I stare at her, then at the knife in my hand. I should finish this. My mother is dying. Mikhail remains unavenged. The scales demand blood.
But I cannot kill her. Not like this. Not until I understand.
Why she didn't fight.
Why she dreams of my brother.
Why I just spent precious minutes telling my enemy about Mikhail's gentle heart.
Why she disabled my cameras to explore my compound.
I cut one wrist free with my blade, then step back.
"Free yourself. Or don't. Someone will check on you in the morning."
"You're leaving me here? In the basement?"
"Consider it time to think about what you're hiding from me. Whatever game you're playing, it ends now."
I turn for the door, needing distance between us before I do something stupid. Something weak. She'll spend the day in this cold concrete room, surrounded by the tools of my trade, wondering if dusk brings death or something worse.
"Alexei."
I stop but don't turn.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
The words hit hard. I slam the door behind me, the sound echoing through the basement corridor. Let her sit in the cold and dark. Let her wonder.
In the corridor, I lean against the wall. My hands are shaking.
She came here armed with a professional's blade. She's been playing me from the start, and I let her because I was too focused on revenge to see what was right in front of me.
But then why let me threaten her? Why not fight when she clearly has the skills?
What are you really, Sofia Rosetti?
Not the princess. Not the victim. Something else entirely.
And I'm not going to kill her until I understand why.
I climb the stairs to my surveillance room and flick on the basement cameras. I'll watch her on the monitors, watch her free herself with movements too practiced, too precise for a pampered princess. Watch the nightdress ride up her thighs as she works, revealing more of that smooth skin I shouldn't want to taste.
My cock throbs as I settle into my chair, multiple angles of her filling the screens. She's already working on the restraints, her freed hand moving with disturbing efficiency. Professional. Trained. Deadly.
I grip the arm of my chair hard enough that my knuckles turn white, hard enough to hurt. The pain does nothing to diminishthe heat building in my spine as I watch her arch her back, testing the give of the remaining restraints. The thin cotton clings to her breasts, outlining every curve.
My hand moves to adjust my painful erection, lingering longer than it should, and the adjustment turns into a stroke, and before I know it my dick is in my hand, my eyes glued to the screen, even as I think about how to kill her.
I don't know how long I sit there, watching her work the restraints. My hand moves faster on my cock as she frees her other wrist, which I must have tied looser than I thought. With both hands free, she can bend down and reach the knife on the floor, which she uses to release her ankles. The way she moves—efficient, calculated—only confirms what I suspected. This woman is trained. Military? Intelligence? Something else entirely?
I should be furious. Instead, I'm fucking my fist like a teenager, watching her rub circulation back into her wrists.
When she stands, she stretches her arms above her head, arching her back. The nightdress rides higher, and I grip myself harder, hating my weakness. Hating that I'm stroking myself to the woman who got my brother killed.
But I don't stop.
She explores the room, examining each tool on the wall with professional interest. Not fear—curiosity. She runs her fingers along a serrated blade, tests the point of a hook against her fingertip. The intimacy of the gesture makes me groan.
