Page 9 of Obsessive Vows

"My penthouse." His eyes meet mine, something predatory and protective warring in his gaze. "Don't worry, Anastasia Mikhailovna. If I wanted to harm you, I would have simply let those men finish their work."

My name in his mouth should terrify me. Instead, it sends an inexplicable thrill down my spine.

"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

Rain streams down the windows, transforming Paris into a watery impressionist painting beyond the glass. His profile is sharp against this blurred backdrop, jaw clenched as he appears to debate his answer.

"Viktor," he finally says, offering nothing more.

One name. A first step into unknown territory.

The taxi pulls away from the curb, carrying me deeper into the Paris night, deeper into mystery, deeper into danger. I should feel afraid. Instead, as the storm rages outside and this dangerous man sits beside me, I feel more alive than I have in twenty-three years of protected captivity.

Mother would understand. Father would kill us both.

"Viktor," I repeat, tasting the name, committing it to memory. "Thank you for the rescue."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Don't thank me yet, Anastasia. The night is still young."

4

VIKTOR

Iwatch her as the elevator ascends to the penthouse floor. Twenty-seventh to thirty-first floors, private access, multiple exit routes, comprehensive security—the perfect safe house disguised as a luxury residence. She stands elegantly straight despite her injuries, chin lifted, eyes forward. The calm, proud Bratva princess, betraying nothing.

But I see the minute tremors in her hand, the carefully controlled breathing pattern meant to manage pain. She's trained, this one. Not just in the social graces expected of Markov's heir, but in something more practical, more dangerous.

Interesting.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime. I key in the security code and allow biometric scanners to confirm my identity before the doors slide open to my private foyer.

"Welcome to my humble abode," I say, gesturing her inside. The irony isn't lost on me—there's nothing humble about this place with its soaring ceilings, wall-to-wall windows, and meticulously curated décor. The penthouse, like everything else in my carefully constructed life, is a tactical asset designed to reinforce my cover as an international businessman with underworld connections.

Every detail has been selected to project a specific image—old money elegance with subtle displays of power, nothing ostentatious enough to suggest insecurity, nothing modest enough to suggest weakness. The perfect environment to entertain Bratva elites, government officials, and the occasional law enforcement agent requiring discreet incentives.

Anastasia Markov steps inside, taking in her surroundings with an appraising eye that misses nothing. I watch her gaze cataloging details—the security panel by the door, the sight lines to various exits, the positioning of furnishings. Not the assessment of someone admiring décor. The assessment of someone calculating tactical advantages.

Again, interesting.

"Your security is impressive," she says, moving toward the windows overlooking Paris, the storm still raging across the cityscape. "Retinal scanner, voice recognition, and what I assume is a weight-sensitive foyer floor to detect additional entrants."

I raise an eyebrow. "You have a good eye."

"My father is Mikhail Markov. I grew up memorizing security protocols before I learned fairy tales." She turns to face me, rainwater still dripping from her hair, blood drying on her temple. "Do you have a first aid kit, Viktor?"

The way she says my name—sensual in her voice—sends an unexpected current through me. I've allowed her the familiarity of my first name only, maintaining security. Yet hearing it on her lips feels dangerously intimate.

"Bathroom through there." I nod toward a hallway. "First aid kit in the cabinet. Towels in the closet. Help yourself."

She hesitates, hands smoothing over her ruined dress. "I don't suppose you have something I could change into?"

"Second door on the right. Bedroom. You'll find something suitable in the dresser."

Her eyebrow arches slightly. "You keep women's clothing on hand?"

"I keep contingencies on hand." I move to the kitchen, extracting ice from the freezer. "For all possible scenarios."

"Including rescuing drowned Bratva princesses?"

---