The elevator glides upward silently. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls and frown. When did I start looking so… tired?
The doors open with a soft chime, revealing my private sanctuary. The cleaning bot scurries out of sight as I enter, its job done for the day.
“Lights, 60%,” I order, and the room obeys instantly.
My eyes scan the familiar space—minimalist furniture, state-of-the-art tech hidden seamlessly within the decor. The floor-to-ceiling windows automatically tint, keeping the fading daylight at bay.
I walk over to the door connecting to the adjacent room. It’s been empty since… well, forever. I press my thumb to the biometric lock, and it slides open with a hiss.
“Not anymore,” I mutter, making a mental note to have it prepared. It’s close enough to keep an eye on her but secure enough to keep her contained. Perfect.
In the bathroom, I lean toward the smart mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. The stubble on my jaw is getting out of hand. I run a hand over it, debating whether to shave.
“Blyat,” I curse, realizing I’m actually concerned about my appearance. For a prisoner.
I lean in, sniffing my collar. Do I smell okay?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Shaking my head, I stride back to the elevator, jabbing the button for the garage. The ride down feels eternal.
As the doors slide open, I take a deep breath. It’s just a woman. An assassin. Who tried to kill me. Nothing to be nervous about.
I approach the trunk, steeling myself before popping it open.
A pair of fiery blue eyes glare up at me, filled with rage and… Is that triumph?
“What the—?” I start, noticing the cloth that should be covering her eyes is hanging loosely around her neck.
She’s wiggling furiously, and I realize with a jolt that she’s managed to fray the rope around her wrists. She’s using the trunk’s carpet lining to saw through the bindings.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl, reaching in to haul her out.
She thrashes wildly, nearly kicking me in the face. As I grapple with her, I can’t help but admire her spirit. And her body pressed against mine as she struggles.
“Stop… moving,” I grunt, trying to subdue her without hurting her.
She responds by attempting to headbutt me.
Despite the situation—or maybe because of it—I feel a stirring in my groin.Fuck. This woman is going to be trouble.
“Enough!” I roar, pinning her arms down. Reluctantly, I realize I have to shove her back into the trunk.
She stills, panting heavily, those blue eyes boring into mine. A bead of sweat trickles down her neck, and I find myself following its path.
“Are you done?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She narrows her eyes, a muffled sound of frustration escaping from behind the cloth still covering her mouth. Then, she does the last thing I expect—she headbutts me again… hard.
I stumble back, more surprised than hurt. “Blyad!” I curse, rubbing my forehead.
For a moment, we both freeze, assessing each other. Then, to my own surprise, I start laughing.
This woman is fiercer than a Siberian tiger. The fire in her eyes, the defiance in every line of her body—it’s intoxicating. And infuriating.
I stop laughing. Staring down into the trunk.
Fuck, what do I do with you?
