7. Artur
ARTUR
Rurik and I are playing pool and he’s winning. This time. But I’m saved from having my ass handed to me when Eduard brings Emma into the room.
“Our girl has finally revealed the real reason she snuck into the bridal auction,” Eduard says, then nods at Emma.
She grimaces and takes a step away from Eduard, but at least she talks. “My best friend, Krystal Donnovan, disappeared about a year ago and I traced her disappearance back to the auction.”
The moment Emma says Krystal’s name, something shifts in the room. Eduard’s expression is carefully neutral in that way that means he’s processing information faster than he wants to show. Rurik’s jaw tightens, the only visible sign that her words have landed.
Krystal Donnovan. The name means nothing to me personally, but the way Emma says it, the raw pain beneath the anger, tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t just about justice or some FBI case file. This is personal. This is grief wrapped in fury and desperation.
And fuck if that doesn’t make her even more dangerous.
“Guards,” Rurik says quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. “Escort Emma back to her room.”
Emma’s head snaps up, her gray-green eyes flashing with defiance. “I’m not done talking.”
“Yes, you are.” Rurik’s tone leaves no room for argument. He gestures toward the door, and two guards step forward immediately.
I watch as they move to either side of her, professional and efficient. Emma doesn’t move at first, her gaze locked on Rurik like she’s trying to will him into submission through sheer force of personality. It almost makes me smile. Almost.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I say, unable to resist. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Her eyes cut to me, sharp and furious. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then cooperate.”
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
The first guard reaches for her arm, and Emma moves like lightning. Her elbow drives backward into his ribs with enough force that I hear the impact from across the room. The man grunts and stumbles back, and Emma uses the momentary opening to spin toward the door.
She’s fast. I’ll give her that. But she’s not faster than me.
I move to intercept, blocking her path before she can reach the hallway. She doesn’t slow down. Instead, she shifts her weight and aims a kick at my knee that would drop most men. I sidestep, catching her leg and using her momentum to throw her off balance.
She recovers quickly, her hands coming up in a defensive stance that tells me she’s had real training. Not just basic self-defense courses. This is combat training, the kind that takes years to develop.
“Artur,” Eduard says from behind me, his voice carrying a warning I ignore.
Emma lunges forward, her fist driving toward my face.
I block it, but she’s already moving, following up with a combination of strikes that force me back a step.
She’s good. Better than I expected. And the fire in her eyes, the absolute refusal to back down, does something to my pulse that has nothing to do with the fight.
I catch her wrist on the next strike and twist, forcing her to turn. She goes with the movement instead of fighting it, using the rotation to drive her heel down onto my instep. Pain shoots up my leg, and I release her automatically.
She breaks free and makes it three steps toward the door before I grab her from behind, wrapping my arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground. She thrashes immediately, her elbow catching me in the ribs hard enough to make me grunt.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tightening my grip. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Let me go!” She twists in my arms, all fury and desperation.
An idea forms, reckless and probably stupid, but I can’t shake it. If she wants to fight so badly, if she’s determined to prove she’s not some helpless captive, then fine. Let’s see exactly what she can do.
I adjust my grip and start dragging her down the hallway in the opposite direction from her room. She fights me every step, her boots scraping against the marble floor as she tries to break free.
“Where are you taking her?” Eduard calls after us.
“Training room,” I say over my shoulder.
Rurik appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “Artur.”
“She wants to fight,” I say, still wrestling with Emma as she drives her elbow into my side again. “Let’s give her the chance.”
For a moment, I think Rurik will try to order me to stop. Then he nods once, a slight movement that might be approval or resignation. I don’t wait to find out which.
The training room is on the lower level, a large space with padded mats covering most of the floor and equipment lining the walls. We use it for sparring, weapons practice, and keeping our men sharp. Right now, it’s empty except for the two of us.
I release Emma in the center of the room and step back, putting distance between us. She spins to face me immediately, her chest heaving and her hair falling loose from its braid. There’s a wild beauty to her like this, all fury and fire, and I have to force myself to focus.
“You want to keep fighting?” I gesture to the mats. “Then let’s do this properly.”
Her eyes narrow. “What?”
I move to the equipment rack and grab two pairs of training gloves, tossing one set to her. She catches them automatically, her gaze never leaving mine.
“Prove you’re as capable as you think you are,” I say, pulling on my own gloves. “Show me what an FBI agent can do.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her jaw sets, and she yanks the gloves on with sharp, angry movements. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Maybe.” I grin despite myself. “But it’ll be fun finding out.”
She doesn’t wait for me to finish speaking. She comes at me fast, her movements controlled and precise. I block her first strike, then her second, testing her rhythm. She’s not just throwing punches. She’s using proper technique, targeting vulnerable points.
I counter with a jab that she slips easily, then I follow up with a combination that forces her back. She absorbs the pressure without panicking, her footwork solid as she circles to my left.
We move across the mat in a blur of motion, trading strikes and blocks. She’s faster than I expected, using her smaller size to her advantage. When I press forward with power, she gives ground and counters with speed. When I try to corner her, she slips away before I can close the distance.
She lands a clean hit to my ribs that makes me grunt, and satisfaction flashes across her face. It’s the opening I need. I surge forward, catching her off guard, and drive her backward until her shoulders hit the padded wall.
She doesn’t give up. Even pinned, she fights, her knee driving toward my groin. I block it with my thigh and grab her wrists, pinning them above her head. She struggles, twisting against my grip, but I use my weight to hold her in place.
“Done yet?” I ask, breathing hard.
“Fuck you,” she snarls.
I laugh. I can’t help it. Even now, trapped and outmatched, she refuses to surrender. It’s infuriating and impressive and so damn attractive I can barely think straight.
“You’re good,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intend. “Better than most men I’ve fought.”
“Let me go.”
“Not yet.” I lean closer, close enough to see the flecks of green in her gray eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. “You need to understand something, Emma. We’re not your enemies.”
“You bought me at an auction!” she spits. “You’re holding me prisoner. How does that not make you my enemy?”
“Because we’re the only thing standing between you and men who would actually hurt you.” My grip on her wrists tightens fractionally. “That makes us your best option, whether you like it or not.”
“My best option would be letting me go.”
“That’s not happening.”
Her eyes flash with renewed fury, and she tries to twist free again. The movement brings our bodies flush together, and I feel the exact moment awareness replaces anger. Her breath catches. Her pupils dilate. Suddenly the air between us feels charged with something far more dangerous than violence.
I should step back. Should put distance between us before this situation gets more complicated. But I don’t move. Can’t move. Not when she’s looking at me like that, all defiance and heat and something that might be curiosity beneath the rage.
“Artur,” she says, and my name on her lips does something to my control.
I lean down slowly, giving her time to turn away, to tell me to stop. She doesn’t. Instead, her gaze drops to my mouth, and that’s all the permission I need.
I kiss her.