This was supposed to be a victory. ARCHEON was satisfied, the data secured, but somehow it felt hollow.
They owned me. They had from the beginning. They’d needed an agent and they forced me to be one. The evidence they’d fabricated against me was more than enough to chain me to their cause. One mission after another, each darker than the last.
But that’s the way blackmail worked, didn’t it?
The Markovs were just another job. That was what I reminded myself, again and again, but the thought of both Roman and Lev lingered in my chest, feeling heavier than it should have.
I shut off the water and sank to the floor beside the tub for a moment, the tiles cool beneath my bare legs.
Lev would be methodical. Roman would be unpredictable. And I didn’t know enough about the middle brother to know what he would do.
I drew a breath, slipped off my robe, pulled down my panties, and stepped into the bath, the heat closing over me like a softblanket. For now, I let myself float, the surface trembling around me, pretending for a few stolen minutes that I was free.
My mind, as it always did, betrayed me. The water was too warm, the steam wavering through the air too reminiscent of that long-ago shower room and the boy who had turned my anger into a kind of terrifying want.
A shiver traced its way up my spine, a sensation that had nothing to do with the water. The image of Lev as he’d been in that photograph—older now, sharper, colder—refused to leave me. It was one thing to take back the power from a man like Roman and turn it into a tool for my own ends. It was another thing entirely to face the boy who had once been my undoing, the one who had understood me without needing to try.
My fingers brushed the surface of the water, and the fantasy of him bloomed there, vivid and unwanted. He wouldn’t be like Roman. He wouldn’t be loud, or teasing, or lost in his own pleasure. He would be silent. Precise. A surgeon with a scalpel.
The fantasy grew, intense and dangerous in the quiet heat of the bathroom.
I wouldn’t be in control. Not this time.
He would find me. Of course he would. Not in a club, not in a bar, but somewhere quiet, where the walls were thick and the world was shut away. A hotel room, maybe. Maybe this one.
He wouldn’t knock. The lock would click open under his hand, a sound as certain as a bullet chambering. He would step inside, his presence filling the space long before his shadow touched me. He’d be wearing an expensive, luxurious suit, dark and severe, his movements predatory in nature. He would look atme, and I would see it in his eyes—that same winter ice I’d seen at the boarding school, but now it would be a full-blown blizzard.
He would know. He would know everything. Not just that I had drugged his brother, but who I was. What I was. And he would not be angry. He would be… satisfied.
“It’s been a long time, Kara,” he’d say, my name a soft rumble stripped of all its warmth.
I would stand my ground. I always did.
He would cross the room in three strides, his hand closing around my throat. Not to choke me, not yet. Just to hold me still, his thumb pressing against my pulse. He would lean in, his breath cool against my ear.
“You’ve been a very bad girl,” he’d murmur, the words a caress and a threat at the same time. “Did you really think you could play games with my family and get away with it?”
I wouldn’t answer. I would just glare, my chin held high, my body a wire pulled taut with defiance and rebellion.
He would smile that razor-edged smile. “You still haven’t learned.” His other hand would find the tie of my robe, tugging it open. The silk would whisper against my skin, parting like the Red Sea. “It’s time you were taught a lesson.”
He would back me toward the bed, his grip on my throat a constant, controlling pressure. He wouldn’t push me down. No, he would let go, a sudden, dizzying release, and I would stumble, falling back onto the plush duvet. He would stand over me, a statue carved from shadow and ice, and just watch me.
“Take it off,” he would command.
And I would. Because in this fantasy, I wanted to. I wanted to see the look in his eyes as I slowly peeled the silk from my shoulders, as I revealed myself to him willingly, on my terms. I would lie down on the bed, naked, exposed, and I would wait.
He would undress then, but not with Roman’s careless grace. His movements would be precise, economical, each button undone, each piece of clothing removed with purposeful intent and draped neatly somewhere. He would be beautifully, terrifyingly male, all lean muscle and sharp lines. And his cock… it would be as hard and unyielding as the rest of him.
He would move to the side of the bed. He would turn me over, his hands firm, insistent, positioning me on my stomach. Then he would lift my hips and slide a pillow beneath them, raising my ass for him. His hand would press between my shoulders, pushing them down onto the mattress. The position would be vulnerable, humiliating, and it would send a bolt of pure lust straight through me.
I would bury my face in the duvet, my fists clenching in the fabric, a mixture of shame and anticipation coiling in my stomach. But I would hold still for him.
Then hisbeltwould come down on my ass, a sharp, stinging blow that would make me gasp. The pain would be immediate, a hot, tingling sensation that would spread through my entire body.
He wouldn’t be lenient. He would spank me again and again, a relentless, punishing rhythm that would match the hard, heavy throb of my own heart. It would hurt, so much, but soon the pain would blur into desire that would throb right between my legs. I would be soaking wet, my arousal dripping down my innerthigh, my body a traitor, humming with a pleasure that felt like betrayal.
He would stop suddenly. The silence would be as loud as the blows had been. I would feel the bed dip as he moved behind me. He would run his fingers over my heated skin, a proprietary caress that would make my teeth clench and my pussy ache.
