before we pass it.
Dmitri does the same thing. So does Alexei.
It’s the mark of men who expect violence.
“You’re making me paranoid,” I complain as I unlock my door.
“Good. Paranoid people stay alive.”
The apartment looks how I left it. A half-unpacked suitcase on the bed, work materials scattered across the desk, and tea bags beside the kettle. I never bothered making it feel like home because I didn’t plan to stay.
Tony sweeps the rooms anyway, checking windows and closets like he expects someone to jump out. When he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he positions himself by the window with a clear view of the street.
“I’ll be quick,” I promise as I pull a duffel from the closet.
“Take your time. We’re not on a schedule.”
I start grabbing essentials—clothes, toiletries, my laptop, and the authentication references I can’t work without. The space feels impersonal even after three weeks. Just another temporary stop in a life that never stays still.
“You never unpacked,” Tony observes from his post.
I toss underwear into the bag and reply, “I was supposed to go back to London. Staying wasn’t part of the plan.”
I move to the dresser for more clothes, and a stack of papers slides off the top. Documents from my Christie’s work, notes on pieces I was authenticating before everything went to hell. They scatter across the floor in a mess of my handwriting and photographs.
“Shit.” I kneel to gather them, trying to organize months of work that’s now hopelessly jumbled.
Tony abandons his post at the window and crouches beside me. “Let me help.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
He reaches for the same paper I’m grabbing, and our hands collide.
The touch is brief. Accidental. And it hits like a match.
Three days of living together in that safehouse, watching him walk around shirtless in the mornings, and sitting too close on the couch has all been building to this.
We freeze.
I look up at him. He’s close enough that I can see the darker ring around his blue irises, and the way his pupils enlarge as he looks at me.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is a terrible idea. He’s hiding things. I’m supposed to be figuring out if he’s a threat. Dmitri would lose his mind if he knew I was considering…
Tony’s hand comes up to graze my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. Then his mouth is on mine, and thinking becomes impossible.
The kiss is hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally snapped. I kiss him back with equal hunger, fisting my hands in his shirt to pull him closer.
He stands, bringing me with him, and backs me toward the wall. My shoulders hit plaster, and he presses against me, one hand still cradling my face while the other finds my hip. His bulky length pins me in place. I can feel how much he wants this.
“Is this what you want?” His mouth brushes mine. “I want to hear it.”
“I want you.”
His hand slides under my shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin, and I gasp. He takes advantage, stroking his tongue into my mouth as I arch into him.
I yank at his shirt, and he breaks away long enough to pull it over his head. Scars crisscross his torso—some old and faded, others newer. Each one a story I shouldn’t want to know. Then his mouth is back on my neck, trailing down to my collarbone, and my head tips back against the wall.
“Bedroom,” I manage.
“Where?”
“Down the hall.”
He lifts me like it’s nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. We’re kissing the whole way, desperate and clumsy, bumping into furniture without caring.
We make it to the bed and he lays me down carefully, eyes locked on mine the entire time. He works the buttons on my blouse as I fumble with his belt.
“Say yes, and I don’t stop.” His thumb presses my hip.
“Yes. Now hurry.”
He grins and kisses me again, slower this time. His hands slide my blouse off, then my bra, and when his mouth closes around my breast, I lean into him and utter a sound I don’t recognize.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he mumbles against my skin.
His mouth moves lower, kissing down my stomach as his hands work my pants open. I lift my hips to help him, and suddenly, I’m in just my underwear, while he’s still half-dressed.
“Not fair,” I complain.
“I’ll catch up.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear. “Lift.”
I do, and then I’m naked as Tony kneels between my thighs.
“Stop staring,” I say, cheeks burning.
“Can’t help it.” His hands slide up my thighs, nudging them wider. “I’ve been imagining this since the wedding.”
“Then stop imagining and—oh.”
His mouth on me tears away the rest of the sentence. His tongue finds my clit with perfect pressure, and his fingers tighten on my thighs, holding me open for him.
I thread my fingers through his hair, not sure if I’m trying to pull him closer or push him away. He answers by sucking harder, and I cry out.
“Tony—”
“Let me hear you,” he says against me, then goes back to work.
His tongue circles and flicks, changing rhythm just when I start to adjust. When he slides two fingers inside me and curls them just right, pleasure slams through me so fast that I can barely breathe. My vision blurs at the edges. Every muscle in my body winds tighter.
“I’m going to—”
Gunfire cracks outside—so close the sound punches the air out of my lungs.
The living room window explodes inward with a crash of shattering glass. More shots follow, rapid and close, tearing through the walls.
Tony moves instantly. He’s off the bed and grabbing me in one motion, pulling me naked off the mattress and toward the door. We hit the hallway as more bullets punch through the bedroom window.
“Stay low,” he orders, pushing me ahead of him toward the living room.
I’m too shocked to argue, and too exposed to do anything but follow his lead as he shoves me behind the couch.
My bare knees scrape against the carpet as I duck, and Tony covers my body with his, one arm braced on the floor while the other reaches for his weapon.
My body hasn’t caught up to what’s happening.
I’m still wet, still throbbing, and on the edge of an orgasm that’s been replaced by sheer terror.
Glass continues to shower down from the living room windows. Bullets chew through furniture and walls. The couch we’re hiding behind shudders as rounds hit the other side.
“How many?” I ask.
“At least two shooters. Maybe more.” Tony returns fire through the broken window, his body still covering mine. “Stay down.”
“I’m naked.”
“I noticed. We’ll deal with that if we survive.”
Another volley of gunfire answers him. Tony fires back twice, then ducks as return shots pepper the wall above us. Plaster and wood splinters rain down on our heads. I curse myself for not having a weapon. I’m a Kozlov, damn it. I know better. Alexei will never let me hear the end of this.
The shooting suddenly stops.
Eerie quiet fills the apartment, broken only by our ragged breathing and the sound of sirens in the distance. Tony doesn’t move. His body is still shielding mine, and his gun is trained on the broken windows.
“Are they gone?” I whisper.
“Don’t know. Stay down.”
When his phone rings, he adjusts himself to pull it from his pocket, keeping his gun up and his body between me and the windows.
“We’re here,” he answers without preamble. “Yeah, she’s with me.” He listens for a moment. “Understood.”
He ends the call and finally looks down at me. “Dmitri’s men are in the building. They’re clearing the street. I’ll get your clothes from the bedroom once Boris gives the all-clear.”
“This is humiliating.” My voice shakes with fury, not fear. “I should’ve brought a gun.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “For the record, I prefer seeing you naked under different circumstances.” He goes serious again as he sweeps the windows again. “Someone knew we were here. Someone’s been watching you.”
The implication settles over me like ice water. “You think they followed us?”
“Or they’ve been watching your apartment, waiting for you to come back. Hard to tell.”
His phone rings again. This time, the conversation is brief, just a few words in Russian from Boris confirming the street is clear, and the shooters are gone.
Tony stands and extends a hand to help me up. I take it, acutely aware that I’m still naked while he’s in jeans with his shirt somewhere in the bedroom.
“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll grab your clothes.”
He disappears down the hall and returns a moment later with my pants, shirt, and bra. My underwear must have been lost somewhere in the chaos because he doesn’t have them.
I dress quickly, my hands shaking now that the adrenaline is starting to fade. Tony pulls his shirt back on and tucks his weapon into his waistband.
He takes my hand, and we head for the door. Boris’ men are waiting in the hallway with their weapons drawn. We take the stairs at a run. More of Dmitri’s men are positioned at each landing, securing our exit. The SUV is waiting at the curb, engine running, and back doors open.
Tony pushes me inside, then follows, and the vehicle is moving before the doors close.
The SUV speeds through Moscow traffic, taking turns at random to ensure we’re not being followed. I watch the city blur past and try not to think about how close we came to dying.
Or how much I wish we’d had five more minutes before the shooting started. The ache between my legs hasn’t faded. Neither has the memory of Tony’s mouth. I press my thighs together and stare out the window, trying to focus on who wants me dead instead of how badly I want to finish what we started.