I’ll give him that.
Easily six-four, and every inch of him is pure muscle, years of Bratva conditioning written across his body. His abdomen is tight, marked by a clear eight pack, his chest broad and solid, his shoulders thick, and his arms built from years of relentless work.
He looks like someone shaped by discipline, training, and a lifetime of violence.
But what steals my breath for a beat is the ink.
Tattoos cover him, his arms, his knuckles, the sweep of his neck, and from what I can see, his entire back is a canvas. The only untouched place is the skin over his heart, a stark blank spot amid all that art.
And it is art, maddeningly intricate even in the low light. I can’t make out the details, but it’s impossible not to register how striking it is.
Not that I have the luxury of admiring anything tonight.
He disappears into the built in closet for a moment, then returns wearing only his boxers, his mask gone, barely managing to stay upright, his body swaying under its own weight, before dropping straight onto the bed.
His blade lands on the nightstand with a hard clink beside a Makarov, and he drags a hand over his face, groaning as he tries to steady his head.
I wait a few more minutes.
I run a quick check over the blades strapped to my body, reassuring myself that each one is exactly where it should be.
The dress I’m wearing is indecently short, but I don’t need much fabric to carry weapons. I have more than enough steel hidden on me.
Slowly I move further inside.
I don’t usually prefer my targets unconscious when I end their miserable existence, but I’m not suicidal either.
As I’ve already established, he’s a giant, and he’s trained.
Judging by the heaviness of his breathing, he’s well under, completely swallowed by the drug I slipped into his drink earlier.
Getting it into him wasn’t easy, he’s cautious with anything he takes. But I’m better.
I smirk.
I slide the blade from the sheath strapped to my thigh.
Just as I reach for the Makarov on his nightstand, his voice slices through the darkness, sluggish, but unmistakably dangerous.
“Touch that,” he mutters, “and I’ll break your fucking wrist.”
My spine snaps taut.
This needs to endnow.
In one breath, I’m on the bed, straddling him, pressing the blade to his throat.
“Don’t move,” I grit out. “Unless you want me to slip.”
His icy blue eyes open, far clearer than I accounted for.
I should’ve tripled the dose.
And the colour, God. His eyes catch me for a second too long. I could build an entire canvas palette off that shade.
I drag myself out of whatever that is.
Not the time, Octavia.
