The women stand. Follow me out.
• • •
The private room is smaller. Bed. Leather chair. Bathroom. Soundproof. I close the door behind us. Lock it.
The women wait. Expectant. Already reaching for zippers, clasps.
"Stop," I say.
They freeze.
I walk to the minibar. Pour myself a drink. Vodka. Neat. "Here's what's going to happen," I say without looking at them. "You're going to sit on that bed for the next hour. You're going to mess up your hair. Smudge your lipstick. Make noise—moaning, whatever. Loud enough they hear it outside."
Silence.
I turn. Look at them directly. "And when you leave, you're going to tell them I fucked you both. Rough. Good. Whatever story sells. Understood?"
The blonde exchanges a glance with the brunette. "You… don't want us to—"
"No."
"But Klaus—"
"Will hear exactly what I want him to hear." I pull out my wallet. Peel off several hundred-dollar bills. Hand them over. "This is for your trouble. And your discretion."
The brunette takes the money slowly. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
She nods. Looks at her friend. Some unspoken communication passes between them. "Okay," the blonde says finally. She sits on the bed. Musses her hair. The brunette does the same. Then they start making noise. Moaning. Gasping. The bed creaking as they shift their weight. Convincing.
I sit in the chair by the window. Drink my vodka. Stare out at the city. Let them perform. I wouldn’t touch a woman. I didn’t want to and I haven’t in two years. What I said to Alena the last night we were together was something I meant. She was mine and I was hers completely. I wouldn’t cheat on her. Also, my dick agreed. Never, in the two years of that bullshit, had it become hard with any woman other than the reflection on the tablet. Never.
An hour later, I unlock the door. The women leave—hair dishevelled, makeup smudged, looking thoroughly used. Dmitri is waiting in the hall. Grins when he sees them. "Good?" The blonde smiles. Leans in. Whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh.
"Solnechny Volk lives up to his reputation," Dmitri calls after me.
I don't respond. Just head for the exit.
• • •
Early morning. 4 AM. Back at the penthouse. Guards outside the door. City lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows.
I strip off my clothes. Leave them in a pile on the floor. Head to the shower.
Hot water. Steam filling the bathroom. I turn it up hotter—scalding, burning the fresh tattoos until they throb. Stand under the spray. Let it pound against my shoulders, my neck, the ink that's still raw and bleeding into the water running down the drain.
Close my eyes.
And there she is.
Alena.
Not the woman from the surveillance feeds. Not the healed, moved-on version shooting guns at a range and smiling at Lucy's jokes. The her from two years ago. In my arms. In my bed. Her laugh on the balcony, cigarette between her fingers, eyes bright under London lights. Her voice whispering "This feels different." Her body against mine—soft skin, dark hair spilling over my chest, the way she'd looked at me after I came inside her. Like I was everything. The way she'd reached for me in her sleep that last morning. Trusting. Warm. Mine.
My hand drops. Wraps around my cock. Already hard from the memory.
I stroke slowly. Eyes closed. Water cascading over me, steam making the tattoos burn like fresh brands. See her on her knees. Lips around me. The way she'd looked up—those dark eyes holding mine while she took me deeper. Hear her gasp when I'd lifted her onto the dresser. The scratch of her nails down my back. Feel her clenching around me when she came. The way her whole body had shaken. Taste her on mytongue—smoke and something darker, something only I knew.
