Page 13 of Obsessive Vows

"What occupation requires these particular skills, I wonder?" she murmurs. "Emergency field medicine, hand-to-hand combat expertise, high-level security protocols? Either military or intelligence background, I'd guess, before whatever 'independent contractor' work you do now."

Too perceptive by half. I finish with the bandage, stepping back to a safer distance. "You ask a lot of questions for someone in your position."

"My position being what, exactly?"

"Guest. Injured party. Woman alone in a strange man's home."

She smiles slightly. "All temporary conditions. By tomorrow, I'll be Anastasia Markov again, with all the protections and limitations that entails."

"And tonight?" The question escapes before I can analyze its wisdom.

Her eyes meet mine in the bathroom mirror, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "Tonight I'm just Anastasia. No father, no Bratva, no expectations."

The air between us charges with electricity that has nothing to do with the storm outside. I should step back. I should maintain discipline. I should remember who she is, who I am, and what I've spent five years working toward.

Instead, I find myself mesmerized by the pulse at her throat, the slight parting of her lips, the challenge in her gaze that mirrors something awakening in my own chest—something I thought dead and buried with my brother in the Moscow snow.

"It's late," I say finally, breaking the moment before it consumes us both. "You should rest."

Relief and disappointment flash across her face in equal measure. "Yes. Probably wise."

I show her to the guest room, pointing out the essential features—bathroom, climate controls, secure phone if needed. "If you require anything during the night?—"

"I'm sure I'll manage." She steps inside, one hand on the doorframe, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. "Thank you, Viktor. For the rescue, the medical attention, the hospitality."

"Consider it a professional courtesy." I take a step back, establishing safe distance. "Between two people who understand the complexities of our world."

She nods, something unspoken passing between us. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Anastasia Mikhailovna."

The door closes between us with a soft click, followed by the distinct sound of the lock engaging. Smart woman. I stand there longer than I need to, listening to her movements on the other side—soft footsteps, the rustle of bedcovers, silence.

Finally, I return to my office, activating the security monitors. All systems normal. No pursuit from the alley incident. No unusual activity around her hotel or my building. For now, we're secure.

I should contact Anton, update him on the developing situation, strategize our next moves. I should review the intelligence gathered from her phone. I should maintain discipline and remember that she is a means to an end—nothing more than the key to destroying Mikhail Markov.

Instead, I find myself returning to the living room, pouring another vodka, staring out at the storm-lashed Paris night while my mind replays every expression that crossed her face, every word she spoke, every moment our eyes met in silent communication.

I've spent five years becoming a weapon aimed at the heart of Mikhail Markov. Cold. Precise. Unwavering.

Yet tonight, with his daughter sleeping behind a locked door in my guest room, I feel something new awakening in me. Something that threatens everything I've built. I should feel triumphant. Through her, I can enact my revenge on her father. But I don’t.

I drain the vodka, welcoming its familiar burn. Tomorrow I'll recalibrate, reassess, return to the disciplined focus that has carried me this far. I'll use whatever intelligence I can gather from this unexpected encounter and incorporate it into my larger strategy. I'll turn this potential liability into a tactical advantage.

But tonight, as lightning illuminates the Parisian skyline and thunder echoes like distant artillery, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding since I first saw her walking out of that hotel.

Anastasia Markov is a complication I never anticipated. And complications get people killed.

5

ANASTASIA

Sleep eludes me, despite the luxurious comfort of the guest bed.

Images from the evening cycle through my mind like fragments of a fever dream—the attackers in the alley, Viktor's lethal tactics as he dispatched them, the storm-soaked taxi ride, this opulent penthouse with its military-grade security. The way his fingers felt against my skin as he tended to my wounds, clinical yet somehow intimate.

I've spent my life surrounded by dangerous men. My father. His captains. The politicians and oligarchs who frequent our Moscow home. I've learned to recognize power in its various manifestations—the overt brutality of enforcers, the cold calculation of strategists, the deceptive charm of negotiators.

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