7. Artem
Artem
The best thing about Katya is that she is predictable. I've watched her for months, and every day is the same.
Wake up. Work. Then she trudges home, clearly exhausted.
Sometimes she eats. Sometimes she crashes.
It's perfectly predictable, and it allows me to learn her. I study her, and she makes it incredibly easy.
I check my watch as I climb the stairs to her building. Seven-thirty PM. She got home twenty minutes ago, which is enough time to shower and collapse, but not enough time to order food.
This is the opening I've been waiting for, and I would be stupid not to take it.
The challenge has been waiting a week. Now that the plan is in motion, I feel the need to press forward. And yet I know I need to play this smart, because one wrong move and this could all crash down.
Which is why I'm here with her favorite Chinese food after a long day of rehearsals. I know she won't be able to resist. Even if she's put off, the smell of her favorite food after a long day will draw away some of that resistance.
I knock and immediately hear the sound of her footsteps as she comes to the door.
"Who is it?" Her voice is muffled, cautious.
"Artem."
There's a pause, then the sound of multiple locks being undone. Smart girl. Not smart enough to keep anyone who really wants in out, but at least she's smart enough to add some protection.
The door opens, and she's there in an oversized sweater and leggings, her damp hair twisted up, no makeup, looking younger and more fragile than she does on stage.
The sight of her does something to me, and I do my best to ignore it. The mission is what matters—not a lovely woman.
"What are you doing here?"
I hold up the bag of food. "You mentioned before that you don't always have time for a hot meal," I say, trying to smile in an unassuming way. "So I thought I'd bring something."
Her hands are gripping the doorway. "I thought you didn't have a nice time." She looks away, her cheeks, already flushed from her shower, turning crimson. "I hadn't heard from you..."
I do my best to look remorseful and not pleased. She wanted me to call, which is a good sign. "I'm sorry. I was working late nights, and I suspected you were also busy since you were wrapping up your shows. Two more weekends, correct?"
Her mouth opens slightly, surprised.
I hold up the bag, shaking it slightly. "You aren't going to make me eat all this alone, are you?"
Her eyes narrow in on the name on the bags, and I watch as her mouth drops open.
"I—how did you—this is my favorite place," she says, looking at the bag with something like wonder.
"Lucky guess. It's down the street, and Chinese is one of my favorite things in this city." I smile, warm and a little self-deprecating. "Are you going to invite me in, or should we eat in the hallway?"
She laughs, stepping back, her earlier uneasiness evaporating. "Come in. I'm sorry, I'm just surprised to see you."
I step into her apartment and immediately begin cataloguing details. This is my first time inside the space. I've been watching her from her windows, which she keeps open constantly, so I've caught enough glimpses to know the basic layout.
Not that it prepares me.
The space is worse than I expected.
It's small and shabby. The furniture is old and mismatched—the kind of pieces you buy from previous tenants or find on street corners. The radiator clanks, the hardwood floors are scuffed, and there's a water stain on the ceiling that speaks of upstairs neighbors and landlord negligence.
This doesn't make sense considering the wealth her family possesses. The money I know she can access.
"I know it's not much, and probably a lot smaller than you're used to," she says, noticing my assessment, embarrassment in her voice. She fluffs a pillow. "Dancer's salary, you know."
I file this away and slip easily into my role.
"It's cozy," I say—diplomat-speak for "small but charming." I place the bag down. "And it's yours. That matters."
She smiles at that, pleased, and I notice the photographs scattered around the small living space. Friends from the company, group shots from performances, candid pictures that speak of genuine affection.
One face I recognize immediately, and I work hard not to scowl.
Luc Nero. Dark hair, easy smile, arm around Katya's shoulders in what looks like a casual group photo but reads as something more possessive to my trained eye.
I'll need to be mindful of him. The Nero family is powerful, connected, and if he's protective of her, he could become a problem. Not an insurmountable one, but a problem nonetheless.
I'd rather not start a territory war this early on.
Interestingly enough, what I don't see anywhere are family photos. No pictures of grandparents, no childhood shots, no evidence of her past.
It's odd, since my intel tells a different story. I put this information away, focusing on the task at hand.
"Let me get plates," she says, moving toward the tiny kitchen.
"Wait," I say, reaching into my jacket. "I brought you something else."
"Oh?"
I pull out a small box wrapped in simple brown paper and hand it to her.
"Artem, you didn't need to?—"
"Open it."
She takes the package with careful hands, unwrapping it slowly, and I watch her expression transform when she sees what's inside.
It's Russian, nineteenth century, with intricate metalwork and a tiny ballerina that spins to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake when the lid opens. I had it shipped from a dealer in Moscow—expensive enough to be meaningful, beautiful enough to seem romantic rather than calculated.
Which, of course, it is. Calculated. All parts of this interaction are choreographed by me. And as I think it, that heat in my chest spreads again.
I press a hand to my sternum, rubbing it out slightly.
"Oh my God," she whispers, lifting the lid. The ballerina begins to turn, the melody filling the small apartment, and I see tears gathering in her eyes. "It's beautiful."
"I thought you might like it. A little piece of home."
She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression I wasn't expecting—gratitude, yes, but also something deeper. Something that looks almost like longing.
"No one's ever—" She stops, shakes her head. She presses it against her chest. "Thank you. This is incredible."
She reaches up, intending to kiss my cheek in thanks, but I turn my head slightly so that our lips meet instead.
It's soft, brief, innocent—exactly the kind of kiss that could be accidental.
She pulls back, startled, and I can see the flush spreading across her cheekbones.
"I'm sorry," I say, not sorry at all. "I didn't mean?—"
"It's okay," she says quickly. "I mean, it's?—"
I reach up, pretending to be tentative as I cup her cheek. "Katya." My voice is deep and husky, and that isn't fake. After all, I'm a man, and Katya is lovely and supple. Her lips, even after that briefest kiss, are soft, and she tastes like cherry lip gloss.
Fuck.
"Yes?" She's breathless, and her eyes go straight to my lips.
She wants this, and I know I should pull away. This is too early in the game. But she looks up at me with sparkling hazel eyes, and so I kiss her again—properly this time, my mouth moving against hers with deliberate gentleness, letting her respond, letting her lean into me.
I deepen the kiss slightly. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my cock, and I groan against her lips, guiding her backward toward the couch. She follows willingly, her fingers gripping my shirt.
I pull away slightly, allowing us both a moment to breathe.
"We should eat," she murmurs against my mouth, but she's not pulling away.
"Food can wait." I settle her onto the couch, positioning myself beside her so that I can touch her without being overwhelming.
I kiss her throat, just below her ear, and feel her shiver.
"Artem," she arches into me, her body warm and pliant.
She wants this. Wants me.
And I plan to do everything I can to stroke that fire into an inferno. This might be too soon, but I'm not going to miss my opportunity. That's what I tell myself as I drift my hand lower, skimming over her ribs, her waist, testing her boundaries.
The seduction progresses exactly as I planned it, even if it is early.
Careful touches, strategic kisses, building her arousal while maintaining perfect control over my own responses—because this is about her, even if my cock is harder than granite.
She's so responsive, so eager, that within minutes she's breathless and pliant beneath my hands.
Her sweater comes off easily, leaving her in a simple bra and leggings, and I take a moment to appreciate her dancer's body—all lean muscle and elegant lines, her skin flushed and warm.
"You're beautiful," I tell her honestly. She is beautiful. Perfection wrapped in creamy skin that flushes rosy as I kiss her.
She reaches for my shirt, and I let her pull it over my head, let her run her hands over my chest and shoulders with the wonder of someone exploring new territory.
I kiss her collarbone, her throat, the soft skin just above her bra, and feel her hands tighten in my hair.
"Please," she whispers, though I'm not sure what she's asking for.
I could take her right now. She's ready, willing, desperate for more contact. It would be easy to push further, to take what I need and complete this phase of the plan ahead of schedule.
I could lose myself in her. Just this once.
But that would be a mistake.
The longer I make her wait, the more she'll want it. The more desperate she becomes, the more devastating the eventual revelation will be.
Delayed gratification is a powerful tool.
So instead, I pull back, disconnecting from her with a painful groan.
"We should slow down," I say, sitting up, deliberately putting space between us.
She blinks, confused, her lips swollen and her breathing uneven. "What? Why?"
"Because I don't want to rush this." I smooth her hair back from her face, letting my thumb trace her cheekbone. "You're important to me, Katya. I want to do this right. You're special."
The words roll off my tongue perfectly, and I watch her face transform. She needs to feel chosen, unique, worthy of patience. It's exactly what every woman wants to hear, and I deliver it with perfect sincerity.
I ignore the way I mean some of it, because the words make my skin crawl. I've always prided myself on honesty, and I've never been more of a liar.
She stares at me for a moment, and I can see her struggling with disappointment and something that might be admiration.
"You're different," she says finally.
"How so?" I'm not different. Not really.
"Most men would have—I mean, I was ready to—" She blushes, looks away. "You're a gentleman."
I smile at her and grab her sweater, helping her put it back on.
I ignore the way she looks at me—like I'm some kind of hero instead of the man planning to destroy her life.
"The food's probably cold."
"Then we'll reheat it." I press a kiss to her forehead.
We do, and I stay for another hour, letting her serve me lo mein on mismatched plates while she chatters about rehearsal and her friends and the music box, which she winds up three more times just to hear the melody.
When I finally leave, I kiss her goodnight at the door. It's chaste, respectful, leaving her wanting more.
"When will I see you again?" She looks up at me, her hazel eyes bright.
"Soon," I promise.
I walk down the stairs and out onto the street, and only when I'm certain she can't see me do I allow myself to smile.
Phase Two complete.