ANYA — Volkovskaya Laboratory, 1023
Iwake up alone and everything hurts.
My hip throbs when I roll over, and the welts on my ass burn against the sheets when I shift position. I counted, and then I got wet like some kind of fucked up Pavlovian response to pain, and then he put his fingers inside me and made me come so hard I saw stars.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The bed still smells like him, that scent that’s been imprinting itself on my brain since the first night I walked into this house. I should want to burn these sheets and scrub my skin raw and forget the way his hands felt when they stopped hurting me and started putting me back together.
I don’t hate it.
That’s the problem.
I force myself to sit up, wincing when the movement pulls at bruises I forgot I had.
The clock on the nightstand says it’s almost ten in the morning, which means I overslept through my alarm, which never happens.
I’m the person who survives on four hours and too much coffee and the stubborn refusal to admit my body has limits.
Apparently getting whipped with a belt and then fingered on a leather couch takes more out of me than a normal Tuesday.
There are clothes laid out on the chair by the window. Dark jeans, a sweater that looks soft enough to be cashmere, underwear that’s actually practical for once. My boots are sitting next to the chair, cleaned and polished.
I get dressed slowly. The jeans sit low enough to avoid my hip. The sweater is loose enough not to irritate the skin.
Fuck him for being thoughtful.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, and I make it about ten feet before Luka appears at the top of the stairs like some kind of blonde Russian ghost. His face gives away nothing, but I catch the way his eyes flick to my wrists, then my hip, then the careful way I’m walking.
My chin lifts. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for the marks on my body.
“Roman asked me to bring you to the lab,” Luka says. “When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
He leads me past a gym, a media room with a screen the size of a wall. Past closed doors that could hide anything from weapons to bodies.
We arrived to the laboratory that since yesterday has been stocked.
An actual, professional-grade toxicology laboratory.
Holy shit.
I step inside without meaning to, already labeling everything.
He built me a lab.
He beat me with a belt last night and then built me a fucking laboratory.
“You can close your mouth now.”
I spin around and he’s leaning against the door frame in charcoal trousers and a white shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching me with that expression that always makes me feel like he’s seeing straight through my skin to whatever’s underneath.
His knuckles are split across three fingers, fresh scabs visible in the fluorescent light.
“This is—” I gesture around the room because words are failing me. “How did you—”
“I made some calls.” He pushes off the frame and walks toward me. “Turns out money can buy almost anything, including next-day delivery on laboratory equipment.”
“This must have cost—”
“Don’t worry about what it cost.”
“I’m not worried, I’m just—” I stop, shake my head. “Why?”
“Because you’re a scientist.” He stops a few feet away. “And because I have a problem I need you to solve.”
“What kind of problem?”
He pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times, and hands it to me. Data fills the display—molecular structures, clinical reports, death certificates. Lots of death certificates.
“Synthetic narcotic,” he says. “Killing addicts across Moscow. Thirty-seven confirmed deaths in the last month.”
My stomach drops as I scroll through the data. The molecular structure kicks my brain into gear immediately, because I know this compound. I’ve seen it.
In my own research.
“This is sophisticated,” I say. “This isn’t street-level synthesis.”
“No. Someone knew what they were creating.”
“It’s an MX-42 derivative.” I’m already zooming in on specific bonds. “The base structure matches compounds from my doctoral thesis, but this binding site modification would increase potency. Except the stereochemistry is wrong for long-term storage, which means—”
I stop.
“Which means what?”
“Which means whoever made this either didn’t understand the degradation, or they didn’t care.
” I look up at him. “When this breaks down in the body, it creates a cascade of free radicals. Massive cellular damage. The breakdown products are more lethal than the parent compound. Every batch becomes more dangerous over time.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Fix it how?”
“Create an antidote.” He takes the phone back, his fingers brushing mine in a way that shouldn’t make my pulse jump but does anyway. “If you understand how it’s killing people, you can design something that stops the process.”
My brain is already running. The puzzle is exactly the kind of problem I’ve spent my entire career training to solve.
“This would take months,” I say. “Synthesis, testing, optimization. I can’t just—”
“I’m not in a hurry.” He’s watching me with an intensity that makes it hard to think. “Take whatever time you need.”
“And if I can’t do it?”
“You can.” He says it like it’s a fact he’s already verified. “If anyone can create an antidote for this, it’s you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to it. Luka will be outside if you need anything.”
He turns to go.
“Roman.”
He stops at the door but doesn’t turn around.
“Why do you really care about this?” I ask. “Dead addicts aren’t exactly bad for Bratva business.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he looks back over his shoulder and his eyes are harder than I’ve seen them since last night.
“Because someone is flooding my territory with poison I can’t control.” He pauses. “And because you shouldn’t worry your pretty little mind with questions like this. You wanted a lab, I gave you one and a problem to solve.”
He leaves before I can respond.
Asshole.
But my hands are already reaching for the keyboard to start pulling up synthesis routes.
I lose track of time.
One minute I’m running preliminary calculations and the next I’m hours deep in reaction schemes with data spread across four different screens and my hand cramped from taking notes.
The compound is elegant. That’s what makes it obscene.
Someone took my research and saw a weapon.
I pull up clinical photographs and force myself to look at them. Hemorrhaging. Seizures. Thirty-seven people dead because someone read my doctoral thesis and thought, I can make this kill faster.
Did I do this?
The thought makes me want to throw up.
I start to sketch an antidote.
Three potential solutions take shape on the screen in front of me. Complex but doable.
I’m so deep in calculations that I don’t hear the door open.
“You haven’t eaten.”
I jump so hard I nearly knock my notebook off the bench. Roman is standing in the doorway holding a covered tray, still in the same suit from this morning but with his tie loosened and his hair slightly disheveled.
“What time is it?”
“Eight thirty.”
I blink at him. “At night?”
“You’ve been in here for ten hours.”
Shit.
He walks toward me and sets the tray on the bench next to my notes. When he lifts the cover, the smell of roasted chicken and fresh bread hits my nose and my stomach growls so loud it’s embarrassing.
“Eat,” he says.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“Eat anyway.” He pulls up a stool and sits down across from me. “The chemistry will still be here in twenty minutes.”
“You don’t know that. I could lose my train of thought.”
“You won’t.” He pushes the plate toward me. “You’re too smart to forget what you were working on just because you stopped to eat.”
I want to argue but my stomach growls again and he raises an eyebrow in that annoying way he has, so I pick up the fork and start eating. The chicken is perfect, seasoned with herbs, and the bread is still warm.
“This is good,” I admit between bites.
“I’ll tell the chef you approve.”
“You have a chef?”
“I have a lot of things.” He’s watching me eat with an expression I can’t read. “Staff, security, laboratories. All the trappings of a life most people would kill for.”
“Most people aren’t prisoners.”
“No,” he agrees. “They’re not.”
I finish half the plate before I slow down, suddenly aware of how intensely he’s watching me.
“Stop staring at me.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re absolutely staring.”
“I’m observing.” His mouth curves slightly. “There’s a difference.”
“Observing what? The way I chew?”
“The way you eat when you’re distracted.” He leans back slightly, arms crossed. “You take smaller bites when you’re thinking about something else. Bigger ones when you’re fully present.”
“That’s creepy.”
“That’s attention.” He tilts his head. “Most people don’t notice things like that.”
“Most people aren’t Bratva princes with control issues.”
“Probably not.”
I push the plate away, suddenly too aware of how close he’s sitting. The lab feels smaller with him in it.
“I found something,” I say, because talking about chemistry is safer than whatever this is.
“Tell me.”
I turn the screen toward him and walk him through the synthesis routes, expecting his eyes to glaze over the way most people’s do when I start talking about receptor binding and metabolic pathways. But he asks questions. Good ones.
“This third route,” he says when I finish. “The experimental one. Why do you think it would be more effective?”
“Because it doesn’t just block the compound. It reverses the damage already done.” I trace the molecular structure on the screen. “Most antidotes are reactive. This would be restorative. Big difference in outcome for patients who’ve already started metabolizing the drug.”
“How long to synthesize it?”
“Weeks. Maybe months. I’d need to run preliminary tests first, make sure the theory holds up in practice.”
“Whatever you need.” He stands, and suddenly he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “Equipment, reagents, time. Ask and it’s yours.”