The silk slipped through his fingers like water, and he caught it again—slower this time, as if he couldn't help himself. Alexei stood at the foot of the bed, her nightgown pooled in his hands, his back to her. He didn't hear her enter. Didn't know she was watching him press the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, watching his jaw tighten like he was tasting something he shouldn't want.
She should have said his name. Should have cleared her throat. Should have called for Roman. Instead, she stepped back and pushed the door closed. The lock clicked—a small, final sound that cut through the room like a blade.
He turned. His hands dropped the nightgown like he'd been burned, but it was too late—she'd seen everything. The hunger in his eyes when he looked at her now wasn't new. It was just unguarded. Raw. A man caught with his hand in a fire.
"Mrs. Volkov." His voice was rough, a rasp that scraped against the silence. "I was just—"
"You were just what?" She didn't move from the door. Didn't cross her arms. Didn't give him the comfort of her defensiveness. She let him look at her, let him see that she knew exactly what he'd been doing. "Taking inventory?"
His throat worked. The scar on his left brow caught the grey light from the curtains, a pale line against pale skin. "I didn't hear you come in."
"No." She took a step forward. Then another. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet, smooth and worn. "You were busy."
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Stayed there. "I should go."
"Should you?" She kept walking. The distance between them collapsed—six feet, then four, then two. She could smell him now. Leather. Cold air. Something sharp and male beneath it. "Roman said you were at my disposal." Her voice was quiet. Deliberate. "I'm disposing."
His chest rose and fell like he'd been running. The discipline in his eyes was a war he was losing, and she watched it happen—watched the wall crack, watched the hunger leak through. "Natalia." Not Mrs. Volkov. Her name, stripped of the title, raw in his mouth. "You don't know what you're doing."
She stopped inches from him. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body like a furnace. "Then tell me."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. And in the silence, she understood—this was exactly what Roman had wanted. A test. A trap. A leash wrapped around both their throats. She saw it all in the space between heartbeats: the chess master on his balcony, watching, waiting for her to prove him right.
She didn't care.
She reached up and touched his jaw. His skin was hot under her fingers, stubble rough against her palm. He closed his eyes like the feel of her was too much to hold open. "Alexei." His name, deliberate. A key turning in a lock. "Look at me."
He opens his eyes — and breaks. Something in him snaps, a cable pulled too tight for too long, and the hunger that floods his face is devastating. His hand comes up, slow, like he's reaching for a flame he knows will burn him, and his fingers brush her wrist. Just that. Just the barest contact, his thumb finding the pulse point, feeling it jump under his touch.
"You shouldn't have locked that door." His voice is wrecked. Hoarse. A man preaching water while dying of thirst. "You know he's watching. You know he—"
"I know." She doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. "I know exactly what he's doing. The question is whether you care."
His jaw works. The scar on his brow pulls white. "He'll kill me."
"He won't." Her thumb traces the line of his jaw, slow, deliberate. "You're too valuable. And he wants to see what I'll do." She lets the words settle, watches them land. "I want to show him."
Alexei's breath shudders out of him. His hand slides up her arm, palm rough against her skin, fingers curling around her elbow like he's anchoring himself. "Natalia." Her name, broken in half. "If I touch you, I won't stop."
"Good." She steps closer, until her body brushes his, until she feels the heat of him through the silk of her dress. Her hand slides from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the short hair at his nape. "I don't want you to stop."
He makes a sound — low, torn from somewhere deep — and then his mouth is on hers. Not gentle. Not试探. A man who has been starving and is finally allowed to eat. His hand finds her waist, grips the silk, pulls her flush against him. She tastes him — coffee, something sharp, the salt of his skin — and she opens for him, lets him in, lets him take.
His other hand slides into her hair, tilts her head back, and he breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down her throat. She feels his teeth, his tongue, the scrape of stubble against her collarbone. Her head falls back, her fingers tightening in his hair, and she lets herself feel it — the heat, the want, the dangerous, beautiful thing growing between them.
"Mrs. Volkov." His voice against her skin, dark and rough. "Tell me to stop."
She pulls his mouth back to hers. "Don't you dare."