Chapter 8 Dimitri
DIMITRI
Katya is sitting at my kitchen table, her legs tucked under her, wearing my T-shirt and my boxers, and every time I glance at her, I'm reminded of how good she looks in my clothes.
The shirt is too big, hanging off one shoulder, and the boxers ride low on her hips.
Her hair is damp from her shower, falling in dark blonde waves around her face, and she's eating slowly, as if she's savoring every bite of it like it's her last meal.
I've wanted women before.
I've taken them when I needed to, walked away when I was done, and never thought about them again.
But Katya is different. She's gotten under my skin in a way I don't understand, and the more time I spend with her, the worse it gets.
I think about her when I'm supposed to be working.
I think about the way she looked when I had her pinned against the wall, the way her breath caught, the way her body went still under my hand.
I think about what it would feel like to have her beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails digging into my back.
I want her.
I want her in a way that's dangerous and consuming, and I need to get control of myself before I do something stupid like let my emotions get tangled up in an asset and start making mistakes.
Wouldn't my family love that?
They're already hounding me about this Radich problem, which seems to draw our enemies out like moths to a flame, all over something that happened more than a decade ago.
I pour myself a drink and lean against the counter, watching her.
She's focused on her food, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip the fork too tightly.
She knows I'm watching, and she's trying to ignore it.
She keeps flicking a gaze up at me, and I don't turn away from it.
I've been waiting for something like this to happen, for just the right tool to fall into my lap.
Now I have that tool and if I fuck it up by being distracted by her, it might not happen again.
Ever since I killed that man, his family has been itching for revenge.
It's come up in some violent ways—stealing from us, pressuring the track, leaning on our contacts and assets.
And most recently, outright attacks on my life any time I leave the track and they notice.
It has to stop.
"I need to explain why you're here," I tell her softly.
I've got one shot at this, one chance to make Katya Volsky's gift work for me instead of against me.
She was good enough to convince Rodion to slip up, and now she will convince my enemies to slip up too.
She looks up, her gray-green eyes wary.
"I'm here because you dragged me here at gunpoint."
"You're here because I have a job for you. One that requires your particular skills."
"What job?"
I set my drink down and cross my arms, leaning back against the counter and suck in a deep breath to push away some of my tension.
"Nine years ago, my father ordered me to kill a man.
He was part of the Radich crew, a soldier who'd been stealing from us.
I was nineteen, and it was my initiation into the family business.
So I did it. I beat him to death in an alley behind a bar in Mytishchi, and I left him there for his crew to find. "
Katya's face doesn't change, but I see the flicker of understanding in her eyes.
She's not frightened of me right now, but she knows that which I'm capable of.
After she helped me remove Rodion and learned of it, that was when the fear manifested.
This is patient understanding, her absorbing parts of my world typically left covered and hidden, but she has to know the reason I need her as my asset or she'll have no motivation to follow through.
"The man I killed had a younger brother," I continue.
"He's climbed the ranks since then, and now he's out for blood. My blood. For the past nine months, I've had men stalking me, hunting me, waiting for the right moment to strike. They're Radich crew, and they're not going to stop until I'm dead."
"So kill them," she says, her voice flat.
"You're good at that."
Her eyes drop to her food, and she pushes it around the dish with the utensil before taking another bite.
Then she lifts one eyebrow and smirks at me.
It's not funny, and she knows it, but I've learned not to grab the bitey end of a snake.
She won't push my buttons like that.
"I can't kill them all. There are too many, and I don't know who gave the order. I need to find out who's pulling the strings, who's orchestrating this hunt, so I can end it permanently. And that's where you come in."
She sets her fork down, her eyes narrowing.
"How?"
"You're going to get close to them. You're going to infiltrate the Radich crew, find out who's calling the shots, and report back to me. Once I have that information, I can retaliate and end this feud for good."
She stares at me for a long moment, and then she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.
"What's in it for me?" she asks, and the attitude on her face makes me want to smack it off her.
"You get to live," I say without inflection, and I see the anger flash in her eyes.
"That's it? I risk my life for you, and all I get is to keep breathing?"
"That's more than most people in your position would get."
I push off the counter and move closer, stopping at the edge of the table.
"But if you want more, I can arrange other rewards."
The way I look at her leaves no room for confusion.
I let my gaze travel over her body, lingering on the curve of her shoulder, the way my shirt clings to her chest, the bare skin of her thighs.
I want her to know exactly what I mean, and when I see the flush creep up her neck, I know she does.
She pushes her plate away, her hands trembling slightly.
"You're insane."
"Maybe."
"Why me? Why not one of your own men?"
"Because you're good at this. You're a con artist. You know how to blend in, how to lie, how to make people trust you.
You walked into my card room and convinced Rodion to sell you information within minutes.
Plus, the Radich crew doesn't know you. They have no reason to suspect you're working for me. My men would draw attention."
She shakes her head, and I can see her mind working, trying to find a way out.
But there isn't one.
She knows it as well as I do.
"You know how to play a role," I continue.
"You know how to manipulate people, how to get them to give you what you need. That's what I'm asking you to do. Get close to them. Find out who's running the operation. And when you do, you come back to me."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you die. Either they'll kill you when they figure out what you're doing, or I'll kill you for failing. Either way, your odds are better if you succeed."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring down at her plate, and I can see her mind working through the options.
There aren't many, but she's a smart woman.
She'll figure it out.
I move closer, rounding the table until I'm standing beside her chair.
She doesn't look up, but I see the way her body tenses, the way her breathing changes.
I'm close enough to smell the soap from her shower, and I lean down to breathe her in.
"Have you ever slept with a man for information?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
Her head snaps up, her eyes flashing.
"What?" she hisses.
Her face is so close to mine, I could kiss her.
"You heard me. Have you ever fucked someone to get what you needed?"
"That's none of your business."
"It is if I'm sending you into the Radich crew. I need to know what you're capable of. What you've done before."
She shoves her chair back and stands, putting distance between us, but I follow.
I'm not letting her retreat from this.
Not when I need her specific skill set to help me set my world right again.
Not when the thought of her with other men makes something dark and possessive coil in my chest.
"I'm not answering that," she mutters in a tight voice.
I take another step toward her, and she backs up until she hits the counter.
"So you have. Maybe more than once. Maybe it's part of how you survived all these years, drifting through Moscow with no one to rely on."
Her face flushes, anger and shame warring in her expression, and I know I've hit the mark.
The thought of it makes my jaw clench, makes my hands curl into fists.
It shouldn't matter what she's done, who she's been with, but it does.
It matters more than I want to admit.
I want to be the last man who touches her.
I want to erase every other face, every other name, until I'm the only one burned into her memory.
"You don't know anything about me," she hisses in a shaky tone, but her eyes dance around my face, to my lips, back to my eyes.
"Then tell me I'm wrong."
She doesn't.
She can't.
And the silence between us is answer enough.
Now, all I can think about is how good she looks in my clothes, how her skin would feel under my hands, how her moans would sound so good when she's underneath me.
She grabs a plate off the counter and throws it, and I dodge to the side to avoid being hit.
The plate shatters against the wall behind me, porcelain scattering across the floor.
The sound is loud, violent, and it sends a rush of adrenaline through me.
Before she can move, before she can even think about running, I'm on her.
I grab her wrist and yank her forward, spinning her around and pinning her against the wall.
Her back is pressed to my chest, and I can feel every inch of her body against mine, the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, the heat radiating off her skin.
My other hand comes up to brace against the wall beside her head, caging her in, and I lean down so my mouth is close to her ear.
"Careful," I murmur, and my voice is nothing but a growl.
"You keep throwing things at me, and I'm going to start thinking you want my attention."
She tries to twist away, but I don't let her.
I lock my grip on her wrist, not enough to hurt but enough to keep her still, and I feel her body go rigid against mine.
God, she feels good.
The curve of her back against my chest, the way her ass presses against me when she struggles, the scent of her hair—it's driving me insane.
I want to slide my hand down her body, feel the shape of her under my palm, find out if she's as soft as I imagine.
I want to turn her around and kiss her until she stops fighting, until she melts into me and admits she wants this too.
But I don't.
"Would you fuck me for your freedom?" I ask, and the words come out as raw as the desire I feel for her.
She goes completely still, and I feel the shift in her breathing, the way her body tenses in a different way now.
"That's the deal," I continue.
"You do this job for me. You infiltrate the Radich crew, you get me the information I need, and you sleep with me. One time. And then I let you go. You walk out of here, you go back to Perm or Moscow or wherever the hell you want, and you never see me again."
She twists in my grip, and I loosen my hold just enough to let her turn.
Her face is inches from mine now, her eyes blazing with fury.
I swear I see desire in her expression too, like she's fighting the desire to fuck me instead of just giving in.
"You're going to take it anyway," she snips, and then she spits in my face. "Men like you don't ask for consent."
The saliva hits my cheek, and for a moment I don't move.
I just stand there, letting it sit, feeling the insult of it.
Then I release her wrist and step back, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
The defiance, the fire, the absolute refusal to submit—it makes me want her even more.
I'm so fucking turned on by how she fights me, I'm actually tempted to do exactly as she said.
I'm not the sort of man to harm a woman, but she's driving me insane, pushing me to my limits.
"I'm not going to take anything from you," I tell her, and my voice is calmer now.
"I'm a gentleman, Katya. I won't lay a hand on you without your consent."
She stares at me, disbelief written all over her face as she rubs her wrists.
A shift in her expression almost looks like disappointment too.
"But if you agree to this deal," I continue, taking a step closer, "if you fuck me, when the job is done, I promise I'll turn you loose.
You'll be free. No more locked doors, no more looking over your shoulder wondering when I'm going to come for you.
You do this one job, you give me one night, and you walk away. "
Her chest is heaving, and I can see the war playing out in her eyes.
She doesn't trust me.
She shouldn't.
But she's also smart enough to know this is the best offer she's going to get.
I reach out and cup her jaw, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone, and I feel her flinch.
But she doesn't pull away.
She stays there, frozen, and I let myself imagine what it would be like to kiss her right now.
To claim her mouth, to feel her lips part under mine, to taste her.
There's a fire in her eyes, but I'm not sure I can bend it to my will.
Fuck if I don't want to try, though.