Chapter 24
Three hours ago, we sent a man to steal secrets that could start a war.
Ash West is somewhere in Moscow right now, breaking into Vadim’s law office while Roman and I smile for cameras and pretend this is just another charity gala.
If he’s dead, we won’t know until it’s too late.
If he’s alive, he’s cracking safes while I try not to think about what happens if he gets caught.
Roman’s hand burns against the small of my back through midnight-blue silk, his thumb tracing slow circles against my spine. A brand. A warning. Mine.
“Stop counting exits, solnyshko.” His voice is low, amused, infuriatingly calm. “I bought the security firm last week. The exits are already ours.”
I look up at him and realize he’s not nervous at all. He’s three moves ahead of everyone in this room, including me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Chaos is a ladder.” His thumb presses harder into my spine. “Everyone is watching us, which means nobody is watching the service elevators. Smile. You’re the distraction.”
I should be horrified that he’s using me as a decoy while a thief breaks into his uncle’s office. I’m fucking wet.
“Relax, Roman.” I keep my voice light, teasing. “I’m wearing your ring and your diamonds. Do you really need to bruise my spine to convince the room I’m yours?”
“I need to convince myself I’m not going to kill everyone looking at you.”
“Well, try to restrain the homicide until after dessert. I actually want to try the cake.”
His mouth curves and his hand slides up to settle on the nape of my neck, his large palm warm against the sensitive cord of muscle there.
The pressure forces my head to tilt back slightly, and I know exactly what he’s doing—signaling to every man in this room that he holds my life in his palm.
He could snap my neck or kiss it. I’m not sure which one I want more.
We move deeper into the crowd, and the room responds to him. Staff materialize before he even sets down his glass. Captains bow their heads when he passes. Conversations drop to murmurs in his wake.
A waiter approaches with champagne. Roman takes it, swirls it once, and sets it back on the tray without looking at the man.
“This is corked.”
His voice is pleasant. His eyes are empty.
“Sir, I apologize, I’ll—”
“Bring me the bottle. Open it in front of me.” Roman still hasn’t looked at him. “If your hand shakes, you’re fired.”
The waiter practically runs.
Roman’s expression never changes. He’s already forgotten the man exists. The waiter is a ghost. The wine is a prop. And Roman is the only real thing in the room.
I map the room with the part of my brain that never stops working: Vadim holding court near a Kandinsky, three Chechen soldiers by the north exit, snipers on the balcony dressed as waiters.
A blonde woman in emerald silk watches Roman from across the ballroom with the kind of hunger that makes my stomach tighten.
“Polina Tarasova.” Roman’s voice is bored. “I knew she’d be here. She’s Vadim’s pawn.”
“You wanted her to come?”
“I wanted you to see her.” His thumb strokes the nape of my neck once. “So you’d know exactly how little she matters, and no one can use her against you.”
Before I can respond, she’s crossing the ballroom toward us.
She stops too close, perfume hitting me first—tuberose. She’s beautiful, and she knows it, emerald silk cut low, blonde hair swept up, pale eyes fixed on Roman with the kind of familiarity that makes me want to claw her face off.
“Roman.” Her voice is honey and venom. “It’s been too long.”
“Not long enough.” He doesn’t look at her. He’s watching me.
Polina’s smile flickers, then recovers. “How rude. I came to welcome your wife to Moscow society.” Her eyes find mine and hold. “We have so much in common, after all. We’ve both spent time in Roman’s bed.”
My blood turns to ice. Every muscle in my body locks tight, screaming at me to run, but I force my feet to stay planted. She’s baiting me. I know it. I don’t care. I just want to tear her throat out with my teeth.
“Though I imagine your experiences are quite different.” She tilts her head. “Roman always did have evolving tastes. Tell me—does he still do that thing with his tongue?”
Heat floods my face before I can stop it.
She notices. Her smile widens. “He does. How lovely. At least he’s consistent.”
“You know, Polina,” I step closer and let my voice drop to something cold. “Perfume can’t hide it. The smell of desperation. It’s acrid. It’s sour. And it’s coming off you in waves.”
Her smile freezes.
“I’d tell you to keep your hands to yourself, but I know how hard it is for fading stars to stay relevant without clinging to a Volkov. So let me make this simple.”
I lean in close enough to see her pupils dilate.
“Take your hand off my husband. Or I’ll ruin that face you paid a fortune for, and no amount of Botox will fix it.”
Silence.
Polina’s hand—which had been drifting toward Roman’s arm—drops to her side. Her fingers tremble, and I feel a petty, vicious satisfaction curl through me.
Roman looks down at me, his eyes dark with a pride that borders on violent.
“You heard her.” His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through my chest. “And if she decides to break your wrist for touching me, I’m going to stand here and watch.”
Polina’s smile turns sharp and brittle. “How refreshing. When Roman gets bored playing house with his chemistry project—”
“Polina.” My voice stays bored, dismissive. “The only thing interesting about you is watching how fast you walk away. Start now.”
She leaves.
Roman’s hand tightens on my nape, and when I look up at him, his eyes are burning.
“You just destroyed her in front of half of Moscow’s elite.”
“She touched you. She implied you went down in her.” My voice comes out harder than I intended.
“She never mattered.” His thumb strokes the cord of muscle in my neck. “But watching you eviscerate her was the hottest thing I’ve seen in months.”
“Just months?”
“Keep talking, and I’m going to fuck you in the coat closet.”
“Promises, promises.”
His laugh is low and dark, and it goes straight between my thighs.
Movement catches my peripheral vision—a man approaching with golden hair and storm-grey eyes.
Dmitri.
My stomach drops.
Roman sees him at the same moment I do. His hand doesn’t move from my neck, but the pressure changes—tighter, more possessive.
Dmitri stops at an appropriate distance. “Roman. Anya.” His eyes find mine and hold too long. “That was quite the display with Polina. I’m impressed.”
“Dmitri.” Roman’s voice stays flat. “I didn’t realize you were attending.”
“Vadim extended a personal invitation.” His eyes still haven’t left my face. “I was missing a sparring partner.”
“My wife isn’t up for discussion.”
“Of course.” But Dmitri steps closer, and Roman goes unnaturally still beside me. “Though I have to say, Anya—you continue to surprise me. The note I gave you clearly didn’t work. So I thought I’d try something more… tangible.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small velvet box.
A silver bracelet sits inside—delicate Chechen filigree, the metalwork intricate and old.
“In my country, we give these to women we want to keep safe.” Dmitri’s voice is soft, meant only for us. “I’m offering you a door, Anya. If Roman’s war goes badly—if Vadim wins—you’ll need somewhere to run.”
Roman sets his champagne down without a sound.
“You’re in my wife’s space, Dmitri.” His voice is pleasant. His eyes are dead. “I’d suggest you count your fingers. Make sure you still have ten of them before you reach for her hand.”
Dmitri ignores the warning.
He takes my hand and lifts it with old-world courtesy and presses his lips to my knuckles.
His mouth is cold. Wrong. It makes my skin crawl. I don’t want safety. I don’t want a door. I want the smoke. The blood. The fire. I want the monster who burns the world down just to keep me warm.
Three seconds. Four. Five.
Dmitri’s lips linger too long on my skin, and Roman’s stillness beside me shifts into something darker, something that’s figuring out exactly how many bones he can break before security intervenes.
“Dmitri.” I pull my hand back and step between them, putting my body in front of Roman’s. “Your offer is noted.” I look him dead in the eye, voice bored. “But I prefer my wolves with teeth. You can keep your safety.”
I turn back to Roman and put my hand on his chest.
“He’s not worth the bullet, Roman. Let’s go.”
For a moment, Roman doesn’t move. His eyes stay fixed on Dmitri with that flat, dead expression that makes captains step back and enemies disappear.
Then Dmitri makes the mistake of speaking again.
“A ‘door’ is a kindness, cousin. When the war comes—”
“A door?” Roman’s voice stays pleasant, conversational. “How poetic. Here is the reality, Dmitri, if she ever tries to walk through a door away from me, I will burn the building down around her. She doesn’t need an exit strategy.” He smiles, and it’s terrifying. “She has me.”
Dmitri closes the velvet box slowly. “You’re sure about this, Anya?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then I hope for your sake that Roman wins.” He looks at Roman. “Take care of her, cousin. Because if you fail—if Vadim gets his hands on her—I won’t offer twice.”
He leaves.
Roman grabs my hand—the one Dmitri kissed—and scrubs his thumb over my knuckles. He’s trying to scrub away the phantom heat of Dmitri’s mouth. Trying to sandblast his cousin’s touch off my skin until only he remains.
“You stepped between us.” His voice sounds raw. “You put your body in front of mine.”
“You were about to kill him in front of witnesses. Someone had to be smart.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Neither do I.” I hold his gaze. “But I did it anyway. That’s what partners do.”
His hand moves from my knuckles to my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse. Claiming.
“You refused him.” His voice drops. “Again. You showed the whole room you’re mine.”
“I showed the whole room that I chose you.” I press my hand over his heart and feel it pounding. “There’s a difference.”