Chapter 8 #3
Instead, I glance at Viktor, who’s watching me over the rim of his vodka. “You planning to bluff?” he asks casually.
I smile, slow and calculated. “Only if it’ll make you fold.”
He chuckles, dropping two chips into the pot. “Call.”
The dealer slides out the turn card. Queen of hearts. His gaze drifts to my neckline for just a second too long. I raise him without speaking.
“Bold,” he mutters, but matches me.
We play through four more hands. Each one more charged than the last.
He wins two. I win one. Then I let him win another—just enough to make him cocky. To make him drop his guard.
By the time we’re deep into the seventh round, there’s sweat at his collar and hunger in his eyes. He thinks he’s reeling me in. But I’m already sinking my teeth in his throat.
Final hand. The table is heavy with chips and energy.
My hand? A straight flush.
His? Doesn’t matter.
I tilt my head, toss in my final chip, and lean back as the dealer lays the final card on the table.
He reveals our hands. Viktor freezes. Then laughs. “Fuck,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as he leans forward. “You’re good.”
I smile, rising from my chair, slow and fluid. “Better than good.”
I walk behind him, heels like soft gunshots on the polished floor. I don’t give Rafael’s table more than a glance as I move—though I feel his eyes like fire against my back.
Viktor shifts slightly, about to turn—But my hands are already there, sliding around his shoulders from behind.
He stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes as I bend forward, the curve of my body ghosting his back.
My mouth lowers to his ear. “Dance with me,” I whisper, my voice low and silk-laced.
His hand lifts to rest over mine. “Didn’t take you for the romantic type.”
“I’m not,” I murmur, lips nearly grazing his skin. “But I want to feel your hands somewhere other than the card table.”
He laughs, standing slowly. Good. Come with me, Viktor.
And let’s see how easily you fall.
The music shifts the second we step off the gaming floor.
Bass thrums through the walls, pulsing low and steady like a second heartbeat.
Neon lights sweep across the polished floors, casting flashes of color over the bodies swaying in time to the rhythm.
Gogo dancers—barely dressed, unapologetically bold—twist and move atop raised platforms like glitter-drenched shadows.
It smells like sweat, sex, and alcohol.
It smells like power on the brink of losing control.
I lead Viktor through the crowd without touching him—just a glance back, a subtle tilt of my chin that makes him follow.
But I know where I’m walking. The upper tier. That table. That angle. Rafael can see us from there.
I want him to. I need him to.
When we reach the center of the floor, I turn and slide my hands up Viktor’s chest, pulling him closer. He doesn’t hesitate—his hands fall to my hips like they belong there, fingers curling over the bare skin above the slit of my dress.
“You really don’t waste time,” he mutters near my ear.
“I hate wasting things,” I say, voice low, “especially when I can own them.”
He groans softly, pulling me tighter as we begin to move.
His hand slides up my back, warm and possessive, but I keep the control. I grind against him just enough to stir the heat in his blood, keeping my expression soft, gaze lowered, every inch of me tuned to the rhythm of the beat—and to the eyes I can feel watching us from above.
Him.
My pulse pounds. I close my eyes as Viktor presses closer. His mouth brushes my jaw, his breath warm. One of his hands glides down, fingertips ghosting the curve of my thigh through the slit of my dress.
“Who the fuck are you?” he breathes, a smirk in his voice.
I smile against his cheek. “Someone you won’t forget.”
His mouth crashes onto mine before I can finish the thought. His kiss is rough, eager. A storm without elegance. Hands greedy as they roam—up my waist, down my back. He presses me against him with a hunger that’s almost pathetic, almost entertaining.
But I let him.
Because I want him to feel like he won. Because I want Rafael to see this. And because I know what’s coming next.
When I pull away, my lipstick is smeared and Viktor’s pupils are blown wide. His breath hitches as I reach between us, adjusting the hem of his shirt with fingers that ghost just below his waistband.
“I don’t want to wait,” I murmur, soft but dangerous. “There’s a private bathroom near the back hall. Come with me.”
I brush my lips against his ear. “Fast and filthy. Think you can handle it?”
He groans, nodding like a man already undone. Perfect.
I lead him through the crowd like a secret too loud to be ignored.
Viktor’s hand is low on my back, his touch firm, almost possessive, as if he thinks he’s already claimed me.
He doesn’t realize that every step I take is calculated, every glance I give him rehearsed.
I move like a woman caught in the moment—like lust and danger are the only language I speak. But I’m already three moves ahead.
We pass by Rafael’s table. I don’t look at him immediately—but I feel him. The weight of his stare is undeniable, dragging across my body like smoke. I pause for the briefest moment, long enough to glance his way over my shoulder, long enough for our eyes to lock.
He’s watching. Unmoving. Expression carved from ice. I smile. Just enough to stoke the fire.
Then I turn and keep walking, Viktor tightening his grip as we slip past the velvet ropes and into the hallway beyond the casino floor. It’s quieter here—just music thudding faintly from the walls and the soft click of my heels.
Viktor pushes the bathroom door open behind me and shuts it fast. The lock clicks. And I breathe out slowly.
The room is dim, marble floors gleaming beneath the overhead light. A gold-framed mirror above the sink. Two candles flickering by the vanity. Designed for pleasure, not privacy. Perfect.
He moves first.
Spins me around, pressing my back to the wall with one arm braced beside my head. His mouth crashes onto mine before I can speak, hungry and harsh. His teeth graze my bottom lip as his hands roam my waist, gripping like he wants to mark me.
I let him. Because control isn’t always about resistance—it’s about knowing when to give just enough.
My hand slides into his hair as I kiss him back, lips parting, tongue brushing his just enough to taste the danger on him. He groans, his body pressing into mine, one hand gliding down my thigh and slipping under the slit of my dress.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re unreal.”
I smile against his mouth. “You have no idea.”
He kisses down my neck, hands groping now, his breath hot. “We don’t have long.”
I pause. “Why not?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, smirking as he leans in again, voice low against my throat. “Because I have men planted here tonight,” he breathes. “The moment they get the signal, Romanov’s dead.”
He thinks I’m frozen. That I’m going to panic. That I’ll gasp, pull away, maybe ask him to explain.
But I don’t.
I stay exactly where I am—pressed between his chest and the wall, breath warm, fingers still tangled in his hair. I let the words settle between us like ash from a fire I already lit.
“ The moment they get the signal, Romanov’s dead.”
My lips part. Not in shock. Not in fear.
I kiss him deeper. He groans against me, body responding instinctively, greedily, as I grind my hips into his. My fingers trail down his neck, over his collarbone, slow and sensuous. My left hand anchors to his shirt while my right hand slides lower—tracing his ribs, slipping beneath the hem.
He thinks I’m lost in the moment. But I’m counting my heartbeats.
One…
Two…
My hand dips along the inside of my thigh, where the blade rests—cool against heated skin, hidden beneath fabric and flesh. I curl my fingers around the hilt, tilting my hips just enough to mask the movement. He moans again, mouth hot on my jaw.
Three…
Four…
I slide the dagger out, smooth and silent. My hand lifts behind his back, his mouth still on mine, his body pressing harder like he thinks he’s conquered something.
Five.
He pulls back slightly, still kissing, panting between words. “Fucking hell… I need?—”
I sink the blade into his torso. Low. Left side. Straight through soft muscle and intent.
His body goes rigid. His eyes jerk open, shock slamming into him a second too late. I’m still close, still kissing him—until I’m not. Until I pull away, hold his gaze, and drive the knife in deeper.
“I always finish what I start,” I whisper, breathless.
He chokes on a gasp. His hands scramble at my arms, slipping against the blood now spilling over my fingers. I keep my eyes on his, calm and steady as I twist the blade once—just enough to make it count.
Then I pull it free. The sound is sickening. Wet. Final.
He crumples backward with a sharp gasp, hitting the tiled floor hard, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he clutches the wound. Blood seeps fast through his shirt, spilling onto the tiles like red ink across a blank page.
“You… fucking…” he wheezes, teeth clenched.
I crouch beside him for just a second, voice cold and clean. “You should’ve pulled me closer instead of trying to show off, Viktor.”
I straighten and step back, already reaching for the lock. He groans again as I unlock the door and rip it open, bloodied dagger clutched in my right hand, red smeared across my fingers like war paint. My pulse pounds as I take one quick glance down the hallway—empty.
I raise my hand to my ear, clicking on the mic. “Kellan,” I whisper harshly, breath rapid. “He’s planning a hit. It’s happening tonight . I stabbed him, he’s down but conscious—some of his men are inside already—get ready.”
No answer. Just static for half a beat—then Kellan’s voice, sharp. “Where are you?!”
“Heading back in.”
And I move—fast, heels clacking against the floor, dress still flawless save for the blood that’s now dripping from the tip of the blade in my hand. I don’t stop to clean it. I don’t pause to think.