"Am I something that matters?"
The question escaped before I could stop it, too vulnerable, too revealing. His hand tightened on mine, and something shifted in his expression—heat and hunger and iron control.
"You matter more than you should," he admitted. "More than is safe for either of us."
"I don't care about safe anymore."
"You will." He released my hand, but only to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating tenderness. "Tomorrow night, after you've been good for three days, I'm going to kiss you until you forget your own name. More than that. And then we're going to figure out exactly how much you matter, and exactly what I'm willing to do about it."
My breath caught, body going liquid at the promise in his voice.
"Neither are you," he replied, and the look he gave me—dark and hungry and full of promise—made me forget how to breathe.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.
Iwokebeforethesun,shivering with need. My pulse ached in my wrists and the space between my legs throbbed like a wound, raw and constant. I’d dreamed of him, of Kostya, but the dream clung to my body as sensation, not memory—details lost, only the heat and the ache remaining. When I rolled over, the sheets were damp—whether from sweat or something else, I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure of was the hunger, ragged and overwhelming, pulsing through every cell in my body. I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to smother it,but that only made the ache worse. The scent of gun oil and vanilla clung to my skin, so strong it felt like he was in the room. Watching. Waiting. I slipped my hand under the waistband of my sleep shorts. My fingers were already wet as I slid them between my thighs. I closed my eyes and let my mind imagine his hands—huge and warm, pinning me to the mattress.
I imagined his voice, strict and soft, telling me what to do. I imagined him watching me now, cataloguing every whimper and shiver, enjoying that I was so hungry for him I couldn’t wait one day longer.
My fingers circled my clit in tight, desperate spirals, and it almost—almost—brought relief. But not quite. Not without him. Not without the weight of his body over mine, his hand at my throat, his teeth at my collarbone. I needed him. It was embarrassing, how much I needed him. I whimpered into the sheets, rocking my hips against my own palm, the empty ache inside me demanding to be filled.
I was getting close—so close my hips arched off the cheap mattress, desperate for something, anything, even pain—but the climax hovered just beyond reach. I twisted the sheets, gasping with frustration, even considered crying out for him. I’d never done that for another person in my life, but I was out of options, white-knuckling the edge of orgasm and unable to fall. My body wanted the command, craved the structure almost as much as the drag of his palm on my inner thigh.
I curled up small, thumb grazing the edge of my lips, not quite in as I’d trained myself for public. But it didn’t matter. The need was so overwhelming I didn’t care if I regressed. I didn’t care if he found me like this, so needy and out of control that my skin felt too small for the person inside. I just needed.
Tonight. If I could just make it through today without breaking any rules, tonight he'd kiss me. More than kiss me. The thoughtmade me press my thighs together again, seeking pressure that wouldn't be enough.
I showered with the water too cold, trying to shock my system into something resembling control. It didn't work. Every nerve ending was alive, hypersensitive, ready. When I pulled on clothes, the fabric felt like hands on my skin. When I brushed my hair, I imagined his fingers there instead.
Breakfast was torture.
Kostya arrived at seven-thirty as always, but today I could barely look at him. One glance at his hands—those massive, capable hands—and I was lost in sense memory of them on my face, in my hair, gentle on the kittens. When he set my plate down, his fingers brushed mine, and I actually gasped.
"Sensitive this morning?" he asked, and there was knowing heat in his voice.
"Just tired," I lied.
"Hmm." He leaned against the counter, coffee mug in hand, and watched me try to eat like a normal person whose underwear wasn't soaked through. "Tonight, Maya."
Just my name and a time marker, but the way he said it made heat pool in my belly. I managed to nod, managed to take another bite of food that tasted like nothing because all I could think about was his mouth.
"Good girl," he murmured when I finished the plate, and I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
The morning stretched endless. I tried to focus on the files, but concentration was impossible when my body was counting down hours, minutes, seconds until eight PM. Until I'd been good enough. Until finally, finally—
Then I found it.
Buried in Brand's financial records, cross-referenced with surgical schedules and payment codes, was a pattern I hadn't noticed before. The buyers weren't random. They wereconnected—all of them, linked through a single pharmaceutical company that specialized in anti-rejection drugs. Post-op medications that transplant recipients needed to survive.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, chasing connections, building the web. If I was right, this wasn't just organ trafficking. It was a vertically integrated operation—steal the organs, perform the transplants, then control the medication supply the recipients needed for life. Perpetual customers who could never walk away.
The scope of it made my stomach turn, but also made my pulse race with the thrill of discovery. This was it. This was what could bring down not just Brand but the entire network. FBI, DEA, international law enforcement—they'd all want this.
Hours disappeared. Lunch came and went—no, wait. Kostya brought lunch.
When? I blinked at the empty plate beside my laptop. I'd eaten it, apparently, but had no memory of the food or the interaction. Just ghost-warmth where he might have touched me and the lingering scent of his soap.
The work pulled at me like addiction, promising that if I just pushed a little harder, connected one more dot, I'd crack it completely. The pharmaceutical company had subsidiaries. The subsidiaries had shell corporations. The shell corporations led to offshore accounts that—
