Page 66 of Hero Worship

The tech billionaire and his models had migrated closer, drawn by the display we presented. I caught the calculated interest in their eyes, the way they assessed us like potential acquisitions. Around us, the party's energy shifted subtly, focus narrowing on our little drama.

A soft gasp from behind drew our attention. One of the tech billionaire's models had slipped to her knees, Balenciaga dress pooling around her like spilled ink as her hands traced up his thighs. The other watched with hooded eyes, her fingers toying with the straps of a La Perla slip.

"Perhaps we should give them some privacy," Roche suggested, though their smile said they knew exactly the kind of show they were orchestrating. Their hand slid possessively down my back as they guided us toward a more secluded alcove. "I have a special vintage I've been saving for the right... appreciation."

The alcove proved to be a small sitting room dominated by what looked like an original Titian. The erotic artwork's subject matter left little to imagination. A Saudi prince I recognized from gossip columns was thoroughly occupied between the thighs of a prima ballerina, while his wife directed the scene with elegant authority.

"Don't mind them," Roche purred, pressing a crystal glass into my hand. "They're just warming up for the evening's main entertainment."

Misha drifted after us like a ghost, his movements still liquid but wrong somehow. When Roche snapped their fingers, he sank to his knees beside their chair with practiced grace. The sight made my stomach turn even as I maintained my mask of intrigued desire.

"Such perfect obedience," Roche observed, running possessive fingers through Misha's hair. "Though I must admit, I prefer a bit more... fire in my companions. Someone who needs to be properly trained." Their eyes raked over me with undisguised hunger. "Would you like to see my private collection? I have pieces that would look absolutely divine against your skin."

"My husband might object," I demurred, though I let heat color my voice. Playing hard to get would only make me more desirable to someone like Roche. "He can be quite possessive."

"Then perhaps we should include him," Roche suggested, gesturing to where Ash stood coiled tension barely hidden beneath his designer suit. "Misha could keep him... entertained while we discuss artistic possibilities. Couldn't you, pet?"

Misha's only response was to turn that vacant stare toward Ash, lips parting slightly. The gesture should have been seductive, but there was something mechanical about it that made my skin crawl.

"I prefer to watch," Ash replied smoothly, though I caught the rage simmering beneath his controlled tone. His hand found my hip, grip possessive enough to make Roche's eyes narrow. "Especially when it comes to appreciating true beauty."

A commotion from the main salon drew attention, appreciative murmurs mixing with gasps of surprise. The Saudi prince's wife paused in her direction of the scene on the chaise, head turning toward the sound with professional interest.

"More guests arriving," Roche said, though something in their tone felt off. They snapped their fingers and Misha rose with fluid grace, moving to pour more champagne. "Though I mustadmit, I'm growing tired of such a public venue. Perhaps we should move somewhere more... intimate?"

Their hand found my thigh, sliding higher with proprietary confidence. "I have a private showing prepared. Something specially curated for someone of your... unique qualities." Their fingers traced patterns on my skin, touch possessive but somehow wrong. Clinical. Like they were already imagining me preserved in their collection.

The guards positioned around the room had shifted subtly, their casual poses becoming more focused. The carefully choreographed patterns Xavier had mapped were changing, becoming unpredictable. Something about the new arrivals had triggered heightened security protocols.

"Someone’s eager," I breathed, letting Roche believe their touch affected me. Leaning into their hand even as I caught Ash's minute tension from across the room. "Though surely there's no need to rush? The night is still young."

"Oh, I disagree," Roche murmured, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. "Some beauty demands immediate preservation. Before it can be...tarnished."

The servant's entrance burst open with enough force to crack marble. Viktor Vasiliev erupted into the room, blood seeping through his Armani suit where he'd clearly fought past exterior security. Three unconscious guards lay visible through the doorway behind him. Even in disarray, the legendary Vasiliev command presence radiated from him, halting conversations mid-sentence. The room's atmosphere crystallized with deadly potential as every hidden security team member shifted toward this new threat, their movements betraying military training beneath borrowed servant's clothes.

His eyes locked onto Misha with predatory focus, decades of repressed paternal instinct transforming into pure intent. Thegun appeared in his hand with fluid grace, leveled at Roche with unwavering precision.

"Step away from my son." His voice carried the same authority that had built empires and toppled governments. No begging, no hesitation.

Roche's smile was pure ice as they turned, fingers tightening possessively in Misha's hair. "Your son? I thought you'd made your feelings quite clear on that matter. What was it you said? That you had no son?" Their grip twisted, making Misha whimper. "Only a daughter who died betraying your precious traditions?"

"The only one dying tonight will be you if you don't release him." Each word dropped like a bullet casing. "Now."

Something flickered in Misha's drugged gaze, a flash of recognition cutting through the chemical haze. His lips parted, but whatever he might have said was lost as Roche jerked him closer, using him as a shield.

"Misha..." Viktor's voice held steel, not supplication. "I'm taking you home." He shifted his aim, seeking a clear shot around his child. "And you," his focus burned into Roche, "you'll answer for what you've done."

The crack of gunfire was deafening in the enclosed space.

Viktor's expression held more surprise than pain as he looked down at the red blooming across his chest. The guard who'd shot him from behind maintained perfect form, the kind of execution you only got from special forces training. But it was the look in Viktor's eyes that would haunt me. Not fear or anger, but a bone-deep regret as he reached for his child one final time.

"Prosti menya," he breathed as his legs gave out.Forgive me.

He collapsed forward, momentum carrying him into Misha's arms. They went down together in a tangle of couture and crimson, father's blood soaking into son's custom suit like some twisted baptism. The pristine white of Misha's jacketturned ruby, then burgundy, the stains spreading like dark roses blooming across silk. His face remained perfect, porcelain skin and emerald eyes unmarred even as arterial spray painted macabre patterns across his throat. The contrast was obscene. Beauty and death tangled together while crystal chandeliers threw rainbows across the carnage.

"Papa?" The word was small, broken. Like the child he'd been before tradition and prejudice tore them apart. Misha's trembling fingers left crimson prints on Viktor's face as he tried to wake what was already gone. Each touch added to the grotesque artwork of their final embrace.

"How inconvenient," Roche said softly." They gestured sharply and more guards materialized, surrounding us with practiced efficiency.

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