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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Happy weekend!

"You are awake still."

I glance over my shoulder right as Aronov steps into the room. For a moment, he doesn't move. Instead, he leans against the doorframe and stares at me. Not bothering to hide his appreciation, his eyes gleam in the firelight as they slowly travel the shape of my body. He lingers on my thighs and again on the sparkling ropes of diamonds still looping my throat and wrist.

"I like this very much," he says, just above a whisper, as he blindly reaches behind him to flip the lock.

Barefoot and in yet another one of his stolen oxfords, I gift him a knowing, playful smile and step away from the Chagall his staff relocated while we were in Florence. As I cross the jewel-toned rug to meet him, my toes sink into the plush piling, barely making a sound.

"And what exactly is that?" I ask, running my fingertips down the fine charcoal cashmere of his sweater.

"You." One hand frames my hip to pull me closer while the other clasps my right. "Here, in my bedroom, waiting to greet me after a long day."

I arch a brow. "Is that all?"

Burying his nose in my hair, Aronov sighs. His thumb rubs mindless circles over the massive, glittering center stone of the cocktail ring he slid on my finger before the dinner party in Florence. It's an increasingly familiar gesture, and after that bloody scene in his study the other night, I have no doubt whatsoever where his mind goes when it comes to me.

"You, touching me, wearing only my shirt," he murmurs, kissing a trail along my jaw. He sneaks inside my half-buttoned shirt, searching for skin. "Already smelling of me."

Ugh.

Humming my agreement, I lift on my toes like I'm going to kiss him. I don't, however, and instead tease him with my mouth, slanting my lips over his but not quite touching. I play with him like that, dodging his advances while keeping us no more than a breath apart. When my tongue licks across my bottom lip, ghosting against his, the hand bracketing my waist clenches, and Aronov lets out a low, masculine groan of arousal.

"Wicked woman," he says, groaning again, even as he smiles against me when I finally let his lips touch mine. "You will surely kill me one day."

Yes.

Yes, I will.

Giving him a little grin, I stroke his cheeks before moving to the hollows of his eyes. They're bruised tonight, darker than usual, evidence of the long hours he's spending in his study and in that house of horrors sitting beneath his winery.

I'm not supposed to know about that, of course.

"You look tired," I tell him, dropping to my heels as I tow him toward the hearth and the luxurious, lapping heat of the crackling fire.

"And you… you are beautiful." Aronov targets the butter-soft leather sofa closest to the fire. When I go to sit beside him, he tsks at me, shaking his head in mock disappointment, and then he drags me sideways onto his lap. Before I can blink, his palm glides up my calf to my knee, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to find my inner thigh. "Perfect, even."

"That's some serious flattery." I laugh even as I snake my arms around his neck and run my nails through the neat, freshly trimmed hair at his nape. "You must want something from me tonight."

"I want many, many things from you." He lets me go long enough to yank his sweater over his head. "And not just for tonight."

Fiddling with his collar, I tug the top two buttons free to slide my hands inside. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes." Aronov exhales another quiet sigh as I pet him, giving him the intimacy and domesticity that he craves as much as anything else. When my thumbs knead into muscles strung too tight, he tips his head back against the cushion, his eyes close, and the tension lining his face leaches away. "Ty ne predstavlyayesh'… You cannot imagine how this feels to me."

My knuckle finds an older, deeper knot. "You've been working really long hours this week."

It's a careful, careful statement, delivered in the mild tone of a curious, concerned lover, and I hold my breath as I wait, watching his features for any hint of surprise or suspicion.

One eye cracks open, and Aronov's lips curve. "Is this your way of saying that you would like more of my time?"

Laughing again, I lean against his chest and press my lips to his cheek. "Maybe."

"Make your demands of me," Aronov says, and as his ribcage expands beneath me, his breathing hitches. "After all, it is only fair that you desire my time and attentions." As I pull back to look at him, bright, unabashed delight stares back at me, and then he captures my mouth, almost triumphant. "I want all of yours."

He's serious, too, and maybe if I were another woman and if this were another world, some part of me would thrill at that level of devotion.

But I'm not another woman, and we're in a world where he's an obsessive psycho with no concept of boundaries and a nasty penchant for murder.

I don't say that, though, nor do I stop him.

No, I let Aronov kiss me – wet, sensual, and demanding – and for a long moment, he explores my mouth like the needy lovers he thinks us to be. Ignoring the churn in my gut, I let out a soft mewling sound as his palm creeps up my thigh, and right on cue, his other flies to my hair. I force myself to go boneless, to melt into his touch like I know he wants, but when he winds the long strands of my hair around his wrist to hold me in place, it takes everything I have not to break his fucking arm.

"Not yet, dorogoy." I say it haltingly, with my best, butchered, Google-esque pronunciation.

And it works like a charm.

Aronov freezes in a beat of mute surprise, but then his face splits into a wide, beaming grin.

"First, you steal my shirts, and now, you take my words?" Chuckling, he slowly unwinds his fist to release me. When I throw him a mischievous wink, Aronov shakes his head at me, but the joy is still there, written in every one of those aristocratic features.

"But to your unspoken question," Aronov says after a second, slumping against the backrest and pulling me along with him. "No." He waves a random, lethargic hand. "I do not normally work such hours, at least not these days. This week was, perhaps, abnormal in that regard."

I see someone has been taking lessons from Markovsky.

"Why's that?" I ask, resuming my slow, meandering massage.

"Bog moy…" Aronov grunts and his whole body stiffens and arches when I hit his usual spot of stubborn soreness. "I am negotiating the purchase of a significant stake in one of my competitor's steel and heavy equipment holdings." Letting out another noise – some blend of misery and relief – his eyes squeeze shut as his face tips back toward the ceiling. "Such things can be challenging at times."

By a significant stake, Aronov actually means all of it, bought well below its value since its owner mysteriously found himself dead a few weeks ago. And by heavy equipment, he means fourth-generation battle tanks and the latest TOS-2 multiple rocket launchers.

See, Whitlock's little device – the one I tucked into that crevice underneath Aronov's desk so many days ago – might as well be a goldmine for all the intel it's bringing in.

Like the details on the new shipping routes for his weapons, drugs, and human cargo.

Like the hits he ordered to secure this deal.

Or the calls with his contacts in Kinshasa to reopen negotiations for those goddamned mines and the bribes he offered his Foreign Minister to sweep Basayev's murder under the rug

And, of course, there's the furious, screaming tirades he's unleashed over Koshmarin's apparent betrayals.

What that little device hasn't yet told me, however, is the name of that motherfuckering traitor in the CIA, which is what I really, really want.

"That sounds complicated."

Aronov's shoulders roll in a loose, lazy shrug. "Not really." When my nose scrunches, his eyes dance with amusement. "It is normal business for me," he says. "I have made such deals many times."

"What's so special about this guy's company?"

"Companies…" Aronov corrects me with an impish wink. "These assets complement my existing ones… they fill some, how to say it, gaps in my portfolio." Hesitating for a second, he scrubs his chin as if debating just how much I'm allowed to know. "I have buyers secured already. My friends in Tehran are very eager now that we have come to an understanding."

Yes, we know all about those assholes, too, and I have a feeling Aronov's going to be a very unhappy camper once Whitlock starts putting the blocks in place.

"But next week," he says, going on with another lazy shrug. "I have meetings in Moscow that I must attend in person. Afterward, we will visit some of my factories further east."

I feign surprise. "How long do you think we'll be gone?"

"A couple of weeks." Aronov traces slow, gentle circles above my knee, mimicking my deeper kneading. "No more than this."

Interesting.

That certainly doesn't bode well for the man he has strung up below his winery.

After a few more minutes of quiet petting, Aronov's posture relaxes, slouching even deeper into the cushions. As his breathing evens out, I attempt to extract myself from his grip, but he stops me with an irritated scowl. "Where do you think you are going?"

I roll my eyes, grinning when his scowl turns petulant, and motion to the nearby antique table and tray, where one of Maria's doe-eyed minions deposited a bottle of his finest, along with a pair of matching crystal glasses. When he still doesn't budge and instead squeezes my thigh even tighter, I just laugh and press my lips to his, peppering sweet, repeating kisses until he finally lets me up with a swat on the ass.

"You'll pay for that," I tell him, laughing and skipping out of range when he attempts a second smack. "But in all seriousness, I'd love to see Moscow. Will I be able to play tourist while you're in your meetings?"

Despite his obvious fatigue, Aronov watches me as I walk, following my movements with the obsessive attentiveness of a hunter stalking its prey. When I peek over my shoulder at him, one brow climbs. "You have never visited Russia?"

Yeah, I'm not an idiot.

With the kind of resources and connections at this man's disposal, there's no way Aronov doesn't already know the answer to that. There's only so much you can cover up, and you can go back only so far.

So… I settle on a partial truth.

"Back when my dad was stationed in Europe, I traveled with him a couple of times," I say as I uncork the wine and start to pour. This one's a deep, rich ruby-red with a dry, fruity aroma that smells like a dream. "I don't think that counts, though. I was just a kid, and all I remember are the pretty, colorful domes."

Kicking his feet up on the low, exotically striped wood table in front of him, Aronov flashes me a row of pearly teeth, and some of that sharpness and focus fades. "Sobor Vasiliya Blazhennogo…" he murmurs, staring into the flames. "Saint Basil's church."

I mirror his smile as I start to pour the second glass. "Will you take me there?"

Aronov stills. Like the last time I asked him for something, his eyes glitter in instant, undisguised delight, and his features soften and warm.

"Konechno. They will give us a private tour if you wish," he says, flicking a haphazard hand. "I will take you to many places and show you beautiful things." He hums to himself. "And we will stay at my dacha outside of the city, as well. You will enjoy it there."

When he glances back to the fire, I surreptitiously fish the tiny yellow tablet from under the tray liner and slip it into his glass. My nerves flutter in a split-second of uncertainty, but like every time we play this game, my fear's wasted. The thing dissolves like magic, disappearing without a trace. "Is that where Sasha has his house?"

"No, Sasha's compound is further away from the city, and he is very… restrictive in whom he allows inside the gates." He shakes his head in some blend of annoyance and understanding. "But my brother-in-law likes you, which is uncommon for him. Perhaps I can convince him to permit a visit."

"I would love that."

Glasses in hand, I walk back over to the couch, adding just a tiny bit of sultry swing to my hips. It's enough of a distraction that he doesn't even notice the glass I place in his hand, but when I settle next to him, something dark and calculating moves behind his eyes. It's fleeting, gone before I can blink, and then he gives me a slow, considering look over the rim of his glass.

"This does bring up a separate issue." Swirling his glass, Aronov noses his wine before taking a slow sip. "Alex called me this morning."

Shit.

"What does he want?" I ask, swallowing another flutter of nerves along with my wine.

"What do you think he wants?" Aronov's responding smile is a wry one. "Rosalie."

Okay, I legitimately laugh at that because she is going to be pissed.

See, despite her model-like face and body, my business partner and friend is not a fan of being commodified, and I have no clue why that might be.

"Apparently," Aronov says, and his shoulders shake. "Your friend made quite an impression." This time when he takes a drink, he slugs back a third of his glass. "Alex wants her very badly and asked me to send her to him next week."

I don't respond, letting the silence swell as I wait to see where he's going with this. We watch each other over our glasses, and there's another flash of calculation behind his eyes.

There it is.

There's that ruthlessness and savagery breaking through the façade of sophistication. And it tells me everything I need to know.

There's no fucking way Aronov intends for Rosalie to make it to that asshole's yacht. Not after the people she's met. Not after what she's seen and heard.

I see it as clear as day.

There'll be a car accident, a fall, or something equally tragic and unavoidable, and that'll be one less loose end for him to deal with. Because while I may occupy a far different position, he said it himself, Rosalie's just arm candy to him, a trophy… a bauble to show off and eventually discard.

Fuck.

Pissed is an understatement. That woman's going to turn downright violent when she hears this shit.

"The decision is yours, of course," Aronov says, slugging back another third of his wine.

"What?" Ignoring the thump of my heart, I place my glass on the coffee table. As I twist around to face him, I frown. "I don't understand. How is it mine?"

Aronov's fingertips trail down the side of my face to my chin in a tender, lingering caress. "I understand this is a different lifestyle for you and that it may take time for you to grow accustomed to it." Like his touch, his voice is soft and muted, as soothing as the lapping heat from the fire. "If you wish her to stay with you as your companion and confidante… if it will make you happy, I will make it happen." His shoulders rise and fall, and his thumb finds my lower lip. "I will simply decline Alex's request."

I believe that, too – that he'd give me this if I asked, that he'd override his instincts to take her out now that he's done with her – and for a moment, I study the complex creature in front of me.

"I like that you think of me like that," I finally say, kissing the pad of his thumb. Aronov sucks in a harsh breath, and as he moves, the flickering light from the fire reflects off the light sheen of sweat already gathering at his hairline.

My cheeks crease, and I flash him a wide grin before he can reply. "But come on, have you met her? There is no way I'd stop her from going." When his head tilts, I wave at the room. "Rose's been talking about that man's… ahem, boat for a week now. She'd kill me if I ruined this for her."

It's exactly what he wants to hear.

Aronov drains the rest of his wine in a single gulp. His glass clatters against wood, and without warning, he loops my wrist to pull me back onto his lap. I straddle him this time around, and before I can blink, his hands slip inside my shirt to seize my hips and ass.

"I have to admit," he says, groaning when I shift and settle against him. His breathing picks up in time, turning shallower, and as he stares at me, his focus falters, and his pupils begin to dilate. "I will enjoy having you all to myself."

"What about Kaius?" I whisper, stepping out onto the tightrope.

"What about him?" The words punch out, echoing in the room like cannon fire. A heartbeat of silence follows, and white-hot fury roars across his features, exaggerated by the drugs making their way through his veins. His fingers dig into my ass hard enough to bruise.

I flinch. "Misha?"

Aronov's eyes widen in instant alarm, and in another whip-lash turn, his body shudders beneath me, like a vortex trying to suck the rage back inside. When I flinch again, plucking at all those psycho emotions of his, his arms wrap around me, holding me tightly against him, like he thinks I'm going to bolt.

"Please, please forgive my reaction." His lips find my throat, whispering his soft apologies, and his Adam's apple bobs below his collar when he swallows. "I did not mean to frighten you, my love."

"It's okay," I say, letting him nuzzle my neck. When I run my nails through his hair, scratching his scalp, his muscles tremble and slowly begin to uncoil. "I just… I didn't know what you would… do with him while we're gone."

"He will continue to… marinate," he says, smiling. When he glances up at me, his pupils are blown like saucers, turning his eyes as dark as night. One hand slides up and down my spine as his mouth closes on my throat and starts to suck.

My forehead folds in confusion, but I let out a little moan and rock against him when I register the sensation of teeth. "What does that mean?"

Between my thighs, Aronov strains against his zipper, and when he speaks, his words come out sluggish and slurred. "That motherfucker tells me nothing but filthy lies, no matter what Dmitri does to him. He beats him, burns him, flays him open, but still nothing! He digs his grave with each passing day." Aronov spits out a curse, even as he continues his assault on my throat. "But he will break for me. There is no question. He will beg and plead for mercy and absolution before I am done with him."

Well, that answers that.

Rubbing his cheeks and beard, I pluck again and watch him dance for me. "I'm sorry… If we hadn't met, maybe Kaius wouldn't ha–"

"No." Aronov grabs me by the chin, forcing me to look at him. "His betrayals run much, much deeper, but even if it were true, I do not care." Drunk adoration stares back at me, only it's cut by a wide swath of brutality and violence. "You are worth more than all of them. You are mine and only mine. Do you understand me?"

Jesus Christ.

"Do you understand?" he repeats, and his eyes fall to my mouth.

Now, I smile and shimmy my hips. "I understand you very well."

"What do you want from me," he asks, gasping like he's just run a five-minute mile. Sweat slicks his face, beading at his temples, and I know he's about two minutes from launching into orbit.

"You." His grip on my ass spasms before flying to my chest, but I bat his hands away. "No, let me."

He licks his lips. "Let you what?"

"Take care of you tonight." I slowly unbutton his shirt, and then his belt buckle clangs in silence.

"Rodnaya moya." Aronov buries his face in the crook of my neck. Hot, humid air ghosts across my skin, but when I run my palms down his bare chest to his waist, he's clammy to the touch. "Tell me," he says, desperate and begging as he repeats his plea from Florence. "Tell me you love me."

"Let me show you," I tell him, setting the fantasy, even though all I can think about is another man sitting one floor down and waiting for this to be over. "Let me make you feel good." I lean against him, take his earlobe between my teeth, and whisper. "Let me ride your cock, right here, just like this."

"Yes," Aronov pants as his eyes start to roll back. Long fingers wind into my shirt, pulling and tugging as his hips buck against my thigh. He mutters a litany of curses, too low and fast for me to decipher.

By the time he lifts his face to the ceiling, he's out like a fucking light.

.

.

.

Notes:

As with some others, I originally intended this chapter to include the next scene, but I'm trying to balance chapter content and length while giving you all a reasonable posting frequency. Honestly, that's been one of the most challenging things about attempting this genre from a 1st person POV. Sometimes, I have to come up with creative ways to get info out that would be a simple paragraph in a 3rd person omniscient. I didn't expect that when I started this story, so it's been a good learning experience. It's also been very, very fun for me to be inside a character's head like this. I hope it's fun for you.

Either way, we're getting close. Only a few more chapters left.

Russian (transliterated):

Ty ne predstavlyayesh': You can't imagine

Dorogoy: masculine version of dorogaya (which is what Aronov sometimes calls Bella), so dear/darling/etc

Bog moy: My God

Sobor Vasiliya Blazhennogo: or Saint Basil's Cathedral, see also below

Konechno: of course

Dacha: country house, see also below

Rodnaya moya: recall this is a rather intimate term of endearment, something to the effect of, as Anyagal described it, "blood of my blood, bone of my bone"

Glossary:

Fourth-generation tanks: or next generation tanks, is an informal designation for tanks that are still in development or in early stages of their generation. They utilize the latest and greatest warfare technology

TOS-2: or тяжёлая огнемётная система, or Heavy Flamethrower System is a Soviet 220 mm 30 or 24-barrel multiple rocket launcher capable of using thermobaric warheads, mounted on a T-72 tank chassis. The TOS-1 entered service in the '80s. TOS-2 is the next-generation weapon, which incorporates improved tactical and technical characteristics on a wheeled chassis. The TOS-2 entered service in 2021 and is produced by a subsidiary of Rostec

Saint Basil's Cathedral: is an Orthodox church in the Red Square in Moscow and is one of Russia's most popular cultural symbols. The building is now a museum and is officially known as the Cathedral of the Intercession of the Most Holy Theotokos on the Moat, or Pokrovsky Cathedral. It was built in the mid-1500s by Tsar Ivan IV Vasilyevich, aka Ivan the Terrible

Dacha: country houses are relatively common in Russia and parts of the former Soviet Union. Generally, these are small, simple seasonal or second homes outside the city, intended for rest, relaxation, and access to nature. Dachas owned by the elite and wealthy classes are a different story. Those can be luxurious, palatial affairs, and there can be some interesting class politics around who has homes where. For example, real estate prices in the Rublyovka area outside Moscow, where some very wealthy and politically connected have country villas, are some of the highest in the world.