3. Dmitri
Dmitri
The waiter at Beluga bows when he sees me.
Katya can’t know about that.
I decided this morning that taking her to dinner would serve two purposes: Keep up the act of a devoted husband and see how she behaves in public.
And, of course, I want to find out if being around normal people sparks any more of those inconvenient memories that keep popping up at the worst possible moments.
She’s in the black dress I chose for her.
Looking at her now, I’m not sure why I brought her here. The silk clings to every curve of that athletic body I can’t stop noticing.
Platinum hair spills over one shoulder, and her makeup is perfect, enough to make her ice-blue eyes pop and hide the explosion’s bruises, but not so much that she looks like she’s trying.
She looks every bit the part of my beautiful wife, recovering from a traumatic accident. What she doesn’t look like is the federal agent who spent a year trying to take me down.
“Mr. Kozlov,” the waiter stammers as we approach him. “Your usual table is ready.”
I place my hand on the small of Katya’s back and guide her through the restaurant. The dress leaves enough of her back exposed that we’re skin-to-skin, and I resist the urge to let my fingers trace the elegant line of her spine.
“This place is beautiful,” she comments as we’re seated at my regular corner table, the one that gives me clear sightlines to all exits and keeps my back to the wall.
“It’s your favorite,” I tell her as I take my seat and watch her take in the restaurant’s opulent décor. “You said the art nouveau styling reminded you of your favorite gallery in Paris.”
That part is true: We had been here together multiple times during her undercover operation, though she was Alexandra then, not Katya.
I brought her here for three “business dinners” where she played the charming art curator while trying to extract information, and she told me more than once that this was her favorite restaurant in the city.
She nods like she’s trying to summon the memory, and I wonder if a part of her subconscious recognizes the familiar surroundings even if her conscious mind can’t place them.
“I’ve been to Paris?” She squints at me now.
“Our honeymoon,” I lie with a wink. “Two weeks at the George V, though we barely left the room for the first week.”
I let my gaze travel down her body as I say it, and I’m rewarded by the faint blush that stains her cheeks. Her pupils dilate, and she presses her thighs together under the table in a movement so subtle that I almost miss it.
“Tell me about that,” she prompts, leaning forward to give me a good view of her ample cleavage. “About our honeymoon.”
I lower my voice and ask, “Are you sure you want me to tell you about our honeymoon in public, kotyonok? Some memories are better shared in private.”
The blush brightens, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her dress. I wonder how far down it goes, if her entire body flushes when she’s aroused, and suddenly, my pants are a bit more snug than they were just a few minutes ago.
“Maybe later,” she says, and the breathless quality of her voice tells me she’s imagining what I intended.
The sommelier approaches with a wine list. I order Bordeaux without asking Katya. A small test. Alexandra would balk at the audacity. But Katya?
She doesn’t say anything.
“You seem to know everyone here,” she comments once we’re alone again.
“I’ve been coming here for years. They take good care of their regulars.”
What I don’t mention is that I own twenty percent of the place, or that “good care” means certain conversations never get overheard and some patrons are planted far from anyone who might be listening.
The waiter returns with our wine, going through the ritual of presenting the bottle and pouring a taste. I nod, and he fills our glasses and retreats, nervous in that way that says he knows who I am and what I can do.
Katya notices. Of course she does.
“They’re afraid of you,” she notes in a whisper as the waiter scurries away.
Damn straight.
“‘Afraid’ is a strong word. They respect me.”
“That wasn’t respect,” she argues. “That was fear.”
I take a sip of wine as I consider how much truth to give her. “Some people find successful businessmen intimidating. It’s not personal.”
“And what kind of business are you in? You keep saying shipping, but…”
“I move valuable items from one place to another safely and discreetly. It requires a certain reputation for reliability.”
It’s true, though the “valuable items” aren’t always legal, and the “reliability” is often enforced through methods that would horrify most people.
“Discreetly,” she repeats with a scoff.
“Privacy is important to my clients. They pay for confidentiality as much as they pay for my services.”
She presses her lips together, and I can see the wheels turning behind those beautiful eyes. Amnesia or not, she’s too sharp not to catch the subtext.
The waiter returns to take our order, giving me the perfect excuse to watch her scan the menu. Everything’s in French, and I’m looking for any hint of struggle.
She doesn’t falter, ordering in flawless French, exactly what my research predicted. Still, it might raise questions, so I decide to nip them in the bud before she starts asking.
“Your French is excellent,” I comment after the waiter leaves.
“Is it? I didn’t even think about it. The words just came naturally.”
“You always were gifted with languages. Russian, English, French, Italian. … You said it helped with international exhibitions.”
Another lie, but another one based on truth. According to her FSB file, she speaks six languages fluently. Useful skills for an international spy, less common for someone who supposedly spent their career in Moscow art galleries.
“What else am I good at?” she asks, and there’s something almost flirtatious in her tone.
I reach across the table and trace my finger along the back of her hand, enjoying the way she shivers at the contact. “Many things. Though some talents are better demonstrated than described.”
“Dmitri,” she says, and my name on her lips sends heat straight to my cock.
“Yes, kotyonok?”
“Why do I feel like I don’t know myself anymore?”
“Because you’re healing. The woman you were before the accident… she was shaped by experiences you can’t remember. This is your chance to decide who you want to be.”
“And who do you think I should be?”
The question carries more weight than she realizes. I could tell her to be compliant, submissive, and grateful for my protection. I could mold her into the perfect trophy wife: all beauty, no brains.
But that’s not what I want. The woman who infiltrated my organization and almost destroyed everything I’d built… she was magnificent in her deception. Reducing her to anything less would be like clipping the wings of a bird of prey.
“Be yourself,” I tell her. “Whatever that means.”
Our appetizers arrive, providing a temporary distraction from the weight of the conversation. I watch Katya eat and note the precise way she handles her silverware, and the economical movements that speak of training in etiquette. Or training in weapons.
They leave similar marks on a person’s behavior.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” she says between bites.
“Ask.”
“This morning, when I had that flashback… you said I took self-defense classes. But what I remembered didn’t feel like something you’d learn in a class. It felt…”
“Felt like what?”
“Lethal. Like I was trained to kill, not just defend myself.”
I set down my fork, giving her my full attention. “What do you remember?”
“Someone grabbing me from behind. A knife at my throat. But instead of being afraid, I was… planning. How to break their grip, where to strike to cause maximum damage, and how to turn their weapon against them.” She looks down at her hands. “Those aren’t normal thoughts, are they?”
“You were attacked before, and you had to defend yourself in a situation where half-measures wouldn’t have been enough.”
“Someone tried to hurt me?”
“Moscow can be dangerous, especially for beautiful women married to men like me. Someone targeted you to get to me.”
The lie comes easily, though it’s closer to the truth than she knows. She was targeted, just not in the way she thinks.
“Have there been other attempts?”
“Nothing serious. A few men who thought they could intimidate me by threatening my wife. They learned otherwise.”
“What did you do to them?”
The question is asked with genuine curiosity, not horror. Interesting.
“What needed to be done.”
She nods like this is a reasonable answer, which tells me more about her mental state than hours of conversation could.
“Are you worried it might happen again?”
“Not while you’re with me. No one would be stupid enough to try.”
“Because you’d kill them.”
“Without hesitation.”
Most women would be disturbed by such a casual admission of violent intent. Katya just looks… satisfied. Like my willingness to murder on her behalf pleases her in some fundamental way.
Very interesting.
“Excuse me, miss.”
We both turn to a man in a sharp suit, swaying beside our table. Drunk, flushed with arrogance, and staring at Katya in a way that makes my hands itch. One wrong move, and he won’t be breathing by the end of the night.
“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” he slurs, ignoring my presence. “You’re absolutely stunning. Would you like to join me for a drink?”
Katya looks from me to the man before nodding in my direction. “I’m married.”
“He could watch.” The drunk reaches for her shoulder. “I don’t mind an audience.”
That’s when things get interesting.
I’m about to pounce, but Katya moves before I can. She catches his wrist before he can make contact, and I see the exact moment she applies pressure to a nerve cluster that makes him yelp in pain.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice is deadly quiet.
The drunk tries to pull away, but she pins him with a thumb positioned perfectly to do serious damage if he resists. Her face is calm, almost serene, but her eyes have gone the kind of cold that would terrify anyone sober enough to recognize a trained killer.
“You’re hurting me,” the man whimpers.
“Only a little. But I will hurt you much more if you don’t walk away right now.”
I should intervene. Should play the protective husband and defuse the situation before she reveals too much of who she really is.
Instead, I find myself aroused by the display of controlled violence. She’s magnificent like this, deadly, beautiful, and completely in control.
“Let him go, kotyonok,” I finally tell her, though part of me wants to see how far she’ll take this.
She releases his wrist, and the drunk stumbles backward, clutching his arm.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he’s already backing away.
“Is there a problem here?” Our waiter rushes over, probably alerted by other staff who recognize a situation that could escalate badly.
“No problem,” I reply smoothly. “Just a misunderstanding.”
The waiter nods and escorts the drunk to the door, leaving Katya and me alone again.
“Well done,” I tell her.
She lets out a long, excited breath. “My body just reacted.”
“Good instincts. Though most people would have called for help instead of handling it themselves.”
“I don’t like feeling helpless.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t think you do.”
She looks troubled by her reaction, like she’s starting to question the story I’ve told her about who she is. I need to redirect her attention before she starts asking the wrong questions.
I reach across the table and cup her face in my hand, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at me.
“You’re safe with me,” I tell her. “Always.”
Well, maybe not always. I can’t always guarantee my control around you.
Then, I lean across the table and kiss her.
It’s meant to be a distraction, a way to defuse her growing suspicions. But the moment our lips meet, something electric passes between us that catches me off-guard just like it did when I kissed her yesterday. When she parts her lips to let me dip my tongue into her mouth, my control slips.
Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs so hard that it’s almost painful. This is supposed to be performance and manipulation. Part of my larger plan for revenge.
It doesn’t feel like a performance.