I don't move, don't breathe. I just stare forward, gripping the handle of my blade.
Then, in slow motion, the door slides open.
Victor stands there, chest heaving, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. His shirt is slightly untucked, his tie loosened. I see blood specks on his knuckles and pants.
He stands there looking at me, smiling.
That arrogant, infuriating smile.
"Miss me?" he asks, extending his hand.
I take his hand, and he pulls me out in one smooth motion. The red dress catches on the edge of the metal frame, and I yank it free, tearing it slightly.
I glance around and see three massive bodies lying crumpled on the floor, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Russians. Dimitri's men, I'm sure.
"I'm surprised," I say, brushing past him to get a better look at the carnage.
"Of What?" he asks, straightening his cuffs.
I turn back to look at him. "That you didn't get yourself killed."
Victor laughs, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it over a radiator along the wall. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms, his muscles flexing.
"No," he says, walking toward a panel mounted on the wall. "You didn't think I would come for you."
I spread my legs slightly and slide my knife back into its sheath, looking up and catching Victor's wondering eyes.
"Was I wrong to worry?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pries open the panel, exposing a tangle of wires and a glowing monitor. The blue light casts sharp shadows across his defined face.
"Maybe," he says, glancing back at me with a mischievous look. His eyes flick down, scanning my body slowly.
I step closer, watching as he works.
"I mean, you'd have every right, I suppose. I did stab you after all, and beat you in Constan?a."
He pauses, fingers hovering over the wires. Then he turns, looking at me fully.
"You did," he says, his voice low.
His gaze drops again, lingering on the curve of my hips before finally meeting my eyes.
"But your dress saved you. You look too pretty in it. I could never leave you behind."
Heat flares in my chest, and I force my expression to stay neutral even though I can feel my face getting red.
He turns back to the monitor, fingers flying over the touchscreen.
"Plus," he adds casually, "I need your help."
"How flattering."
He smiles but doesn't look at me. A few seconds later, the overhead lights in the hallway leading to the penthouse door flicker and die.
Then faint red lines appear in the hallway ahead, crisscrossing the space like a spiderweb. Laser beams, dozens of them, blocking the path to the penthouse door at the far end.
"Blyat," I say out loud.
