I ruffled the messy chestnut curls on top of her head.
"It's late. Put away your little notebook, author." I looked down at her, eyes flickering with teasing heat. "Get some rest. Tomorrow morning at eight, the strictest etiquette dragon lady in all of Washington will be knocking at your door."
I watched the woman before me, the instant my fingers withdrew, turn red from neck to ears at a visible speed. That brilliant flush spread across her pale skin, more intoxicating than the finest liquor.
But those bright blue eyes held absolutely no shyness or retreat.
This spicy little wildcat, after a brief daze, didn't flee like an ordinary girl. Instead, with that flushed face, she raised her chin defiantly. Under my gaze, her pink tongue traced her lower lip with deliberate slowness, as if intentionally savoring where my thumb had been.
"If you're this obsessed with my lips and hair tonight, Mr. Pakhan," she leaned forward an inch, curves nearly brushing my chest, voice husky from the intense blush but eyes damnably wet and sultry, "I'm afraid before the etiquette teacher knocks tomorrow morning, you won't be able to stop yourself from locking me in bed first. After all, your self-control in that airplane bathroom didn't look nearly as perfect as it does now."
My body visibly tensed for a second.
I stared hard at that flushed face full of reckless audacity, my Adam's apple bobbing sharply. I had to admit, I'd underestimated this little wildcat's ability to bite back when embarrassed. Her blushing counter-attack was ten thousand times more lethal than her usual claws-out attitude.
"Seems you can't wait to fulfill your fiancée's 'duties' early." I lowered my voice, lips curling teasingly. "Be grateful you have class tomorrow, little firecracker. See you then."
Then I turned and left, taking my time.
"See you tomorrow, egomaniac!"
I didn't look back, but in the darkness, my smile stretched impossibly wide.
Life ahead definitely wouldn't be boring.
Chapter Ten
Vivienne
I thought I'd spend the whole night staring at the ceiling, counting sheep.
New place, strange bed, brain stuffed with everything that happened today—mafia boss, contract, an entire estate, and that thumb that lingered at the corner of my mouth for a full two seconds. Any one of those should've been enough to keep me up till dawn.
Turns out that four-poster bed was too damn comfortable.
The second I hit those sheets—God knows what thread count—my body surrendered completely. Didn't even bother rolling over. Slept straight through till the sun woke me up.
I lay there for maybe thirty seconds, letting my brain slowly reboot. Confirming yesterday wasn't a dream. Confirming I was really in a guest suite at some Russian mob boss's estate. Confirming that at eight a.m., "the most terrifying etiquette dragon in all of Washington" was coming to knock on my door.
I checked my phone. Seven twenty-seven.
I launched out of bed at record speed and sprinted for the bathroom.
Seven forty-five, I yanked open the suite door.
A man stood in the hallway.
More specifically, a man wearing nothing but sweatpants from the waist down, wiping sweat off his neck with a towel. His silver hair was messy—none of that usual pristine perfection where every strand knew its place. Instead, there was a loose, post-workout dishevelment. Broad shoulders, a cut torso that moved with his breathing, radiating raw, explosive power. Just those gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, exposing a viciously sharp V-line carved into his lower abs.
What really caught my eye were the scars—old ones crisscrossing his skin. Two below his collarbone that looked like knife wounds, glinting cold and brutal in the morning light.
My brain completely crashed.
My knees went a little weak.
I quickly grabbed the doorframe with my left hand, pretending to adjust my posture.
He held a white towel, about to wipe his neck, but stopped when he saw me.
