She kisses me back, meeting my intensity with her own. Her hands fist my shirt, pulling me closer, like she needs this as much as I do. Like we're both drowning and this is the only air either of us can breathe.
When we break apart, we're both gasping, hearts racing. The car is suddenly too small for everything we're feeling.
"Upstairs," I say. "Now."
She doesn't argue, doesn't question, just opens her door and follows me to the elevator. The elevator ride is torture. We stand on opposite sides, not touching, because we both know the minute my skin meets hers, nothing will be able to pull us apart. The space between us is electric with tension and want.
The doors open and I lead her inside. My place is dark, city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shadow and an amber glow.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, praying like hell she doesn’t delay this inevitable coming together.
"No."
"Good." I cross to her, using my larger body to back her against the window, letting her feel the glass cold against her back and my warmth against her front. "I'm done pretending. Done pretending I'm helping you purely for revenge."
"What is it then?"
"Obsession." The word tastes like truth and poison. "With saving you, watching you destroy the men who destroyed you. With being the only person who knows all your secrets."
Her breath catches, and her pupils dilate. She's afraid. But not of me, rather of what this means, of wanting something besides revenge. Of letting herself have this when we're both walking toward death.
"I'm still going to kill the Pakhan," she says. "And you're still on my list. Eventually. After it's done."
"I know," I agree, ignoring the tremor in her voice. I can’t tell if she’s reminding me or reminding herself.
"And you're okay with that?"
"No." I let the lie slip easily from my mouth as I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. "But I'll let you do it anyway.”
She laughs, a small sound more pain than humor. "We're fucked."
"Completely."
"This ends badly."
"Probably."
"But you still want me."
"More than I've wanted anything in my entire life." I let my hand slide into her hair, feeling the silk of it, the weight. "You're mine, Sofiya. You've been mine since the moment I walked into Lush and saw that beautiful, haunting face staring back at me.”
"You don't get to own me."
"Too late." My mouth finds hers again, softer, testing, and she offers no resistance. "I already do. And you know it. That's why you're here instead of running. Why you trust me when you shouldn't. Why you let me touch you when every instinct you have should be telling you I'm the enemy."
"You are the enemy."
"Enemy or not, I’m yours."
She doesn't argue because she knows I'm right. We've both crossed lines we can't uncross and made choices that bind us together in ways that go beyond strategy or alliance.
I kiss her neck, her pulse racing against my lips. Her hands grip my shoulders like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control. "Tell me to stop," I murmur against her skin. "Tell me this is a mistake, and I'll take you home. I won't touch you again." I know I’m lying even as I say the words.
"Don't stop."
Her words break whatever control I've been clinging to. I'm done being careful. Done being the patient predator. I want her now. I want to claim her. I want to make her understand she's mine in ways that have nothing to do with protection or strategy or the revenge we're both seeking.
My hands find her waist, pulling her away from the window, and guide her toward the bedroom. She goes easily. No resistance. No hesitation. Trust and want and the dangerousacknowledgment that we're both falling into something we won't survive driving her.
