I think about the basement, the knife at my throat, Alexei's voice sayingtoday, Sofia Rosetti dies. I think about how I didn't call then, how my body wanted him even with death hanging between us.
"I promise," I lie, the words tasting like mud.
The journey back takes a different route—standard protocol, never use the same path twice. My feet are beyond numb now, leaving smears of blood on the concrete that will be washed away by morning rain. The guard's jacket flaps around me, too big, carrying the ghost scents of its owner—cheap cologne and cheaper cigarettes.
Chicago breathes around me, unaware and uncaring. The city sounds different at night—more honest, more dangerous. Every shadow could hide someone watching. Every sound could be footsteps following. My body stays alert, trained, even as my mind circles back to the compound. To him.
There's my girl.
The memory of his voice during our sparring session floods through me, and my body answers before I can stop it, wetness pooling between my thighs. Even now, even after feeding my brother intelligence to damn him, I want him.
The compound looms ahead, a fortress pretending to be civilized. My escape route is still clear—the service door's red light blinks steadily. I'm almost to my room when footsteps echo down the corridor. I freeze, every muscle locking.
A guard rounds the corner, flashlight sweeping. I press into a doorway, becoming shadow, becoming nothing. My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he'll hear it. He passes within two feet of me. His breath reeks of garlic. The beam of his light catches the edge of my bare foot, pauses.
Moves on.
I wait thirty seconds that feel like thirty years. Then I move, quick and silent. Into my room. Door locked with trembling fingers. Guard's jacket shoved deep into the wardrobe. Lockpick tucked back into my hair, the metal warm from my grip.
Safe. For now.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, but something twists in my chest like a blade between ribs. The intel I passed—the Kuzmins' weakness—feels like I've given away something precious. Not strategic information. Something personal. The way Alexei's hands shake almost imperceptibly when he prunes his bonsai, thinking of Mikhail. The grief that lives in his eyes when he doesn't know I'm watching.
Every piece of intelligence feels like I'm carving away pieces of him. Of us. Of whatever this thing between us is becoming.
He's the enemy. I know that. My family's enemy. Mikhail's brother, seeking vengeance for blood we spilled.
But my body doesn't understand enemies. It only understands the memory of his fingers inside me, his voice commanding me to come, the way he broke Tork's fingers for daring to touch what Alexei had claimed as his. The possessiveness makes me ache.
I close my eyes, and immediately I'm back in that study at the gala, his fingers buried inside me, his voice rough with need. My hand drifts between my thighs before I catch myself, fingers already seeking the wetness I know is there.
This is what he's done to me—turned me into someone who gets wet from betraying him. Someone whose body craves theenemy's touch more than safety, more than freedom, more than family loyalty.
There's my girl.
The words echo in the darkness, proud and possessive and everything I shouldn't want. When I finally showed him what I could do in that training room, when our bodies collided in violent grace, when he grinned with blood on his teeth—that was the moment everything changed.
I'm a weapon. Nico made me that.
I'm a spy. My family needs me to be that.
I'm a sister. That will never change.
I'm a liar. Getting better at it every day.
But in the dark, with Alexei's voice echoing in my head and my body aching for his touch, I'm not sure which one is real anymore.
Or if the real me is something else entirely—a woman falling for the man who should destroy her, who wants to destroy her family, who makes destruction feel like coming home.
11 - Alexei
Ifollow her bloody footprints through the city.
Three AM. I haven't slept since she arrived. Can't sleep, knowing she's ten feet away, breathing on my camera feed. Too wired. Too obsessed. Too aware of every sound she makes, every shift of her body under those rough cotton sheets.
So when her door opens at 2 AM, I'm watching.
I don't stop her. Don't alert my guards. Just follow.
