Page 60 of Obsessive Vows

The Tverskaya office complex represents Markov's legitimate business facade—twelve floors of architectural glass and steel housing his import-export corporation, financial services division, and private meeting facilities. The building smells of money and power—expensive leather, subtle cologne, the faint electronic hum of security systems hidden behind tasteful design. I arrive exactly seventeen minutes early, enough time to assess security positioning, identify surveillance weaknesses, and prepare for Anastasia's arrival.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I step through security, though nothing in my exterior betrays the internal chaos. The thought of seeing her again, alone, sends adrenaline coursing through my system. I control my breathing with practiced discipline, forcing my mind back to tactical assessment rather than anticipation.

Dmitri conducts the expected security sweep, his deference to my position now formalized by Markov's arrangement. "The diplomatic files are prepared in Conference Room Three," he reports with professional detachment. "Miss Markova's car is five minutes out."

"I'll conduct personal inspection before her arrival," I inform him, the perfect image of security-conscious lieutenant. "Standard protocol."

He nods, accepting the transparent excuse without question. My rapid advancement has created its own mythology among Markov's men—stories of ruthlessness, tactical brilliance, and unwavering loyalty. Useful cover for my true purpose.

Alone in the elevator, I allow myself one moment of weakness. I close my eyes, pressing my palm against the cool metal wall, remembering my parents' faces before Markov's men killed them. Remembering my brother's screams. Remembering why I'm really here, why nothing—not even Anastasia—can be allowed to interfere with vengeance five years in the making.

Conference Room Three offers exactly what I need—a space designed for secure negotiations, its surveillance systems sophisticated yet known to me through months of careful intelligence gathering. The room's southeast corner provides the only camera blind spot, created by an architectural quirk Markov's security team has never corrected.

Perfect for what follows.

I sense Anastasia's arrival before she appears—the subtle shift in security posture, the momentary elevation in radio chatter. My body responds with embarrassing immediacy—pulse elevating, muscles tensing, heat flooding my system. I force control with practiced discipline, positioning myself at the window, back to the door, creating the illusion of being absorbed in documents while maintaining perfect awareness of my surroundings.

The door opens. Her scent reaches me first—something floral yet subtle, undercut with notes that remind me of Paris. Deliberately different from the perfume she wore last night, perhaps attempting to minimize sensory triggers. The subtle sound of her breathing, the soft click of her heels on the polished floor, the rustling of silk as she moves.

"Mr. Baranov." Her voice is perfectly modulated, professional courtesy layered over cold distance. "I wasn't expecting you to arrive before me."

I turn, allowing myself to truly look at her in the unforgiving daylight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The blue silk blouse and tailored skirt project business professional while accentuating curves that seem subtly fuller than I remember from Paris. Her face thinner, cheekbones more pronounced, eyes holding shadows that speak of secrets and private battles. A thin gold chain disappears beneath her blouse—something she didn't wear in Paris.

Beautiful in a way that transcends physical attributes—dangerous in ways that extend far beyond her father's protection.

"Security protocols require advance assessment," I respond, watching her reaction as she realizes we're momentarily alone. "Standard procedure for high-value meetings."

"High-value." Something flashes behind her composed expression—anger, perhaps, or something darker. Her pulse visibly quickens at her throat. "Is that how you categorize this... arrangement? An asset to be secured?"

I move toward her with deliberate casualness, maintaining professional distance while positioning us gradually toward the surveillance blind spot. "Value is determined by strategic importance. This alliance represents significant organizational advantage."

"How calculating." She places her portfolio on the conference table. Nothing in her demeanor betrays our Paris connection or our confrontation in the garden last night. "Entirely appropriate for a Bratva transaction."

"Precisely what this is." I study her with professional detachment despite the heat building beneath my skin at her proximity, the scent of her perfume making my mouth go dry. "A mutually beneficial arrangement between organizations."

"Organizations." She nearly laughs, though no humor reaches her eyes. "Such a sanitized term for what we both represent."

Her gaze meets mine directly, challenge evident beneath perfect composure. This close, I notice details missed last night—the slight shadows beneath carefully applied makeup, the tension in her shoulders beneath silk, the way her fingers occasionally clench and release as if controlling some deeper emotion.

"Let's be perfectly clear, Mr. Baranov." My surname from her lips carries disdainful emphasis. "This arrangement serves my father's objectives. Nothing more."

"We're in agreement, then." I take another casual step, bringing us closer to the blind spot while maintaining conversation volume for any listening devices. The space between us charges with dangerous electricity. "Professional collaboration for mutual advantage."

"Professional." Now bitterness tinges her perfect control. Her scent envelops me—something floral and distinctly feminine, making my head swim with memories of Paris. "Is that what you consider your behavior in Paris? Professional?"

The direct acknowledgment of our shared history creates momentary opportunity. I take it, moving with sudden speed to guide her into the surveillance blind spot, hand at her elbow applying just enough pressure to communicate intention without force. Her skin burns hot through the silk of her blouse.

"Careful, Anastasia," I murmur, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Some conversations are best conducted without audience."

She jerks away from my touch, controlled fury replacing diplomatic reserve. "Don't touch me. Don't ever?—"

"What game are you playing?" I interrupt, voice low but intensity undisguised. "The perfect Bratva princess agreeing to this arrangement? Following your father's orders without question? That's not the woman I met in Paris."

Color floods her cheeks, the first genuine reaction breaking through her mask. "You know nothing about me. Nothing about who I really am or what I want."

"I know more than you think." I step closer, invading her space deliberately. Testing boundaries, assessing responses—searching for leverage points beneath her perfect facade. Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating despite her anger. "I know how you respond when truly touched. I know the sounds you make when?—"

The slap catches me by surprise—not the act itself, but the strength behind it. Her palm connects with my cheek with enough force to snap my head sideways, the sting immediate and sharp, metallic taste blooming in my mouth.

---