Page 19 of Stolen Empire
Katya Volsky may as well be crack in a smoking pipe begging me to get a fix.
I'm a ruined man if I cave in to my carnal desire to bend her over this desk before I get my answers.
"Fine," she says, her voice tight. "What else do I need to know?"
I pull back, putting space between us, and return to the desk.
My blood is pumping and my cock is straining at the zipper of my slacks, but I try to keep focused on the task at hand.
"You need to know basic terminology. A furlong is about two hundred meters. A maiden race is for horses that haven't won yet. A claiming race is where the horses can be purchased by other owners. If Rodion starts talking specifics, you need to be able to follow along without looking lost."
Katya nods, and I spend the next hour drilling her on terms, race types, and betting strategies.
She asks sharp questions, challenges me when something doesn't make sense, and absorbs everything I throw at her with a focus that's almost unsettling.
By the time we're done, I'm convinced she can handle the assignment.
But I'm also aware of something else.
Watching her work, seeing the way her mind adapts and shifts, the way she leans into the role without hesitation—it stirs feelings I don't want to acknowledge.
She's smart, sharper than most of the men I work with, and there's a ruthlessness beneath her surface that mirrors my own.
It's not professional appreciation.
It's darker, more complicated, and I push it down before it can take root.
"You're ready," I say, leaning back against the desk. "You'll approach him this afternoon. He usually takes his break around three, and he'll be in the card room behind the main stable. Go in, order a drink, and sit close enough to start a conversation. Don't force it. Let him come to you."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then you make it happen. You conned someone into believing you could deliver my prize-winning mare. You can do this."
She stands, her arms still crossed, and looks at me with an expression I can't read.
"Why are you trusting me with this? For all you know, I could walk into that room and tell him exactly what you're planning."
"You could," I admit. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're smart enough to realize that crossing me would be the last mistake you ever make. And because, whether you want to admit it or not, you're starting to understand how this works. You're in my world now, and the only way out is through."
She doesn't respond, but I see the truth settle in her eyes.
She knows I'm right.
"Get out of here," I say, nodding toward the door. "Clean yourself up before this afternoon. You can't walk into that room looking the way you do now."
She turns and walks out, and I watch her go, the door closing behind her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the charts spread across my desk, and I think about the way she looked at me earlier.
The way her body tensed when I leaned close, the way her voice dropped when she challenged me.
This is a complication I don't need.
She's a tool, a means to an end, and I can't afford to see her as anything else.
