Page 89 of Obsessive Vows

"We should nail down the security details for the ceremony," I say, falling back on work because it's safer than feelings. "Response plans for anything unexpected."

"Anastasia." My name in his mouth is soft, nothing like his usual commanding tone. "We can't keep pretending this is just business."

His directness cuts through my defenses, exposing the mess of feelings I've been fighting since Sofia arrived. The attraction that never died, the possibility of something real between us.

"What exactly are we pretending about?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady while my pulse races. "Beyond the arrangement we already have?"

He steps closer, giving me plenty of time to back away. I don't move. His hand rises to my face, fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who can kill with those same hands. My body reacts instantly—nipples tightening, heat pooling between my thighs.

"This," he says simply, his voice rougher now. "Whatever this is between us. It's been there since Paris. It's still here, despite everything."

"We have an agreement about Sofia," I say, but I'm leaning into his touch, my body betraying every word. "About keeping her safe."

"Is that all?" His thumb traces my cheekbone, sending shivers down my spine. "Just an agreement? Nothing more?"

His question demands honesty, even when lies would be safer. "You know it's not," I admit, the words feeling like jumping off a cliff. "But it's complicated—what you want with my father, who we are, everything."

"What matters more?" His hand slides to my waist, heat burning through my clothes. "What's bigger than this? Than us?"

"Your mission to destroy my father," I remind him, even as I step closer, my hands landing on his chest where I can feel his heart racing like mine. "Years of planning don't just disappear."

"They don't," he agrees, surprising me with his honesty. His fingers thread through my hair, tilting my face up. "But priorities change when something—someone—matters more. You. Sofia."

"Sofia," I echo, understanding what he's saying.

"Sofia," he confirms, his lips hovering just above mine. "And you. The woman who gives me something to want beyond revenge."

His words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I've kept guarded for years. Before I can find words, his mouth claims mine—gentle at first, then hungry, shattering every defense I've built. I open for him instantly, his tongue sliding against mine as my body presses closer, feeling him hard against me.

"Bedroom," I gasp when he breaks away, his teeth grazing sensitive skin along my neck, triggering memories of Paris passion. "Now."

No calculation or diplomatic precision—just raw need transcending complicated history or organizational positioning. He lifts me with effortless strength, my legs wrapping around his waist, feeling his arousal pressing hard and insistent against the thin fabric between us. The friction sends jolts of electricity through my core, making me rock against him instinctively.

His mouth reclaims mine as he carries me through the compound, never breaking connection, navigating with spatial awareness that reflects operative training now employed for entirely different purpose. One of his hands slides beneath my thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh with possessive pressure that will leave marks—marks I already crave as evidence of what's happening between us.

The bedroom door closes behind us, and suddenly we're in our own world—a space where Bratva politics and vengeance missions don't exist. Viktor sets me down, his eyes dark with hunger that sends a shiver through me.

"I want to see all of you," he says, his voice rough in a way I've never heard before.

His hands move to my blouse, undoing each button with maddening slowness. Each brush of his knuckles against my skin feels deliberate, designed to drive me crazy. When he pushes the fabric apart to reveal my black lace bra, the way his breath catches makes heat flood through me.

"I've thought about this," he confesses, tracing the edge of lace with one finger. "Since Paris. Since you walked back into my life. I tried to focus on the mission, but you were always there, in my head."

The honesty in his voice pulls truth from me too. "I tried to hate you," I admit, pulling his shirt up and over his head, revealing the map of scars across his skin. My fingers trace the worst one, a jagged line that curves around his ribs. "For leaving. For coming back as his lieutenant. For making everything so damn complicated."

"And now?" His hands pause at my bra clasp, uncertainty flashing in eyes that never show weakness.

"Now I get it," I say, running my palms over the hard planes of his chest, feeling his heart hammering against my touch. "Why you left. Why you came back. It wasn't just strategy or betrayal."

"It doesn't erase what I missed," he says quietly, a rare vulnerability in his voice as he finally unhooks my bra. "Time with you. With her. Moments we can't get back."

"No," I agree, my hands moving to his belt. "But we're here now. That's what matters."

His eyes darken to storm-cloud gray, and then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and fierce as my bra falls away. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, gasping against his mouth. When his lips replace his hands, the wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple sends electricity straight to my core.

I manage to get his belt undone and his zipper down, pushing fabric aside until I can take him in my hand—hot and hard, pulsing against my palm. The sharp intake of his breath when I touch him feels like power, like victory.

"Anastasia," he groans, my name both warning and plea as he strips away the rest of our clothes until there's nothing between us—no secrets, no barriers, just skin against skin.

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