2. Erik
ERIK
I rise before dawn, muscles tight from another restless night. The encounter with Katarina Lebedev plays through my mind like surveillance footage I can’t erase. Her green eyes had locked onto mine with an intensity that bypassed my usual defenses.
My fist connects with the punching bag, the impact echoing through the private gym in my penthouse. Left hook. Right cross. The rhythm should clear my head, but her sweet jasmine scent lingers.
“Getting an early start, Brother?” Nikolai’s voice cuts through my concentration.
I grunt, landing another combination. The chains rattle overhead.
“You’ve been here since four.” He steps into my line of sight. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Igor Lebedev’s daughter, would it?”
My jaw clenches. The punch that follows splits the bag’s seam.
“That’s what I thought.” Nikolai crosses his arms. “I saw how you watched her last night.”
“I was assessing our future captive.” The lie tastes bitter.
“Right. And I’m joining a monastery.” He tosses me a towel. “You’ve never lost focus during surveillance before. Not once.”
Sand trickles from the damaged bag. Like her, it’s gotten under my skin in ways I can’t control. I wrap my knuckles tighter, preparing to switch to the heavy bag.
“The meeting’s in an hour.” Nikolai heads for the door. “Try not to break anything else before then.”
I close my eyes, attempting to center myself through the breathing exercises that usually work for me.
All I see behind my closed eyelids is Katarina in that black dress, the way she’d squared her shoulders when she realized who I was.
The strength in her stance spoke of someone who’d fought her own battles.
A text on my phone jolts me into the present. I’ve gone twenty minutes over without noticing—another crack in my routine that shouldn’t exist. One meeting with Katarina Lebedev has compromised years of carefully maintained discipline.
I shower and dress quickly. The Glock slides into its shoulder holster, a familiar weight against my ribs, where the worst of my scars stretch across my skin. Two backup knives find their homes at the ankle and belt.
The boardroom falls silent as I enter. Nikolai sits at the head of the table, fingers steepled. Maps and surveillance photos spread before him like a general planning an invasion.
“Dmitri and I will handle the extraction.” Nikolai’s tone brooks no argument. “Erik will maintain custody afterward.”
My muscles lock. The thought of being in close quarters with Katarina sets off warning signals I haven’t felt since Grozny. “Viktor has more experience with?—”
“You’re the only one I trust with this.” Nikolai’s gray eyes pin me. “Her father’s men will be looking for signs of mistreatment. You know how to handle high-value assets.”
Assets. Like the politicians I’d guarded in Moscow. The difference is that they hadn’t made my hands itch to touch them.
I grip the edge of the conference table, my knuckles white against the polished wood. “She’s not an asset. She’s a person.”
“A person we need if we want to control Igor,” Nikolai counters. “Your job is to keep her secure, nothing more.”
The blueprints of the safe house mock me from the table. I’ve spent days preparing it—reinforced doors, security systems, and comfort items carefully chosen to minimize stress. But watching Dmitri and Nikolai plan her capture makes my stomach turn.
“The extraction team will bring her through the back entrance. You’ll handle everything after that.” Nikolai slides surveillance photos of Katarina leaving her office across the table. Another one of her getting coffee and another of her working at her laptop.
“I want medical supplies ready,” I say, remembering how she favored her right ankle at the event. “And proper food. If we’re doing this, we do it right.”
Dmitri raises an eyebrow. “Getting soft, Brother?”
“Being professional.” I gather the blueprints. “What time is the extraction?”
“Tomorrow morning. Have everything ready by ten a.m.” Nikolai stands, signaling the end of the discussion. “And Erik? Remember that she’s a means to an end. Don’t let those green doe eyes fool you.”
They already have. The memory of her fierce gaze haunts me as I head to the safe house to make final preparations. Tomorrow, she’ll be in my care, not by choice, but under duress. The thought fills me with equal parts dread and anticipation.
As I gather the blueprints, Alexi materializes beside my chair, his fingers drumming an erratic pattern on his laptop.
“You’re grinding your teeth again.” He drops into the seat next to me. “I can hear it from here.”
I shoot him a warning look, but he just grins, slouching deeper into the leather chair.
“Come on, big brother. I monitored the feeds from last night’s event. That little interaction with Ms. Lebedev had more spark than a server room fire.”
My hand tightens on the papers. “Don’t you have systems to hack?”
“Already done. Besides, watching you malfunction is way more entertaining.” He spins in the chair. “You know, for someone trained in stealth ops, you were about as subtle as a DDoS attack when she walked by.”
“Alexi.” The growl in my voice would send most men running. My youngest brother just laughs.
“Relax. I already scrubbed the security footage of your meet-cute. Though I kept a copy for blackmail purposes.” He dodges my swipe with practiced ease. “Seriously though, I haven’t seen you this wound up since that clusterfuck in Kyiv.”
I stand, needing to move. “It’s nothing.”
“Right. And I’m just a casual computer user.” Alexi’s expression turns serious for a moment. “Just... try not to break her when you get her. She’s actually brilliant at what she does. Her encryption protocols are...” He whistles low. “Would be a shame to damage that brain.”
The thought of hurting her makes my stomach turn. I grab my jacket, heading for the door before Alexi can read more from my face.
“Hey,” he calls after me. “If you need any dirt on her, I’ve got access to her?—”
The door closes on his words. I don’t want to know what he’s found. Don’t want more details to make her real. Tomorrow will be hard enough without them.
I stride down the corridor, my footsteps echoing against marble like distant gunfire. My breathing comes too fast. Heart rate elevated. Hands clenched. All physical symptoms I’d diagnose in others as a stress response. Combat readiness without the combat.
All because of her.
I punch the access code into the security panel. The door hisses open to the weapons room—my sanctuary. The familiar smell of gun oil and metal should settle me. Still, nothing has felt right since I locked eyes with Katarina Lebedev.
Tactical error. Operational weakness. Compromised judgment.
I run through the military assessment automatically as I check that each weapon is in its place. The routine should center me, but my mind rebels, replaying our brief encounter instead of focusing on the task.
“You should have maintained distance,” I mutter to myself, field-stripping a Sig Sauer. “Observation only. No contact.”
Basic protocol. I’ve conducted surveillance on hundreds of targets without engagement. Without feeling this... disruption. One conversation with her broke twenty years of discipline.
I reassemble the weapon, focusing on the mechanical clicks that usually quiet my mind. The way she’d looked at me—not with fear, but recognition. As if she saw past the carefully constructed facade to something underneath. Something I’ve spent years burying under scar tissue and tactical precision.
The weight of tomorrow’s operation sits heavy on my shoulders. I’ll have to face her again, not as a stranger at a corporate event, but as her captor. She’ll look at me with different eyes then.
It’s better this way. Cleaner. The roles are clearly defined.
Then why does my chest constrict at the thought?
I place the weapon back in its cabinet, hands steadier than they’ve been all morning. I need to reset. Recalibrate. Treat this like any other mission.
Even if nothing about Katarina Lebedev feels like any target I’ve ever encountered before.