Page 66 of Obsessive Vows

"Affirmative. Subject displayed elevated respiration and flushed skin tone following communication. Security blackout protocols implemented immediately after call completion."

Elevated respiration. Flushed skin. Physical reactions I remember from Paris—from her response to my touch, my voice, my body against hers. Physical reactions now triggered by communication with an unknown recipient.

The tumbler shatters in my grip, crystal shards and amber liquid spattering across hardwood floor. The sharp pain of glass cutting into my palm barely registers against the more acute sensation in my chest. Yuri doesn't flinch, his expression betraying nothing of what he might think about his commander's momentary loss of control.

"Blyad," I hiss, looking down at my bleeding hand with detached interest.

"Clean that up," I order, turning back to the evidence board, blood dripping unheeded onto the floor. "Then implement surveillance upgrade at all known communication points. I want audio transmission, not just visual confirmation."

"Sir, the technical challenges of penetrating her encryption?—"

"Find a way." My tone ends further discussion, the words emerging through clenched teeth. "I want to know who she's contacting. What she's saying. Why she requires such extreme security measures for supposedly diplomatic communications."

"Yes, sir." Yuri hesitates, then adds with careful neutrality, "Medical kit for your hand?"

I glance down at the blood pooling in my palm, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the more complex ache spreading through my chest. "Not necessary."

I dismiss Yuri with a gesture, returning to my obsessive study of the patterns before me. The professional mask I've constructed throughout my mission slips in these private moments, revealing something I've denied since that night in Paris—something that threatens the mission more fundamentally than any security protocol or Bratva alliance.

Jealousy. Raw and visceral and entirely inappropriate for a man whose sole purpose is vengeance.

Who is she calling? What connection demands such elaborate security? The possibilities torment me—a lover kept secret from her father's organization? A separate alliance beyond Bratva knowledge? Political leverage being accumulated for eventual power play?

The thought of her skin flushing for another man, her breath quickening at another voice, makes me want to put my fist through the wall. I force myself to breathe, to regain the control that has defined my existence for years.

After dedicating half a decade to destroying Mikhail Markov with single-minded focus, I now find myself increasingly consumed by his daughter's secrets rather than his vulnerabilities.

Hours later, when the bleeding has stopped and my rage has cooled to something more manageable, I sit alone in the surveillance room. The lights are dimmed, the only illumination coming from the monitors that continue to track Anastasia's world. I force my attention back to the surveillance photos spread across my desk—Markov meeting with government officials at his private dacha. Documentation of bribes exchanged, blackmail material changing hands, the corrupt foundations of his power empire laid bare through months of careful intelligence gathering.

The evidence I need to destroy him grows daily yet increasingly shares space in my mind with questions about Anastasia.

I built my life around vengeance. Five years of single-minded purpose, of infiltration, of becoming exactly what I needed to be to get close to Markov. Five years where nothing mattered except making him pay for what he did to my family.

What happens when something matters more?

The thought ambushes me, dangerous in its simplicity. I push it away, yet it returns with greater force. What happens when the mission is no longer the only thing that defines me?

The engagement ring sits in its velvet box beside the surveillance photos—platinum setting holding a flawless diamond that conceals a miniature tracking device within its mounting. The perfect blend of Bratva romance and operational security. A symbol of possession and surveillance in equal measure.

I open the box, studying how the stone catches the dim light, refracting it into fractured patterns across the desk. My fingers trace the cold metal, feeling the hidden compartment where the tracking device rests. Technology disguised as romance—like everything in my relationship with Anastasia.

I close the box with sudden disgust, turning away from both the ring and the surveillance photos. The mission remains absolute—Mikhail Markov will pay for my family's murder, his empire will collapse around him, justice long denied will finally be delivered.

Yet increasingly, I wonder about collateral damage. About Anastasia, caught between father and fiancé, neither of whom are what they appear to be.

About what happens to her when the mission concludes.

* * *

The Sokolov estatedisplays old Bratva wealth without the restraint of Markov's more sophisticated aesthetic—gold fixtures, ostentatious artworks, security personnel whose weapons remain deliberately visible rather than concealed. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors, while priceless Fabergé collections sit in glass cases like trophies of Russian criminal aristocracy. The air is thick with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the undercurrent of fear that follows powerful men.

Our engagement party, hosted by Nikolai Sokolov as gesture of alliance between organizations, surrounds us with opulence and watchful eyes. Bratva protocol dictates specific formalities—the order of arrivals, the seating arrangements, the ritual toasts that acknowledge hierarchy within the organization. Every interaction carries subtext, every conversation potentially monitored for weaknesses or opportunities.

I arrive early, positioning myself to observe the entrance, needing to see Anastasia's arrival rather than meeting her directly. My jaw tightens as I wait, muscles tensing with anticipation that has nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with the woman herself.

When she enters on her father's arm, the room shifts subtly around her. Conversations pause, gazes follow her movement, the atmosphere changing in response to her presence. She wears blue—a gown that leaves her shoulders bare, skin pale and perfect under crystal chandeliers. The neckline is higher than her collarbones, and I see the thin silver chain of her necklace, the rest hidden beneath her dress. Her hair is swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the vulnerable curve where it meets her shoulder.

I watch her from across the room, cataloging every detail—the perfect posture, the practiced smile, the careful distance she maintains from those who approach to congratulate her. Only I see the tension beneath her composure, the vigilance behind her social grace. Only I recognize the prison she navigates with such apparent ease.

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