I close my eyes, and the image comes unbidden.
What it would feel like to take her in my arms for real.
Not the calculated touch at the small of her back during public appearances. Not the brief, commendable moment when her fingers brushed my scar. But actually pulling her close, and closing the distance between us until there is nothing left but the warmth of her body against mine.
I can picture it too clearly. Her tall frame fitting against me, long hair spilling over my arm as I slide one hand around her waist and the other into her hair. The way her attention would widen for half a second before softening. The soft intake of breath just before I lean down and kiss her.
Slow at first. Testing. Then, deeper when she responds, and that quiet fire I’d seen burning in her for weeks finally allowed to surface. I imagine the way her hands would come up to my chest, fingers curling into my shirt as she presses closer. The curve of her waist under my palm.
The way her body, lean and graceful, still carrying the tension of everything she’d survived, would melt against me once the walls crack completely. The taste of her mouth, the faint scent of ginger tea, and whatever shampoo she uses in the guest suite, the small sound she might make in the back of her throat when the kiss turns hungry.
My grip tightens on the edge of the sink.
I can almost feel it. The press of her hips against mine, the way her breath would hitch when I back her gently against the wall, and the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of one of those oversized t-shirts she wears at night.
Young, fierce, and vulnerable, and far too sharp for her own good. The woman who handed me the USB drive like a weapon, who decoded Fadir’s desperate emails with ruthless precision, who laughed, genuinely laughed, at Arina’s teasing during Sunday dinner, is becoming my greatest distraction.
A low growl rumbles in my chest, full of desire and involuntary.
The sound startles me. I open my eyes and stare at my reflection again, jaw tight, water still tracing slow paths down my torso. The towel around my hips suddenly feels too constricting. Heat pools low in my stomach, unwanted and insistent.
This is dangerous.
I cleared her father’s debt because it was a loose end. I answered her questions about the Sokolovs because trust makes the long game smoother. I kept every interaction strictly professional because she is still reeling from betrayal, and I refuse to become another man who takes advantage.
Yet here I am, fresh out of the shower, imagining what it would feel like to kiss Anja Kuzmin until neither of us can remember the original deal.
I drag a hand through my damp hair, exhaling sharply.
Another shower is in order.
This one will need to be cold.
I turn the handle without hesitation, stepping back under the spray before the water has even finished warming. The icyblast hits my shoulders like needles, shocking the heat out of my blood. I brace one hand against the tiled wall and let the cold water pound against my skin, willing the unwanted images to dissolve.
Anja is a minion in the war against Fadir. Her trust is useful. Her insights are valuable. The pretend relationship exists only so he can watch everything he thinks he owns slip away while we appear to grow closer.
Nothing more.
The invisible wall between us remains.
I repeat the words like a mantra while the cold water sluices over me, chasing away the dangerous warmth that has no place in this arrangement.
By the time I step out again, skin prickling and mind clearer, the penthouse is still quiet. Anja is presumably in her suite across the hall, doors closed, boundaries intact.
I dress quickly in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt, then head toward my office to bury myself in the next phase of Fadir’s dismantling.
The slow squeeze continues. Tonight, again, is still not the night anything changes between us.
Chapter 15 - Anja
Late one evening, the penthouse feels too still, like the whole building is holding its breath.
I slip out of the guest suite in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and soft sleep shorts, bare feet silent on the hardwood. My throat is dry from hours of staring at the ceiling, replaying strategy sessions and the slow, satisfying collapse of Fadir’s world. A glass of water is all I want, something simple to chase away the restless thoughts before I try sleeping again.
I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, but freeze in the wide archway that opens into the living area.
Alexey is seated at the long table near the windows, bathed in the soft golden glow of a single lamp. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms. I imagine his chocolate brown hair falls slightly across his forehead, no longer perfectly combed from the day.
