Konstantin
Istill smell like her. Even after the shower.
Jasmine and sweat and whatever the hell she put in her hair that makes my brain short-circuit. It’s on my skin, under my nails, soaked into my goddamn spine. My body’s humming like I’m strung out—except I’m not. I’m just fucked. In every possible sense.
Her moans are still echoing inside my skull. Real ones. The kind that don’t sound performative. The kind you earn.
And that’s the fucking problem.
The cufflinks dig into my wrists. My shirt’s still half-untucked, clinging to my back with the kind of sticky heat that says I should be in bed, not here. There’s a smear of lipstick down my throat, the kind that water couldn’t wash off. Not that I care.
I tell myself this is a business decision. That I left her for this—for control. For distance. That sharing a bed is too much,too soon. Sex? Fine. Necessary, even. But sleeping next to her, feeling her breathe beside me, like she belongs to me?
No. That’s where men like me get weak.
So, instead, I walk into a warehouse that smells like bleach, burned plastic, and really bad ideas.
Timur meets me at the side door, jaw tight, eyes saying exactly what his mouth won’t:You shouldn’t be here tonight.Which is exactly why I am.
He steps aside. No words.
Inside, a flickering overhead light sputters above the disaster. Not metaphorical. Actual disaster. Beakers still dripping. Buckets crusted with residue. The floor’s stained with something that smells like it could melt bone. Someone tried to mop, but mostly, they just spread the evidence around.
Duct-taped to a rusted office chair is a man who’s about to have the worst night of his life.
Arseny doesn’t even look up right away. He’s leaning against a busted filing cabinet, holding a clipboard like this is a quarterly check-in. When he sees me, his eyebrows lift.
“Oh, good,” he says. “The groom’s here. We can finally start the honeymoon slaughter.”
I step closer to the idiot in the chair. Late thirties. Cheap button-up clinging to his chest. Pupils too wide. Sweat everywhere. He smells like fear and dollar-store cologne.
His lips part, but I don’t give him the chance.
“Talk, and I’ll break your jaw,” I say flatly.
Timur’s voice is low, steady. “He was using one of our shell properties in Santa Cruz. The old storefront. Under Belov Global Holdings.”
Of course it’sthatone.
Strip mall. Renovation project. Permits tied up in zoning hell. We kept it empty on purpose. Clean. Invisible. Perfect.
Until this jackass decided to turn it into his personal chemistry experiment.
“Let me guess,” I mutter. “They were cooking meth two doors down from a Starbucks and thought nobody’d notice.”
Timur shrugs. “Says he just rented it out. No idea what they were doing.”
Arseny snorts. “Because installing lab-grade ventilation overnight is just quirky tenant behavior.”
I exhale slowly and roll my shoulders to keep from cracking something.
“Timur doesn’t call me unless it’s important,” I say.
The guy in the chair twitches. He recognizes me now. Not just a man.Theman. The one they don’t say no to. The one they don’t survive pissing off.
“You cooked,” I say quietly. “On my property. Under my name. Through one ofmycorporations. If the DEA had kicked that door in tonight, they’d be dragging me through headlines by morning.”
“I didn’t—” he starts.
