Page 14 of Obsessive Vows

Viktor embodies all these forms simultaneously, shifting between them with disconcerting ease. A chameleon. A contradiction. A puzzle I can't seem to stop trying to solve.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM. Outside, the storm continues its assault on Paris, rain lashing against the windows, occasional lightning illuminating the room in stark flashes of white. Another sleepless night in another unfamiliar place—though this one feels decidedly more dangerous than most.

With a sigh, I abandon the pretense of sleep, slipping from beneath silken sheets. The hardwood floor feels cool beneath my bare feet as I move to the window, parting the curtains further to gaze at rain-washed Paris. The city of lights transformed into impressionist smears of color and shadow.

A soft tap at the door startles me.

"Anastasia?" Viktor's voice, low and controlled. "Are you alright? I heard you get up."

Of course he monitors even the slightest change in his environment. I consider ignoring him, pretending to be asleep, maintaining the fragile barrier between us.

Instead, I unlock the door.

He stands in the hallway, backlit by subtle lighting. He's changed from his earlier clothes into loose black pants and a t-shirt that does nothing to conceal the sculpted physique beneath. His silver eyes assess me with that same calculating intensity that simultaneously unnerves and intrigues me.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

I shake my head. "The storm."

A transparent excuse. We both know the weather isn't what keeps me awake.

"I made tea," he offers unexpectedly. "Russian style. It helps, sometimes."

Such a mundane suggestion from a man who almost killed my attackers without hesitation mere hours ago. The contradiction draws me forward almost against my will.

I follow him to the kitchen where a silver samovar simmers, releasing the comforting aroma of strong black tea. He pours the dark liquid into delicate porcelain cups, adding a splash of jam rather than sugar—the traditional Russian method my grandmother favored.

"You surprise me again, Viktor," I say, accepting the offered cup. "Samovars and tea service seem incongruous with your... professional image."

Something like amusement flickers across his face. "We all contain multitudes."

"Some more lethal than others."

"Says the woman who was ready to take down her attacker with a knife." He gestures toward the balcony. "The rain has stopped for the moment. Fresh air might help."

The balcony extends along the entire eastern face of the penthouse, offering a panoramic view of Paris now glistening with residual rainwater under clearing skies. The air smells clean, electric, alive with possibilities only a storm-washed night can bring.

Viktor leans against the railing, profile sharp against the cityscape, steam from his tea curling around his face like phantom thoughts made visible. He seems different out here—less the controlled operative, more a man contemplating something beyond the immediate tactical situation.

"You're not what I expected," I say before I can consider the wisdom of such honesty.

His gaze remains fixed on the horizon. "What did you expect from the man who saved you in an alley?"

"Not this." I gesture vaguely at the penthouse, the tea, the moment. "Not... layers. Complexity."

Now he turns, those silver eyes finding mine. "We're all complex, Anastasia. Even you."

"Especially me." The words escape unbidden, more revealing than intended.

"Tell me." He doesn't move closer, yet somehow the space between us feels diminished. "Who is Anastasia behind the Markov name?"

No one has ever asked me that question. No one has ever seemed to care about the person separate from the position, the bloodline, the objective value.

"I don't know," I admit, the night and his strange gravity pulling truth from me. "I've spent so long being what I'm supposed to be, I'm not sure what remains underneath."

"What are you supposed to be, according to Mikhail Markov?"

I take a sip of tea, buying time, though we both know the answer. "The perfect daughter. The flawless heir. The valuable chess piece to be moved according to strategic advantage."

---