The shirt comes off.
My breath catches, and heat floods my face even though I'm terrified, even though I should look away, should close my eyes, but I can't.
He's covered in tattoos. Not the decorative kind people get in college. Prison tattoos. Bratva tattoos. The kind that tells stories written in ink and violence.
Stars on his shoulders. Orthodox crosses on his chest. Script in Cyrillic running down his ribs. A cathedral with domes spanning his back, partially visible as he moves. And scars everywhere. Bullet wounds. Knife wounds. One across his abdomen that looks like someone tried to gut him and nearly succeeded.
This man has killed people. Probably a lot of people. Probably with his bare hands.
And I'm supposed to betray him.
His hands move to his belt, and I should close my eyes, should look away, but I've never—I've never seen—
Oh God.
I grew up sheltered. Catholic school until I was eighteen, then straight to Columbia, where I spent four years with my nose in books because dating felt too complicated, too scary. My parents were traditional, no boyfriends until after college, no sleepovers, no chances to make mistakes that would "ruin my future."
And now I'm twenty-two years old, and I've never seen a naked man in real life, and Lev Volkov is undressing five feet away from me.
The belt slides free, and his pants drop.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't look away.
He's all hard muscle and brutal lines, and there are more scars on his legs, his hip, everywhere. And he's—he's—
Don't look don't look don't—
But I am looking, and heat is flooding through me in a way that makes no sense because I'm terrified, because he could kill me, because my father died a week ago, and I shouldn't be feeling anything except grief and fear, but my body doesn't seem to understand that.
My face is burning. My heart is racing. And there's a warmth low in my stomach that I've only felt alone in the dark, and I hate it, hate that my body is responding to this, to him, when I should be running or screaming or—
He steps into the shower.
The water turns on, cascading over his shoulders, running down the tattoos and scars, steam rising around him. Through the barely-frosted glass, I can still see his silhouette, the water streaming over hard muscle and brutal lines.
I should run. I should slip out now while he can't see me, while the water is running and covering any sound I might make.
But I'm frozen. Still watching. Still feeling things I shouldn't feel.
He tilts his head back under the spray, water running down his throat, his chest, and even through the steam and frosted glass, the image burns itself into my brain, and I hate myself for looking, for wanting to keep looking, for—
He goes completely still.
It's not a normal kind of still. It's predator still. The kind of still that comes right before something strikes.
Then his head turns.
Slowly. Deliberately.
And I see it. The mirror. There's a mirror on the wall beside the shower, angled just right to reflect—oh good lord.
Me.
Our eyes meet in the reflection. His pale gray and cold as winter. Mine wide and terrified.
For one frozen heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then he explodes into motion.
