Page 23 of Obsessive Vows

"What is it?" Anastasia asks, reading my expression.

"They've breached the penthouse. And they've identified our extraction team." I curse in Russian, a string of obscenities flowing in the rhythmic pattern that characterizes my crisis mode. "Nyjno nayti drugjyu dorogu. Syechass!" We need another way. Now!

Anton's next message confirms my fears: ORIGINAL EXTRACTION COMPROMISED. PROCEED TO CONTINGENCY POINT DELTA. 10 MINUTES MAXIMUM.

Delta. The emergency extraction point we established for catastrophic failure. Nearly two kilometers away, through Petrov-controlled territory, with a rapidly closing window.

I turn to Anastasia, reevaluating options. "Change of plans. Our extraction point is compromised. We have a secondary option, but the route is... problematic."

She doesn't hesitate. "Lead the way. I'll keep up."

For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine a different world—one where this remarkable woman could be a partner rather than collateral damage in my vengeance against her father. A world where her tactical acumen, her calm under pressure, her surprising knowledge of Bratva operations might serve alongside mine rather than ultimately against me.

The fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. Reality reasserts itself with brutal clarity. I am Viktor Baranov-Sokolov, avenger of a murdered family. She is Anastasia Markov, daughter of my sworn enemy. There is no future where these truths align.

"This way," I say, pushing sentiment aside as I lead her toward an uncertain escape. "And Anastasia?"

She looks at me, those intelligent eyes seeming to read far more than I wish to reveal.

"Whatever happens after Paris," I say, the words emerging before I can analyze their wisdom, "remember that last night was real."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, perhaps, at this unexpected vulnerability from a man who has revealed so little of himself. "I'll hold you to that, Viktor."

As we move through darkened passages toward an uncertain extraction, the weight of what I've done—compromising my mission to let this woman get under my skin—should feel crushing. Instead, a strange sense of inevitability settles over me, as if all roads were always leading to this moment, this choice… to her.

The vengeance I've planned for Markov himself now competes with something entirely unexpected—the desire to protect Anastasia, even knowing who she is, what she represents.

I check my watch. Eight minutes until our extraction window closes. Eight minutes to navigate through Petrov territory with the daughter of Mikhail Markov by my side. Eight minutes that will either save or destroy everything I've built.

"Run,"I tell her simply.

And together, we do.

7

ANASTASIA

"Please tell me you had scandalous sex with at least one gorgeous Frenchman. My life is a wasteland of boring oligarch sons, and I need to live vicariously through someone."

Lena Rostova leans against her gleaming black Mercedes in the VIP section of Sheremetyevo Airport, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose despite Moscow's characteristic gray skies.

My mind jerks me back against my will to my one night of freedom several nights ago… my first evening in Paris. Viktor. The rescue. The sex. The way he looked when he said, “Mine.” Then there was the escape… and the inevitable parting. Every step we ran from the penthouse I could see his walls going up. I knew what would happen. It was inevitable. But it still hurt.

“Don’t leave like this,” I’d whispered, searching for softness in his gaze.

I found none.

“I’m sorry.” Regret flashed in those silver eyes for barely a second. Then, he was gone.

I was escorted by a man who met us on our escape route, taken to a safe hotel where I pretended for the rest of my week in Paris that Viktor meant nothing…

I learned then how hard it can be to lie.

I feel disappointment flood me even now as I stand here, forcing a smile at my friend. As my father's security team loads my luggage into a separate vehicle, I brighten my smile for my best friend's benefit.

"Hello to you too, Lena."

She engulfs me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and genuine affection. "Don't 'hello' me after disappearing to Paris for a week. I want details, Nastya. Preferably filthy ones."

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