Page 10 of Obsessive Vows

I wrap the ice in a clean towel. "Including ensuring any guest can leave my home without drawing undue attention. Men's clothes would be conspicuous on you."

She accepts this explanation with a slight nod, then disappears down the hallway. The moment I hear the bathroom door close, I move.

Thirty seconds to check her purse—Italian leather, expensive but not ostentatious, containing standard items plus the tactical knife, a burner phone, and her actual passport hidden in a false bottom compartment. Interesting that she travels with her true documentation rather than the diplomatic alternatives the Markov organization certainly provides.

Another forty-five seconds to copy the data from her primary phone—secured with impressive encryption, another mark of someone who understands the value of privacy in our world.

I carefully return everything to its precise position, then move to my security terminal, checking external cameras while initiating a passive scan for surveillance devices she might be carrying, intentionally or otherwise. The scan returns clean. Either she's truly here alone and unmonitored, or her countersurveillance technology exceeds my detection capabilities.

Given who her father is, either scenario is possible.

The shower turns on. I pour two glasses of vodka—not the commercial swill served in trendy Paris nightclubs, but proper Russian vodka, ice-cold and pure. A small test. Will she recognize the quality, or has Mikhail Markov's daughter been sheltered from the authentic traditions of our world?

While waiting, I check the secure terminal hidden behind a false panel in my office. Anton has left seventeen messages, progressing from irritation to genuine concern. I type a brief encrypted response:

Asset secure. Situation contained. Will contact at 0600.

His reply is immediate:Confirm status and intentions.

I consider how to answer. What exactly are my intentions with Anastasia Markov? The strategic value is obvious—direct access to Mikhail Markov's only weakness. The risks are equally clear. Any connection to her potentially exposes my true identity before I'm positioned to strike.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as unexpected possibilities unfold in my mind. What began as a tactical necessity to prevent rival Bratva from capturing her has evolved into... something else. Something potentially useful, potentially dangerous.

I type:Developing additional intel channels. Maintaining cover. Standby.

Vague enough to buy time while I assess the situation. I close the terminal as the shower shuts off, returning to the living room with detached casualness.

Ten minutes later, she emerges. She's found a simple black silk shirt and matching pants from my collection of emergency attire. Her wet hair is combed back from her face, revealing the full symmetry of her features—high cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes dark and intelligent beneath perfectly arched brows. The resemblance to Mikhail is there in the bone structure, the commanding presence, but there's something else, something uniquely hers. A certain watchfulness. A contained intensity.

She's cleaned the blood from her temple, revealing a cut that's already stopped bleeding. She carries herself with remarkable composure for someone who was attacked, rescued by a stranger, and now stands in his home wearing borrowed clothes.

I offer her the vodka without comment.

She accepts it, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange—another jolt of unexpected electricity. She examines the clear liquid, then raises it to her nose, inhaling slightly before taking a measured sip.

A smile touches her lips—the first genuine expression I've seen from her. "Beluga Gold Line. My grandfather's favorite."

Another test passed.

"You know your vodka," I observe, taking a seat in one of the armchairs, deliberately giving her space rather than crowding her. Every move calculated to put her at ease while maintaining my advantage.

"Among other things." She takes the chair opposite me, wincing slightly as she sits. The rib injury from her attacker's punch, no doubt.

"Let me see." I set my glass down, moving toward her with clinical purpose.

She stiffens. "It's fine."

"It's not." I stop just short of her personal space. "I've broken enough ribs to recognize the symptoms. If it's just bruised, we can manage it here. If it's fractured, you might need medical attention."

"Are you a doctor now, as well as a rescuer?"

"I'm a man of many talents." I hold her gaze, challenge and something more complex passing between us. "May I?"

After a pause, she nods once, setting her vodka aside.

I kneel before her chair, maintaining professional distance as I gently probe the area where I saw the attacker strike. Her muscles tense beneath my touch, but she makes no sound, doesn't flinch even when I find the tender spot along her left side.

"Bruised, not broken," I conclude, withdrawing my hand, though the warmth of her body lingers against my fingertips. "Ice it for twenty minutes, then again in the morning."

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