Kara
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the quiet. Not silence, exactly… There was the faint hum of the yacht’s engines, the distant hiss of waves splashing against the hull, but it was the kind of quiet that only money could buy.
I dressed in one of the swimsuits and silk robes left in the closet, bare feet whispering over the polished teak as I wandered through the corridors. Every inch of the vessel screamed power disguised as taste. Pale wood, champagne marble, and glass that opened onto a horizon of nothing but sun and sea. The walls were lined with art that probably hung in museums before someone richer decided they looked better here.
I found a dining room big enough for twenty. A library stocked with first editions and weapons-grade whiskey. A spa that smelled faintly of jasmine, vanilla, and ozone. The staff moved like ghosts, polite and invisible, each one dressed in white linen and silence.
I found my way to the upper deck and stepped out into the sunlight. The air was hot, the sea a sheet of molten silver stretching in every direction. Dubai’s skyline was a distant shimmer behind us, already fading into the haze.
Here, I couldalmostbelieve I was free.
I stripped off the robe and lay back on one of the loungers, the sun caressing my skin. The deck beneath me was warm, smooth, and solid. A tray beside me held fresh fruit, mineral water, and a glass of champagne. It was all too perfect.
I tilted my face toward the light and closed my eyes. The sound of the waves was hypnotic, the air rich with salt and sunscreen and luxury. For a fleeting moment, I let myself sink into it, just accepting the illusion of safety and of peace.
But luxury could be just another kind of prison.
Somewhere below deck, ARCHEON’s handlers would be watching and monitoring every movement I made. I could almost feel the cameras’ gaze on my skin. This yacht wasn’t freedom. It was a gilded cage drifting in the Persian Gulf, a reminder that even in paradise, I was still owned by someone other than myself.
Still, as the sun warmed my skin and the gentle roll of the sea lulled me, I let myself pretend a little longer. I’d pretend that Lev Markov hadn’t found me and punished me. Pretend that I wasn’t thinking about Roman’s hands, his voice, his mouth, or the way he’d said my name.
For now, I would rest.
The gentle movement of the yacht should have been soothing, but it only made my thoughts feel heavier, rocking and restless beneath the calm.
I lay on the sunbed, a pair of sunglasses that had suddenly appeared next to me shielding my eyes, a warm breeze teasing the edges of the towel beneath me. To anyone watching, I probably looked serene, just another pampered woman on a billionaire’s yacht, skin kissed by sunlight and apathy, but inside my head, it wasn’t serene. It was loud.
My thoughts were consumed by the Markovs, and I couldn’t make it stop.
Roman Markov came first. His face was burned into my mind like a fever dream—those glacier-blue eyes that could go from amused to dangerous in a fraction of a second, that lazy grin that hid too much and offered too little. He was the charmer, just like ARCHEON’s file had called him. The kind of man who made the world lean closer when he spoke, yet beneath that silk, there was steel. His charisma wasn’t softness; it was strategy. A tool he’d learned to wield until even I had forgotten it was meant to cut.
And God, he’d cut deep.
I could still hear the echo of his voice, the slide of his accent curling around my name, Kara-with-a-K. I could feel the weight of his gaze that had made me forget, just for a moment, who I was and what I was there to do. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even affection. It was a much darker thing, an infatuation built from proximity and danger and the thrill of being seen by someone who shouldn’t have been able to see me at all.
Roman was the spark. A beautiful, inevitable mistake.
I closed my eyes and thought of his kiss on my lips, his hard muscles against my soft skin, his cock driving between my legs.
I shivered with desire.
And then there was Lev.
Lev was a different kind of danger, the quiet kind, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself because it already owned the room. He was power disguised as restraint. Stillness that promised violence. I could see him as clearly as if he were standing on the deck right now, hands in his pockets, eyes pale and cold and calculating. The bully. The boy who’d once backed me against a wall just to see if I’d flinch.
I never had. That was why he’d remembered me.
Lev didn’t flirt; he studied me. He dissected me. He’d looked at me like I was a puzzle he was meant to solve, like every piece of me that didn’t fit was an insult to his order. And yet, beneath that precision, there’d always been a subtle undercurrent I hadn’t understood until now.
Desire.
The memory of his voice still haunted me, that rough, rugged drawl that made even threats sound like invitations. When he’d found me again, it had been like the world folding in on itself, the past and present colliding until I couldn’t tell if I wanted to run or to see what would happen if I didn’t.
And then there was the middle brother, Dmitri. I knew his name now. I’d taken a moment and pulled ARCHEON’s files on him just to find out who he was.
I’d only seen his face once—on the shelf in Roman’s penthouse, in that framed photograph of the three of them. His eyes hadbeen darker than his brothers’, colder somehow, as though emotion was a weakness he’d been born immune to. His mouth hadn’t smiled. Not really. Just that faint curve of someone who already knew what you were thinking before you spoke.
And I knew the moment he learned my name, my face, my existence, he’d come for me. Not out of anger, but out of necessity.
