Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Happy Thursday!

I'll say it again.

Fuck.

I don't respond for a long moment and instead stare out across the canal, watching the lights from the city reflect and shimmer off the top of the water. Another barge creeps past, and as the seconds tick by, the silence between us stretches and swells, pressing against my senses until it feels like I'll choke from it. Despite the heat pulsing against my skin from the heater, ice crawls down my spine.

I want to kill Boris all over again for this shit.

"Are you going to answer?" Masen asks, and his voice drops, once more dangerously soft.

Dark and sleek, the panther is back, a silent, patient predator waiting to pounce.

"Fine," I say, slowly dragging my gaze away from the water and back to him. I keep my tone flat, my expression neutral, but let the grip on my empty cup tremble, just a little, just enough that someone with his training would instinctively pick it up. "Earlier this evening… I ran into a little trouble."

Masen stills. "What kind of trouble?"

Carefully setting my cup on the table, I offer him a small, vague smile and stare just to his right, another tiny avoidance that I'm banking on him registering as nerves peeking through the bravado. "There was a guy who thought I might be a good mark for a wallet."

"Tonight?" Masen's brows climb. "Before coming over here, you're telling me you were mugged?"

"No," I reply. When the next wave of heat hits my skin, I allow a minute flinch, and my teeth gnaw the inside of my cheek. "Not exactly."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

Fiddling with my zipper, I let the silence do its magic. I swear Alice is going to love this shit because it's damn effective, too. As I stall, Masen's features harden – turn angry even – and his movements grow restless. His fingers drum against the side of his cup.

"I don't carry a wallet when I run," I say, right when Masen opens his mouth to ask again. "The guy wasn't happy about that, so… he knocked me around a little." I shrug and give him another small, hesitant smile. "He wasn't expecting me to hit back. I must have bloodied his nose right before I ran away."

Ramming a hand through his hair, Masen abruptly looks away and then lets out a slow, measured breath that fogs the winter air. The hard brace of his jaw rolls, and those eyes of his, dark and alive, constantly scan up and down the promenade, like he's watching for something, or someone.

It's the most unsettled I've seen him, in person or on surveillance.

And it's fascinating.

But I can't tell if he's pissed that I was attacked, or that his henchman failed.

After a minute, Masen's focus shifts back to me. "You okay to walk?"

"What?" I ask, watching him stand. "I ran over here, didn't I?"

Still searching the promenade, no doubt clocking every single living entity within range, Masen wavers, just for a second, and his mouth mashes into a harsh line. A beat later, he nods, almost as if to himself, and then he tilts his head toward the street and the lamplit city behind us. "Come with me."

"Yeah," I say, leveling him a pointed glare. When I cross my arms over my chest, he tracks the motion. "I don't think so."

Masen sighs, and the muscles beneath his jacket twitch in agitation. When he shifts, I can just make out the subtle twin holster lines sitting against his ribs. "Look," he answers back, softer, wearing another one of those unfathomable expressions of his. "I'm not going to hurt you."

No shit.

I might have to hurt him, though.

That's yet to be decided.

Slowly, I shove out of my chair, keeping to the other side of the table. "Where are we going?"

"Just need to go somewhere a little less public for this conversation." In a handful of quick, efficient moves, Masen flicks off the heater, flips the chairs back on top of the table, and tosses the empty cups into a nearby bin. "Plus, I need to make a call."

Fucking jackpot.

After second of feigned indecision, I dip my chin in reluctant agreement, and without another word, Masen gestures for me to follow.

We exit the promenade north of Schwedenplatz, only to cut across the sparse, dying traffic over to the mouth of the more touristy Rotenturmstraße. This late, the stores and shops are dark, having long-since shuttered their doors for the evening. Here and there, wide, street-facing displays dimly glow, and shadows dance across the sidewalks. Soft, mingled noises pour out of a handful of straggling restaurants, but even those are emptying fast.

Like the inexperienced civilian I'm pretending to be, my head swivels in confusion. "Where are we–"

"Just be patient," Masen murmurs. He ducks down when he says it, right next to my ear, even though his eyes stay on the street and buildings. Like on the promenade, they're moving in a non-stop scan of our surroundings. It takes real effort for me not to do the same. "It's not far."

"I–"

"Trust me."

Yeah, right, buddy.

Masen sets a clipped, purposeful pace and sticks close to the buildings and awnings. We pass the Starbucks a couple of blocks from the canal. At the corner, he slows and glances down, searching my face for what, I don't know. When his fingertips find the curve of my lower back, I startle, but I don't shake him off. Instead, I just arch a questioning brow and let him to steer us onto a less trafficked perpendicular street. Two blocks down, we hang a right, then a left, and then after another short stretch, we turn back right.

We take a half dozen more turns, and as we go, the streets begin to narrow, with some cinching down to little more than cobblestone alleyways and walk-throughs. Tucked in between the buildings, it's dark back in here, too, but Masen doesn't slow, nor does he hesitate.

For my part, I have absolutely no idea where we're going, other than we're steadily following a winding, circuitous path southwest toward the center of the Innere Stadt. Ahead of us, climbing high above the rooflines, the massive, Gothic south tower of St. Stephen's looms larger with each passing minute.

Two streets off Stephansplatz, Masen halts under a ratty looking canopy covering the back service entry of some local boutique hotel. Before I can ask, he hits a buzzer on the side of the door, and a beat later, the lock clicks. Without wasting a moment, we slip inside.

I take one look at the scuffed-up tile and the long, poorly lit hallway in front of us and stop dead in my tracks. "Hold up," I mutter, gripping his sleeve. "This looks like something out of a horror movie."

Masen chuckles, and the light touch of his fingertips turns into a flattened palm against my lower back. "We're just passing through… Call it a short-cut if you'd like."

Interesting.

It's been a while since I've played these kinds of cloak and dagger games.

Sucking in a deep breath, I give him another cautious nod. "It better be. I don't want to have to punch you, too."

True to his word, we quickly traverse the vacant hallway – what looks to be at least half a block in length – and then immediately exit the hotel into a small, rectangular courtyard. Enclosed by tall brick and plaster buildings on all four sides, the space is private and quiet – almost intimate. Small planters and gardens line the hand-laid path cutting through the center. Heavy wrought iron benches, unused and coated in thin layers of gleaming ice, sit at each corner.

Just when I think we're going to stop, we don't. Masen doesn't even pause, and we cross the courtyard in a few short strides, targeting a large, ornately carved oak door going into the building across from the hotel. He taps a code into a keypad, and then he's leading me inside, straight to a set of stairs. We finally stop moving outside a plain, solid gray door on the fourth floor somewhere in the center of the building.

No kidding, my eyebrows are past my fleece headband at this point, and while I'm acting my part, I won't lie. My heart thumps inside my chest a little too fast, and my hands, freezing from our wintry trek, feel clammy.

This is risky – too risky – but it's too late to turn back now.

As soon as we walk in, Masen flips a bank of switches by the door, and I freeze.

Because whatever I was expecting, this isn't it.

Not at all.

Large, modern, bright, and cast in shades of sophisticated gray and white, I'm standing inside a luxury apartment, not some scummy hotel room. Without waiting for permission, I skirt a pair of gray leather sofas and pad across the dark, chevron-patterned wood floor to a set of tall, floor to ceiling windows, framed by thick, snow-white drapes. Judging by the view – a nearly unobstructed vista of the south tower, lit up and glowing in the dark – this place had to have cost a fortune.

"You live here?" I ask, not even trying to hide my disbelief. I'm not faking that either.

Masen peels off his jacket and chucks it across the back of a bar stool tucked underneath a massive marble island splitting the living room and adjacent kitchen. "I lease it."

I swear, Whitlock's going to have a coronary when I tell him about this place, that is, once he gets over me going off script.

Glancing up at the high trayed ceilings and the monochrome artwork decorating the walls, I ask, "How long?"

Now that we're finally out of the public eye, the harsh lines of Masen's face relax, and one corner of his mouth pulls up into a small lop-sided smile. "I've had it a few years."

The place is too neat, too clean. I can't find a speck of dust, yet little things – the wrinkles in the leather cushions, the knot in the shade pull, a pale, white orchid, alive and well, on the table by the window – tell me someone comes here every now and then. "But isn't Mr. Aronov and his…" I frown. "Entourage at the Hotel Sacher?"

Masen's eyes follow me as I circle the room and catalogue the small hints at his taste and personality. "Yes, that's where we're staying."

"That's… I'm confused." Stopping on a white, low-pile rug in the center of the room, I look at him then and note that he's not even bothering to hide the fact that he's armed. A pair of Glocks – not unlike mine – in matching black leather holsters sit strapped against his ribs, one on each side. "Why do you stay at the hotel if you have an apartment?"

Masen doesn't answer. Instead, he just grimaces, unclips his shoulder rig, and lays his weapons on the counter.

Walking over to the opposite end of the island, I touch the smooth, cool stone and trace my finger along a dark, jagged striation. "Does your boss know about this place?" I ask, although I'm pretty sure I already know.

Masen's eyes narrow as they find mine. "He's never asked."

"And you never volunteered." Filing that little tidbit away for later, I wave at the pair of 9mm's. "Is that normal for you? I mean, are you always… armed?"

A chuff of a laugh spills out. "Always."

"That's… disturbing."

He doesn't argue with me there. Pulling out a second bar stool, he just summons me to come over and sit, and as I ease into the surprisingly comfortable seat, those eyes of his resume their non-stop roaming of my face. "Now…" he says, stepping closer until my knees press against the fabric of his jeans. "Where did this guy hit you?"

I'm surprised that this is Masen's lead in, but there's no harm in some partial truth here.

"I didn't realize how few people would be out. I was passing by an alley west of the hotel. A man jumped out, grabbed me, and then threw me into a wall." I pause as Masen's focus shifts to my neck and head. "So yeah, I'll probably have a nasty headache tomorrow and maybe a few bruises on my back."

"What else?"

I run my palm down my left side and I want to smack myself for not hiding that better. "Before I could get out of the way, he managed to punch me in the ribs and then again in the stomach."

"Fuck." Masen mutters something else under his breath. It's low and angry, but otherwise unintelligible, and then he rakes his fingers through his hair in an increasingly familiar tell.

I shrug with put-on casualness. "I was able to get out of the way of most of it. It wasn't much worse than when I used to spar at my local gym."

"Did you see his face?"

"Not really." Huffing out a loud breath, I slump against the short backrest of the stool. "I mean, I was kind of busy trying to get away from him."

"What do you remember?" Masen presses, ignoring the bite in my sarcasm. "Think."

I shoot Masen an irritated scowl, but nonetheless, I make a show of thinking, because I really want to know what the fuck he's going to do with this information. I even close my eyes, like I'm reimagining this horrific, traumatic experience. Honestly, I just want to laugh because Boris wasn't exactly a challenge. That fucker just got a couple of lucky shots because I needed to take him out away from prying eyes and cameras.

"He had a dark beard," I answer after a second. "But he was almost bald, or it was cut really close to the scalp, like some kind of skinhead."

"Height? Weight?"

Easing off the bar stool, I step into Masen's space when he doesn't move and eye him up and down. "He was a little shorter than you, I think, but… bulkier." I take in the black, long-sleeve fitted tee he's wearing, how his wide, athletic shoulders stretch the fabric before tapering down to a trim waist. So close, his abdomen is a veritable maze of sculpted dips and valleys. "Not as lean."

Masen nods. "Anything else?"

I sit back down and tap my finger on my bottom lip. It doesn't escape me that like before, Masen's gaze marks the movement, landing on my mouth. It's a weighty, almost electric sensation and not at all unpleasant. I will myself not to look at his in return. "He had some tattoos, but I couldn't tell what they were. They looked… rough. Like gang tats or something."

"Shit," he mutters. "Where were they?"

"On his neck and his hands. They were on his knuckles, too."

"Goddamnit."

If I thought I was fascinated before, I'm now damned near mesmerized. Masen's beyond unsettled; he's rattled, which says a lot for someone like him.

Catching himself, he wheels away. "Did he say anything to you?"

"Not that I could understand." Shoving a stray ribbon of hair behind my ear, I shake my head. "Whatever he said wasn't in English or German."

"Okay…" Masen takes another step back and dry washes his face. "Give me a minute if you don't mind. I need to make a call. You want something to drink?"

"Water, if you have it."

Reaching into a sleek, stainless-steel refrigerator, he grabs an ice-cold bottle of mineral water and sets it on the marble in front of me before pacing into the living room. Less than a minute later, whoever he's calling picks up, and the two launch into the rapid, abbreviated exchange of two people who know each other well.

"Dima, privet. U menya k tebe bystryy vopros…" Masen says as he ambles over to one of the windows. His Russian is excellent, better than mine, and he doesn't waste a second in getting to the point. "Kaius… ty znayesh', v gorode?"

"Vcherashniy den'?" he asks after a second, and then following another pause, he spits out a low curse. "Fuck."

This is the most I've heard him curse, and I'm not sure what exactly that means.

As they're talking, I crack the cap on my water and take a long drink, washing away the lingering bitterness from my coffee. Like I'm bored and just waiting for him to be done, I pull out my phone and tap a quick message to Whitlock.

The evil emperor's in town. Arrived yesterday.

Whitlock: What? How do you know this? And where the fuck are you?

I'll explain later

Grinning at my phone, I fake a couple of swipes and let my eyes scan down the screen, all the while listening to the man in the room beside me as he bullshits Aro's henchman and mines for information.

Staring out the window, Masen grunts and then laughs at something I can't hear. "Nye, Nye… Ya prosto podumal, chto videl odnogo iz yego brat'yev."

I text Whitlock once more.

Also, be aware, the emperor brought soldiers with him. One down.

Whitlock: Noted. Do you need a ride home?

I'm good for now.

Whitlock: By the way, that other game finished up. No injuries on the playing field.

Good job.

Aro's Dima – or Dmitri – says something. It's loud enough that I hear the rumble of his voice, but with the high ceilings and distance, the words are garbled and lost. In my periphery, I catch Masen stealing short, quick glances over at me as he lists out the same descriptors that I gave him earlier. "Ya ne pomnyu yego imeni. Bol'shoy chelovek… Boroda… Tatuirovki."

Still toying with my phone, I hold my breath and strain to pick up Dmitri's next response. Barely audible, the name Yakov filters through Masen's speaker.

So, Boris the Brawler is actually Yakov the Bratva Enforcer.

Or was.

"Nyet. Eto ne problema," Masen replies. He yanks back one of the drapes to survey the street below. "Mne prosto bylo lyubopytno, pochemu on zdes'."

Only curious, huh?

Dmitri pops back with something else. Barking out another laugh, Masen makes his excuses for his absence from the hotel. His voice stays light and amused – almost like he's a little drunk – but his posture gives him away, though. Those shoulders of his are too stiff, and his knuckles curl around the thick fabric of the curtain. "V otele skuchno… Ya poshel v bar, chtoby vypit'."

Hearing them winding down, I finally look up from my phone, only to find Masen openly staring at me from across the room as he speaks. "Mozhet byt'… Nu ladno togda…" he says, trailing off. He makes another non-committal humming sound before muttering a bored, "Do zavtra," and ending the call.

Walking back over, Masen tosses his phone onto a table by one of the couches. When he props his elbows on the island and drops his forehead onto the heels of his palms, I quietly ask, "So, what was that about?"

"It's nothing."

I look over. "I don't know who you were talking to or what you were saying, but I think you know more than you're telling me, and I think I have the right to know."

Masen scrubs his face in tired aggravation. "If it were up to me, you and your friend would go on your merry way and never look back…"

"No ki–"

"But seeing as how I'm not getting my way," he cuts in, almost angry. "Remember how I told you bad things happened around Aro?"

I take a slow sip of my water. "Yeah?"

"This doesn't have Aro's fingerprints, but it does have those of one his… associates."

I make an appropriately strangled noise. "What? But… why?"

Masen's shoulders roll, from fatigue, bitterness, or anger, or maybe some blend of all three. "Who knows. Some of these people like playing games – very dangerous games for anyone who gets sucked into them – just because they can and just to keep the others on edge…" His chin drops and his chest expands with a slow, deep breath. "These aren't good people, Bella."

I don't answer that one, nor do I ask him the obvious question: If they're not good people, what the fuck are you doing with them?

"Look," he says, angling toward me. Masen's voice goes soft enough that I lean forward without even realizing it. "Aro's dangerous, for sure, but if you ever find yourself alone in a room with a guy named Kaius… Tall, blond, somewhere around forty… You get out of there as fast as you can and then you come find me."

I swallow and reply in the same hushed tones. "It sounds like you know about that from personal experience."

Shadows darken his irises. When he doesn't reply, I clear my throat and say, "So… you're thinking the guy that tried to mug me works for this Kaius person. I still don't get why he'd come after me. I've never met these people."

"I don't know either, but the next time I see him, I'm going to find out."

What I don't tell him is that there's zero probability of that happening. Yakov's never spilling his secrets.

No, by now, that shitty old BMW is sitting in the middle of a chop shop, and Yakov's bouncing along the bottom of the Danube.

A few minutes later, Masen straightens and goes over to the sink. He returns a moment later, holding a plush white cloth, dampened and steaming.

"Take your jacket off." The words come out low and rough.

Shooting him a sideways glance, I comply without a word, peel my jacket off, and toss it on top of his. Masen steps in closer, and this time, his hips bump my knees and pry them apart so he can stand between them. Far more gently than I would have expected, he takes his time wiping Yakov's blood off my neck. As he works, his eyes, still the color of a forest at twilight, move down my face to my neck, where they flit down to where my thermal stretches across my chest.

When he's finished cleaning me off, Masen drops the cloth onto the counter and moves his hands to the back of my head. Slowly, giving me all the time in the world to pull away, his fingers slide into my hair and lightly probe my scalp for the knot I know he'll find. When his fingers dig into one of the tight muscles of my neck, I let out a tiny, unconscious noise of approval. His Adam's apple dips at the sound, and my stomach flutters, just a little, and my fingertips burn with the sudden, irrational urge to map all those pretty lines and valleys beneath his shirt.

It's such a dangerous reaction, and I know better than to act on it. I should back away and regain my footing and distance.

But I don't.

Instead, I watch him watch me, and my tongue sweeps across my bottom lip before I know what's happening.

"Your head's not too bad. Just some bruising." His Adam's apple bobs again. "Let me see your side."

I blink. "It's fine."

"I want to make sure you don't have any cracked ribs."

I don't respond immediately, but then my hand drops to the hem of my shirt of its own volition and against all better judgment, tugs my thermal up to bare my left side. Despite the comfortable temperature of Masen's apartment, my skin erupts in gooseflesh, and something warm and heavy settles low in my abdomen.

Masen's palm covers my entire side. His skin burns against mine, and like with my head, he's surprisingly gentle as he traces each one of my ribs. When his thumb skates along the bottom edge of my sport's bra, he asks, almost in a whisper. "Does that hurt?"

I swallow. "No, not really."

"Are you sure?"

When I look up, Masen's face is right there, so close that all I'd have to do is stretch and his mouth would be on mine. "I'm a little sore, but nothing feels broken."

A smile plays across his lips. "You've had that many broken bones?"

My cheeks crease. "You have no idea."

While he's finished with his examination, Masen doesn't pull away. No, his thumb continues its light, perusing trail along my ribs, eventually falling to frame the flare of my hip. This time, when his gaze lands on my mouth, it feels like gravity.

It feels like all the things I'm not supposed to be feeling.

I don't even register him leaning down, nor do I notice my thighs spreading to accommodate his proximity, nor the long fingers splayed out and lightly gripping the side of my throat. I just feel the soft, shallow pants of warm breath ghosting across my skin and the electric, almost effervescent charge in the bare inch of air between our mouths.

"Tell me to stop," he says, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his forehead to mine.

I don't tell him to stop.

I don't want him to stop.

I don't want to stop this at all, but the last thing I need is to fall for a guy and then have to execute him.

Rosalie's going to give me such shit for this.

"Fuck." Before I can even open my mouth, Masen abruptly jerks away. Whether he's somehow read my mind or had his own little epiphany, I don't know. A small shudder rolls down his frame, and he exhales a shaky lung-full of air. His fingers slice through his hair as he mutters, half to me, half to himself, "What the hell am I doing?"

I can't answer that for him.

All I know is that everywhere he touched aches for him to do it again.

.

.

.

Notes:

Recall from previous chapters, Kaius's Bratva nickname was Caligula, who was a sadistic, insane tyrant emperor of the Roman Empire.

Just for fun, Yakov is the Russian variant of the Hebrew name, Jacob (Ya'akov). The Spanish name, Santiago, derives from the same Hebrew name for Jacob via Sant Iago (Saint James). In canon, Santiago is one of the Volturi guards.

Russian (transliterated):

Privet. U menya k tebe bystryy vopros: Hey. I have a quick question for you.

Ty znayesh', v gorode?: Do you know if he's in the city

Vcherashniy den': Yesterday

Nye, Nye… Ya prosto podumal, chto videl odnogo iz yego brat'yev: No, no, I just thought I saw one of his brothers [Recall Bratva means brotherhood and is the common name for Russian organized crime]

Ya ne pomnyu yego imeni. Bol'shoy chelovek… Boroda… Tatuirovki: I don't remember his name. Big guy. Beard. Tattoos

Nyet. Eto ne problema: No. It's no problem

Mne prosto bylo lyubopytno, pochemu on zdes: I was just curious why he's here

V otele skuchno… Ya poshel v bar, chtoby vypit': The hotel is boring. I went to a bar for a drink

Mozhet byt': Maybe

Nu ladno togda: Well, okay then

Do zavtra: See you tomorrow

Stephansplatz: a square at the center of Vienna. It is named after its most prominent building, the Stephansdom, or St. Stephen's Cathedral, which is Vienna's main Catholic cathedral and one of the tallest churches in the world. Construction on the cathedral was started in 1137, and it has been modified multiple times over the centuries, most notably in the 1300s. Style-wise, it's a blend of Romanesque and Gothic.