Page 63 of Obsessive Vows

"Proceed with heightened surveillance," I instruct, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the constriction in my throat after seeing Sofia. I swallow hard against the lump that forms whenever I see her face. "Report any anomalies immediately, regardless of hour."

"Understood." Professionalism masking the human connection we've established through shared protection of my daughter. "Secure transmission ending in three, two, one."

The line goes dead. I immediately begin the seventeen-step protocol to erase all evidence of the communication—routing masks, proxy disengagement, physical reset of the device's encryption protocols. The ritual brings limited comfort—technical security measures against the gnawing fear that grows daily with each wedding arrangement finalized, each step bringing me closer to unavoidable proximity with Viktor Baranov.

The man who watches me with those silver eyes that reveal nothing while seeing everything. Eyes that Sofia inherited, that look out from my baby's face with innocent curiosity rather than skeptical assessment.

My instincts have always been sharp—honed through years in the Bratva world where survival depends on noticing details others miss. Since returning to Moscow, those instincts scream constant warning. I'm being observed beyond the standard surveillance my father maintains. Subtle patterns in security rotations. Occasional glimpses of unfamiliar faces in predictable locations. The weight of unseen eyes following my movements through the city.

Viktor's eyes. His network. His surveillance, separate from my father's established systems.

What does he suspect? What does he know? The questions plague me constantly, each interaction with him a dangerous dance of revelation and concealment. Would he use knowledge of Sofia against me? Against my father? Or would some buried human instinct recognize his own child and feel... what? Protection? Possession? Rage at being kept ignorant?

I can't risk finding out. Not when Sofia's safety hangs in the balance. There are times I want to give in to my attraction to him, but I cannot. I just can’t trust him, not yet and maybe, not ever. And so I will continue to pretend he means next to nothing to me.

My watch vibrates with a calendar alert—two hours until the engagement photo session. Two hours to prepare my body and mind for forced intimacy with the man who simultaneously represents my greatest threat and most unwelcome weakness.

I move to the bathroom, stripping efficiently for the shower that will remove all traces of perspiration from this morning's secure call. As steam fills the marble enclosure, I catch my reflection in the mirror—body different in subtle ways since Sofia's birth. Fuller breasts despite rigorous exercise to regain my pre-pregnancy figure. The faint pink stretch marks across my abdomen, nearly invisible now but testament to the life I carried.

My fingers trace the fine lines, memories of my swelling belly holding Sofia safe within me. So much has changed in such a short time—the woman in Paris who sought one night of freedom transformed into a mother who would burn the world to protect her child.

Would Viktor notice these changes if given the opportunity? Would he connect them to the timing of our night in Paris? The possibility sends fresh fear through me as I step under scalding water, as if heat alone might burn away evidence of motherhood from my skin.

I scrub until my skin turns red, washing away any trace of vulnerability, any evidence of tears or fear or longing. The water temperature shocks my system, forces my mind into clarity, to the cold calculations necessary for survival. By the time I step out, wrapped in thick towels, I've rebuilt the armor needed to face what comes next.

* * *

The Moscow BotanicalGardens provide an appropriately romantic backdrop for engagement photographs to be distributed through official channels—the public face of a private Bratva alliance. Cherry blossoms create a perfect pink-and-white canopy above manicured paths, their sweet fragrance cloyingly thick in the spring air. Statue gardens offer classical elegance, and carefully positioned security personnel ensure no unwanted observers intrude on the performance.

I feel them watching as my car approaches—my father's men in their obvious positions, and the more subtle presence I've come to recognize as Viktor's separate surveillance. The weight of their gazes crawls across my skin like insects.

Viktor awaits at our designated meeting point, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing broad shoulders and lean strength. The spring sunlight catches on his dark hair, highlighting the perfect grooming that complements his controlled power. Something tightens in my chest at the sight of him—an unwelcome physical response I ruthlessly suppress. Heat blooms low in my belly, a visceral memory of Paris that my body refuses to forget despite every rational objection.

Today is performance, nothing more. A convincing show of romantic connection for photographs that will cement our engagement in the public eye.

"Anastasia." He greets me with practiced warmth, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips in a gesture designed for watching security personnel. His mouth against my skin sends an electric current racing up my arm, unwanted heat following in its wake. His eyes, however, hold something entirely different—calculation, assessment, the predatory focus of a man hunting secrets. "You look beautiful."

I am beautiful today—deliberately so. The blue dress chosen to complement my eyes, subtle makeup enhancing rather than concealing, hair arranged in soft waves rather than my usual severe chignon. Every detail selected to project the image of a woman in love rather than a Bratva asset deployed for political advantage.

"The gardens are lovely this time of year," I respond with equally practiced warmth, aware of watching eyes and the potential for listening devices. My voice reveals nothing of the turmoil beneath or the thundering of my heart against my ribs. "Perfect setting for remembering such a special occasion."

The photographer—an anxious man clearly aware of exactly who he's working for—approaches with professional enthusiasm that barely masks his fear. Sweat beads at his temples despite the mild temperature, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusts his equipment. "If you'll follow me, I've selected several locations with optimal lighting and composition."

What follows is exquisitely choreographed torture—Viktor's hand at the small of my back, guiding me between locations. The heat of his palm burns through the thin silk of my dress, each point of contact between his fingers and my spine a separate point of fire. His arm around my waist for carefully composed shots, his warmth seeping through silk to brand my skin. His fingers entwined with mine, thumb occasionally stroking my wrist in a gesture invisible to cameras but sending unwelcome electricity racing up my arm.

"Look at each other," the photographer instructs, positioning us beneath flowering cherry trees, pale petals drifting down around us like snow. "Like you're sharing a private moment."

Viktor turns to me, those silver eyes suddenly intensely focused. His hand rises to brush a strand of hair from my face, fingertips lingering against my cheek in a touch that appears loving to observers while feeling like deliberate provocation to me. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, distinctly masculine—envelops me, triggering visceral memories of Paris that make my pulse race and my mouth go dry.

"Beautiful," the photographer murmurs, capturing the moment. "The connection between you is palpable."

If only he knew the true nature of that "connection"—the rage and fear and unwanted desire creating a volatile mixture beneath carefully controlled expressions. Viktor's thumb traces my lower lip in another calculated touch, his eyes never leaving mine. My body betrays me, lips parting slightly under his touch, breath catching audibly in my throat.

"Anastasia," he murmurs, voice pitched for my ears alone. "Your pulse is racing."

The observation—accurate and infuriating—reveals he's monitoring my physical responses, noting the betrayal of a body that remembers his touch despite every rational reason to reject it. I feel exposed, as if he can see through fabric and skin to the traitorous response beneath.

Before I can respond, he leans closer, lips brushing my ear under pretense of an affectionate whisper, his breath warm against sensitive skin.

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