Page 24 of Obsessive Vows

If she only knew.

"It was Paris, not a brothel," I say, sliding into the passenger seat of her car. "Museums. Shopping. Cafés. Very cultural."

Lena snorts, pulling away from the curb with her usual disregard for speed limits. "Cultural, my ass. You finally escape your father's compound and you spent the time looking at old paintings? I don't believe you."

I turn toward the window, watching Moscow's familiar skyline emerge through patches of fog. The glass is cool against my forehead, grounding me in this reality—so far removed from Viktor's penthouse, from his hands on my skin, from the brief, impossibly intoxicating freedom I'd tasted.

The city envelops me with its heavy, distinctive atmosphere—not the light, champagne-bubble air of Paris, but something weighty with history and unspoken threats. Even the scent is different; where Paris filled my lungs with pastry-sweet warmth and night-blooming jasmine, Moscow greets me with diesel fumes, the metallic tang of approaching snow, and the unmistakable cold sterility of power that represents everything connected to my father.

"You're being suspiciously quiet." Lena's voice softens as she glances sideways at me. "Something happened, didn't it?"

For a moment, I consider telling her everything—the attack in the alley, Viktor's rescue, the night that followed. Lena is the closest thing to a confidante I have in this world. The only person who sees me as something more than Mikhail Markov's daughter.

But even she doesn't know everything. Couldn't understand the complex tangle of emotion and obligation that defines my existence.

"Just thinking about coming back to all this." I gesture vaguely at the security vehicle following us at a discreet distance. "Paris was... simpler."

"Bullshit." Lena merges into traffic with aggression. "I know that look. That's not an 'I miss Paris' face. That's an 'I met someone' face."

I roll my eyes, though the accuracy of her assessment sends a jolt through me. "Not everything is about men, Lena."

"Of course not. Sometimes it's about women. I don't judge." She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Was she beautiful? Artistic? Did she take you to her little garret apartment and make passionate?—"

"There was no woman," I interrupt, unable to suppress a laugh despite myself.

"So therewasa man!" She slaps the steering wheel triumphantly. "I knew it! Tell me everything—name, nationality, profession, penis size. In that order."

"Lena!" I feel heat rising to my cheeks, memories of Viktor's body over mine, inside mine, flashing unbidden through my mind.

"Oh my god," she breathes, shooting me a scandalized look. "You actually slept with someone. Holy shit, Nastya. I was joking, but you actually did it."

"Keep your eyes on the road before you kill us both." I stare resolutely out the window, cursing my fair complexion and its telltale blush.

"No changing the subject. Who is he? Will you see him again? Does your father know? Please tell me your father doesn't know."

The rapid-fire questions slam into me like physical blows. Who is he? I'm not entirely sure. Viktor Baranov—a name that could be real or fabricated, a man with lethal skills and hidden agendas. Will I see him again? His parting words suggested our paths would cross, though under changed circumstances I can't begin to anticipate. Does my father know? The thought sends ice through my veins.

"It was nothing," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "A vacation fling. Already forgotten."

Lena shoots me a skeptical look. "You've never had a 'fling' in your life, Nastya. You vetted your high school boyfriend more thoroughly than the FSB vets their operatives."

"Maybe Paris changed me." I offer a tight smile, hoping she'll drop the subject.

She studies me for a long moment at the next red light, her expression shifting from teasing to concerned. "Are you okay? Really?"

The simple question nearly breaks me. Am I okay? I don't know. I feel hollowed out, as if Viktor took something essential when he left—something beyond my physical innocence. Some final illusion about freedom, about choice, about the possibility of a life outside the one preordained for me.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just jet lagged."

"Hmm." Lena doesn't believe me but mercifully changes the subject. "Well, you missed all the excitement here. Anton Rogov's engagement to Marina Lidova imploded spectacularly at the Kozminsky gala. Apparently, he's been sleeping with her sister for months."

I let her chatter wash over me, grateful for the return to the familiar rhythm of Moscow society gossip. For the next twenty minutes, Lena updates me on engagements, betrayals, and business dealings among our closed circle of Bratva elite—information as valuable as currency in our world.

"Oh, and your father's been in meetings non-stop with the Sokolov faction," she adds as we approach the Markov compound. "Something about territorial disputes in Western Europe. The Petrovs are causing problems in Paris, apparently."

My breath catches. "Paris?"

"Mmm, yes. Something about an incident with Petrov men in an alley. Two of them hospitalized." She shrugs, unaware of how her casual words have sent my heart racing. "Typical Bratva pissing contest, but your father seems particularly interested in this one."

---