"I'm going to kill him," I say.
Maksim straightens slightly. "We're going to stop him."
"No." My voice is steel. "If I get the chance, if he's in front of me and I can end it—I'm taking the shot. He killed Elena. He destroyed my ankle. He's held Natasha for over thirty-six hours. He's killed at least five women we know about. I'm ending him."
He studies me for a long moment, seeing the warrior he helped create over two weeks at the safe house.
"Okay," he says finally.
"Okay?"
"If you get the clean shot, take it. But you come back to me after. That's the only rule."
I cross the studio to him at 10:00 PM, pull him into a desperate kiss.
We haven't had sex since Wednesday—too much planning, too many people in the mansion. But now, the night before we face Anton, the need crashes over us both.
Against the studio wall. Quick, hard, desperate.
I'm still in the white costume. He's in tactical pants and t-shirt. We don't fully undress—clothing moved aside, not removed. Life-affirming before potential death.
He lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist. The tulle of the costume bunches between us. No finesse, no careful choreography. Just raw need and the knowledge that tomorrow one or both of us might die.
"Come back to me," he demands between thrusts.
"Come back to me," I counter, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
We climax together—fast, intense, desperate. Stay connected after, foreheads pressed together, breathing synchronized.
"I'm not losing you," he says.
"I'm not losing you either."
We straighten our clothes, make ourselves presentable, and return downstairs at 10:30 PM.
Sergei is waiting in the study, his expression grim.
"Anton sent another message," he says, pulling up audio on the computer.
No video this time. Just sound.
Natasha is screaming. Just screaming—raw, terrified, the sound of someone who's been pushed past endurance.
Then silence.
Then Anton's voice, theatrical and pleased: "She's still alive. Still has all her pieces. For now. Don't be late Sunday, Sonya. I'll be waiting."
The audio ends.
I feel my face go blank—survival mechanism, locking away emotion so I can function tactically.
"Twenty-four hours," I say, voice steady despite the screaming still echoing in my ears.
Maksim nods. "He's confirming the deadline. Wants us to know he's serious."
We spend the next hour reviewing contingencies one more time. Memorizing tactical callsigns and frequencies. Going over every possible scenario and our response.
At 11:30 PM, Maksim addresses everyone in the mansion—tactical teams, support personnel, everyone involved in tomorrow's operation.
