13. Artem
Artem
I've given her no reason to believe me.
The words hang between us in her office, thick and deliberate, and I watch the way her lips part, and the way her breath catches. She's trying to process what I've just said, trying to find the angle, the manipulation, the lie. But there isn't one. Not right now, at least.
I want her to fuck me.
It's the truth, raw and unvarnished, and it's left her speechless in a way that all my careful maneuvering over the past weeks hasn't managed.
Cady Gallagher, the Irish princess who's been playing my brother like a fiddle, who's been digging through his life looking for cracks in the Volkov bratva's armor, is finally, beautifully silent.
I've been watching her for longer than she knows.
Every keystroke on her laptop, every text message, every late-night search through databases she thinks are secure.
I slipped into her digital life the same way I've slipped into her physical one—quietly, thoroughly, and without leaving a trace.
Her cameras, her phone, the expensive MacBook she uses for her real work and not the sanitized bullshit she shows Misha—all flow through my systems now, a steady stream of intelligence that tells me what she's after.
Or rather, what she was after.
Since I inserted myself into her life, started showing up at her apartment and her office and everywhere else she thought she could hide, she hasn't searched for a single piece of information on Benedikt or the bratva.
She's been so focused on me, on figuring out what I want and why I'm here, that she's forgotten her mission.
It would be amusing if it weren't so fucking inconvenient.
Benedikt wants updates. Misha wants reassurance that his new girlfriend isn't going to break his heart. And I'm stuck here, babysitting an enemy operative who looks at me like I'm either going to save her or destroy her, and who can't seem to decide which one she wants more.
I can't stay here forever. I have work to do, obligations that don't pause just because I've found myself fascinated by a woman who doesn't belong in my world.
But before I return to the violence and the blood and the endless chess game of mafia politics, I want to know how much pressure it takes to make Cady Gallagher break.
She's still staring at me, her blue eyes wide and uncertain, and I see the war behind them. She wants to slap me, to scream at me, to do something that reasserts the control she's been losing little by little since I walked into her life.
But she just sits there, frozen, and I know I have her.
I move deliberately, lowering myself to my haunches in front of her. The expensive wool of my suit pulls across my shoulders, but I don't care. All my attention is on her, on the way her breathing has gone shallow, on the way her hands have curled into fists at her sides.
"Artem…” Her voice is barely a whisper, and it lacks conviction.
I reach out, letting my fingers brush against her ankle first, a ghost of a touch that makes her shiver. Her skin is warm beneath my hand.
I slide my hand higher, following the curve of her calf, and she doesn't move away.
She should kick me, run, or do any of the hundred things smart women do when a dangerous man puts his hands on them.
But Cady isn’t as smart as she thinks when it comes to me.
My fingers find the hem of her dress, a pretty little floral thing, and I slip beneath it. Her thigh trembles under my palm, and I hear the sharp intake of her breath.
I take my time, mapping her body with the same patience I use when I'm extracting information from someone who doesn't want to give it. Slow, steady, and with pressure, letting them feel the inevitability of it.
"You can't…" This time, there's a little more force behind it, but not enough.
"Can't what?" My voice is low and rough.
My other hand joins the first, both sliding higher now, pushing the fabric of her dress up as I go. I can feel her heat, the way her body is responding even as her mind tries to tell her this is wrong.
"I'm with Misha." There’s her last defense.
I don't pause in my exploration of her skin. Misha is a complication, sure, but he's also a means to an end. If breaking up their relationship is what it takes to shatter Cady's composure, I'll do it without hesitation.
If I can break her while having fun with it, so much the better.
My fingers trace patterns on her inner thighs, and I feel her legs part involuntarily. She's fighting herself now more than she's fighting me, and that's where I want her.
Confused, conflicted, and caught between what she knows she should do and what her body is begging her to let happen.
"Artem, please…” The word comes out broken, desperate, and I glance up at her face.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
The sassiness and sharp wit she wields like a weapon is gone. She's crumbling, and I haven't even really touched her yet.
I should feel triumphant. This is what I wanted. To see her defenses stripped away, to prove that she's not as untouchable as she pretends to be. But something darker and more complicated threads through my satisfaction.
I'm attracted to her.
I have been since the first time I saw her, with her fire and determination wrapped up in a package that doesn't belong anywhere near the Volkova bratva.
She's the enemy. She's using my brother to get close to my boss, to find weaknesses she can exploit. She's a threat that needs to be neutralized, and I should be focused on that and nothing else.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Misha, asking what time he should come over tonight, or Benedikt, demanding to know why I haven't reported in. They both want answers, want to know what I'm doing with all this time I'm spending on one Irish girl.
She's a complication, a distraction, and a threat wrapped up in blue eyes and sharp words and a body that responds to me even when she wishes it wouldn't.
I could tell Misha the truth.
I could show him the evidence I've collected, the proof that his girlfriend is using him. It would break them up instantly and remove her from his life, and send her running back to her family.
Or I could keep playing this game.
I could keep pushing her, testing her, seeing how many times I can make her almost break before she fights back again.
She might be the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, but at the end of the day, she’s dangerous.
But instead of thinking of that, I'm on my knees in her office, my hands sliding higher up her thighs, and chasing the heat of her like a man possessed.
My fingers brush against lace, and I feel her body go rigid.
She's wearing something delicate underneath that dress, something that suggests she's not quite as immune to me as she pretends.
I trace the edge of it, feeling the way her hips shift forward despite herself, and I know I'm close to winning this battle.
"Look at me." After a moment, she does. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. A flush is spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.
She's beautiful like this, undone and vulnerable, and I want to see how much further I can push her before she shatters.
I hook my fingers under the lace, ready to pull it aside, ready to taste her and make her forget every reason she has to resist me.
My thumb brushes against her just enough to feel the heat and the wetness that tells me her body has made its choice, even if her mind hasn't.
And that's when she moves.
It happens faster than I expected from someone who seemed so lost in the moment.
Her hand comes up and cracks across my face with enough force to snap my head to the side. The sound of it is sharp and shocking in the quiet office.
Pain blooms across my cheek, bright and immediate, and for a second, I'm too surprised to react.
She doesn't give me that second. Her foot comes up next, catching me square in the balls with a precision that suggests this isn't the first time she's had to fight her way out of a situation.
The pain is blinding, white-hot, and I fold forward with a grunt, my hands instinctively moving to protect myself.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” she spits, and there it is.
The Irish fire I knew was lurking under the careful control.
Her accent thickens when she's angry.
"You think you can just… you think I'm some whore you can play with? If you ever touch me again, I’ll have your balls sitting in a jar on my desk."
She moves before I can recover, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor as she makes for the door.
I hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway, and then she's gone.
I’m more turned on than I ever was before.
Fuck.
I stay on the floor for a moment, breathing through the pain, and despite the throbbing in my groin and the sting on my face, I'm smirking.
I hit a nerve.
Even when her body is betraying her and telling her to surrender, she fights back.
I slowly push myself to my feet, adjusting my suit and running a hand through my hair. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but I ignore it.
Instead, I think of how I’m going to get her to melt.
And how I’m going to get Misha to back the fuck off.
She'll be back.
She's in too deep now, too committed to her mission to walk away. And when she comes back, when she tries to pretend this didn't happen and that she's still in control, I'll be waiting.
One way or another, I'm going to have her. Whether that means destroying her relationship with Misha or breaking her down piece by piece until she admits what we both already know, I don't care.
I want to know what her father is planning, and if we need to go to war.
If I get her on my cock in the meantime, I consider that a bonus.
It’s time to update Benedikt, reassure Misha, and keep all the pieces of my carefully constructed life moving in the right direction.
But my mind is already planning the next move in this game Cady and I are playing.
She got away this time, landed a solid hit, and escaped with her dignity more or less intact.
Next time, she won't be so lucky.