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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Spasibo, Anyagal, for fixing my Russian! I added a few things and played around a bit, so any mistakes are totally mine :)

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My watch pings two about the time I hit mile ten.

At this point, I'm dripping sweat, enough that my tank's drenched and plastered to my skin. My lungs burn like they're on fire. And every time I plant my left foot, an annoying stab of pain shoots down my shin, from my knee to my ankle.

I hate running.

But I fucking despise running on a treadmill.

Especially when I'm tired and cranky, which I am.

So, being me, I spit out a pissed-off curse and shove clumps of wet hair out of my face. Glaring at the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I pick up my pace to a flat-out sprint.

"You're going to hurt yourself."

I glance over right as Rosalie slaps a towel across her shoulder and saunters away from a cluster of fancy, high-end weight machines. Still playing the sultry seductress, her hips sway as she walks, and when she smirks at me through the mirror, I almost lose it.

See, the Rosalie Hale I know pounds punching bags in ratty utilities and combat boots. She does not traipse around luxury gyms in a barely-there, plunging sports bras with matching burgundy leggings. Seriously, I have no fucking clue how that bra is holding her in, and those aren't just any leggings, either. No, they're ruched in the seat and thin enough that if she bent over, I'd get an eyeful.

"What the hell are those?" I ask, snorting as she climbs on the treadmill beside mine and pirouettes. "And how are you keeping them out of your asscrack?"

"Who said I am?" One perfectly sculpted brow arches, but then her face splits into a megawatt grin. "They're ridiculous, aren't they? But, fuck, they cost a fortune." With a haughty shake of her ponytail, Rosalie sends me a conspiratorial wink. "And you know how much I love spending your boyfriend's money. I got you a pair, too."

"Bitch," I mutter, but my lips twitch. "I think I know someone who'll like them, though… a lot. Want me to text him a pic?"

Rosalie peeks over her shoulder to the far end of the gym, where a dark-suited, fully armed Dmitri stands by the door, talking to an equally sweaty, shirtless Masen. When she twists back around, that grin morphs into a pissy scowl, and she flips me off with a whispered, "Fuck you, Swan."

I laugh hard enough that I almost miss a step and make a fool out of myself.

Settling into an easy, leisurely jog, Rosalie sweeps a hand in my general direction. "So, you going to tell me why you're trying to kill yourself?"

If that's not a loaded question, I don't know what is.

When I roll my eyes, Rosalie rechecks the room before leveling me a hard, impatient, don't-fuck-with me stare that would send most people running and screaming. Since I'm already running, I slow my pace enough to reply without wheezing. "What can I say, Maria won't stop feeding me."

Now, it's Rosalie's turn to laugh. Those blue eyes of hers sparkle with instant mischief and amusement, and I know that I'm going to hate whatever's about to come out of her mouth.

"She's probably trying to fatten you up for all those babies you two are going to make."

Jesus Christ.

"Too far, Hale," I tell her, glaring daggers through the mirror. "Too fucking far."

Of course, being the beautiful bitch she is, Rosalie just lets out another peal of throaty laughter and continues her lazy-ass jog. She doesn't even break a sweat.

Nor does she press me for more than I'm willing to share.

A few minutes later, as soon as I hit mile twelve, I'm done. I'm now well past merely dripping. Rivulets race down my back and arms, and fat droplets splatter the floor beneath me like rain, darkening the ancient stone and mortar. My muscles ache all over, more than they have in weeks, and my thighs might as well be jello.

But more importantly, the carousel that's been spinning non-stop around in my head has finally slowed, and the knot in the pit of my stomach has finally relaxed.

Which was why I came down here to start with.

Slowing to a walk, I exhale a loud, tired breath, scrub my face, and softly ask her, "Did I make the right call?"

Rosalie's eyes cut to mine. "About?"

"You." I angle my chin in her direction. "Retzos' request."

Ever the drama queen, Rosalie fake gags, but when I don't play along and instead flash her a bland, perfunctory smile, she turns as serious as death itself.

"Of course, you did, and you know it, too," she says, and there's not even a beat of hesitation. She wipes a non-existent sheen of sweat off her forehead. "If you'd told him no, Aronov would have found a way to make it happen anyway."

My brows hit my hairline. "I'm not so sure abo–"

"Did you not see him at lunch today when he was talking about taking you to Moscow and showing you his villa outside the city?" Rosalie's ponytail whips back and forth. "That motherfucker was ecstatic. He does not like sharing, especially you."

"No kidding." Despite my wry reply, she's not wrong – at all – and my lips mash into a hard line because his obsession is doing nothing but deepening with each passing day. "Thanks for the reminder."

"Meh, maybe he'd have waited a little longer, maybe not, but it was just a matter of time. Aronov wants to play house with you, B, and I don't fit into that scenario." Rosalie wrinkles her nose at her reflection, and with an annoyed tsk, she makes a show of rearranging and plumping her assets in that pitiable excuse for a sports bra. "After all, I'm here to have fun and play with rich, old men who'll buy me shit and dote on me… like I fucking deserve."

A snicker spills out before I can stop it. "When did you get so vain?"

"Hey, it's not vanity if it's the truth." Winking again, Rosalie pops my bicep with her towel and blows me an obnoxious, squawky kiss. "But seriously, even if he meant it, I'd have had to throw a tantrum and bully you into changing your mind, just like I did in Vienna. Anything less would have been suspicious."

"It's one more complication we don't need, though." Massaging the back of my neck, I let out a long, aggravated sigh as she slows her speed to match mine. "I don't like it. There's too many things that can go wrong."

In the mirror, I catch Masen's gemstone gaze slowly lap the room. By all outward measures, he's a wall of sleek, lean muscle and bored indifference. Granted, the latter's nothing more than grade-A theater, and now that I know what to watch for, I catch the exact moment he spots the plum-colored bruises marking my throat from Aronov's attentions early this morning. A muscle clenches in his cheek as he looks back to Dmitri, and the fist hanging by his side and holding his water bottle squeezes, stretching his knuckles white.

Fuck.

"Yeah, what's new there?" Rosalie says, dragging my attention back to her. When I open my mouth to reply, her shoulders rise and fall in a loose, lazy shrug. "You gotta learn to embrace the suck. Didn't they teach you that shit back in the Sandbox?"

I'm pretty sure my eyes roll to the back of my head. "Maybe I should have reminded you of that when you were freaking out over Retzos' dick."

"Whatever, heifer." Rosalie's towel cracks across my arm again. Before I can retaliate, she kills her machine and hops off with an irritated chuff. "You could have at least prepared me for that shit." She reaches behind her to the nearby shelf, and a second later, another towel – this one, thankfully fresh – smacks me square in the face. "Spooky and me, we're going to have a serious talk when all this is said and done. That was goddamned disturbing."

Chuckling at the horror lingering in her expression, I wipe down my face and neck and adjust the pile of damp hair on top of my head, all the while tracking the pair of men across the room.

With the distance, the angle, and the dull hum of the air handling system overhead, there's no way I can make out everything they're saying. Dmitri's stance is a stiff one, however, and as Masen says something and vaguely motions to the floors above, the guard grimaces and shakes his head. Masen says something else, but instead of answering, Dmitri stills, holds up a finger, and then fishes his phone out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

All I can say is that whatever he spies on that screen is not good news.

No, Dmitri's forehead folds, and his eyes flit across the room, landing straight on me. His jaw flexes, and the grip around his phone tightens, but then he looks away just as quickly.

"What's going on?" Rosalie asks through gritted teeth.

Shaking my head, I grab an ankle to stretch out my quads and ignore Aronov's bodyguard and the frisson of icy awareness that creeps up my spine. In my periphery, I watch them like a hawk.

Masen speaks again, and Dmitri hands his phone over. Cool and collected as ever, Masen gives it little more than a cursory scan. He tuts once and then flips the device back to the other man.

"Chto ty yemu skazhesh'?" Masen asks. He says it a little louder than he really needs to and angles slightly, enough that I can make out the shape of the words through the reflection in the perpendicular wall.

"Da khuy yego znayet!" Dmitri spits and swipes a hand through his short, neatly-trimmed hair before crossing his arms over his chest. He paces left and then right. It's a distinctly nervous gesture, surprising from the man Aronov uses to torture his guests. "Mne kak-to ne ochen' khochetsya umeret' segodnya."

I don't have to guess to know that by he, they're talking about Aronov, and there's only one topic that I can think of that Aronov's guard would be afraid of broaching with his boss: Me.

Laughing, Masen shoves the other man and whacks him on the back. "Ya ne i znal, chto ty takoye ssyklo."

Dmitri shoots him an angry scowl, but Masen's sing-song taunt and roughhousing have the intended effect. Dmitri's cheeks abruptly crease, and then he mutters something low and fast under his breath in retort. Whatever it is, it's vulgar, and that just makes Masen laugh even harder.

"Poslushay, eto, navernoye, ocherednoy bred etogo ublyudka," Masen says, shrugging like it's any other day.

Even from here, I can see all those pretty lines of muscle and swirling ink ripple and flex. It's irrational, but despite the situation and the fresh unease chewing through my exhaustion, my fingers twitch with the desire to trace every one of them.

Masen slugs back his water, draining the bottle, and waves a dismissive hand. "Nu vret on, kak dyshit."

It's a slick, smoothly delivered jab at the blond currently strung up in one of the ancient, stone-walled rooms underneath Aronov's winery. But the irony of the statement's not lost on me.

Koshmarin might just be the most honest one of us all.

Dmitri nods, and when he shifts position, I spy the familiar twin grips of his Lebedev pistols peeking out from beneath his jacket. There's another sidearm tucked into his waistband, and if I had to bet, I'd say he now has a knife or two strapped to his ankles. "Chto dumaesh'?"

Masen shrugs again. "Ty khochesh', chtoby ya navestil Kayusa?" When he looks at the guard, his irises gleam, and his features darken with predatory intent. "Vozmozhno on budet bolee… pravdivym."

"Kak v posledniy raz?" Chuckling, Dmitri shakes his head. "Ne znayu, chto ty s nim sdelal, no posle tvoyego 'razgovora' on ne prosypalsya dva dnya…"

Lips curving, Masen says, "Ponyatiya ne imeyu, o chem ty."

I almost laugh at that, and when I lean over and whisper a quick translation for Rosalie, she does, disguising it with a playful bump with her hip as we walk over to a pair of nearby benches against the wall.

"What the fuck did Masen do to knock that asshole out for two damned days?" she asks.

"You know those blue pills of mine?" I say as I lean down and re-tie my shoe. The movement pulls on already tight, aching muscles, and I curse myself for pushing too hard. I know better than to let my head get away from me. I swear, this job is making me as sloppy as a fucking recruit, and that's the last thing I need.

Rosalie dips her chin. "You mean, the less disturbing but still fucked up ones?"

I grin. "Masen crammed like five of those fuckers down Koshmarin's throat during an interrogation the other night. Almost OD'd him." Rosalie's eyes widen. "Then he pistol-whipped the shit out of him until he blacked out to cover it up."

Rosalie snorts. "Aronov didn't care?"

I don't answer at first. Rubbing my temples, I replay snippets from the dozens of conversations we've had over the last few weeks, both private and public. Like that night in Florence when Aronov asked me what to do with Ntaganda, they've all been tests of sorts, each increasingly detailed and graphic. It's like he's pushing at the boundaries of what I can handle and what he can trust me with. Like he's grooming me to be not just a pet, but the partner he never found in his wife.

"No, Aronov just laughed about it once he found out," I say, and my voice turns dry as the desert. "Said it was reasonable payment for Koshmarin making a run at him a few weeks ago when he was in Prague. He told Masen to try to go slower next time and see if he could get more out of him since Dmitri's not proving successful."

"Shit." Rosalie copies my stretch, only when she kicks her heel up to her ass, her back arches into something borderline indecent. "More about what?"

"Cullen's extraction. That shit with Basayev and Dobroshi. His attempts on me…" Swapping to my other leg, I exhale another tired breath. "Aronov has all the proof he needs, courtesy of Whitlock and MirProm's building full of accountants, but he wants to hear Koshmarin say it. He wants to see him crawl on his belly and beg before he breaks him in two."

Rosalie looks thoughtful. "I mean, it's understandable, all things considered."

Before I can explain just how fucked up that is, Dmitri's phone rings, echoing off the stone floors and mirrored walls. As he takes the call, Masen waves him off with another chuckle. Instead of waiting around, he pivots toward our side of the gym and grabs a couple of fresh, iced-down bottles of mineral water from the silver bucket by the entry.

Taking his time, Masen silently weaves through the machines and clusters of equipment. Like the panther I've repeatedly named him to be, his movements are loose, fluid, and lazy, yet there's no mistaking the confidence and power flexing beneath his still-damp skin. Bright, probing, and alive, his eyes bore into mine, and for just a moment, I wonder if that's what I look like to him or if he sees something else altogether in me.

Either way, I just know that when we're done here, I want him.

More than I've wanted anything in years.

"I hear you're leaving," he says when he finally reaches us. One corner of his mouth lifts, and like that night down at the pool, his gaze tears away from me to indolently rake down Rosalie's body, lingering on the deep V of her bra and then on the curve of her ass.

"Are you going to miss me, pretty boy?" She takes one of the offered bottles, but instead of drinking it, she hums and makes a show of slowly running the icy glass down her throat and across her chest.

Masen's shoulders shake. "Maybe."

"You really should, you know." Rosalie huffs right as Dmitri turns toward us. Playing it up for all she's worth, she throws Masen the same pouty, blatantly sexual smile that made Retzos' knees go weak, and, no kidding, I pity McCarty if she ever pulls that shit on him. "In fact, why don't you come by later on tonight, and I'll let you show me how much."

I bury a laugh in my elbow, and when I peek again, a true grin plays across Masen's lips. His thumb strokes across the back of my hand as he hands me the second bottle. It's a subtle, barely-there touch, but I feel it in every cell of my body. My heart gives an involuntary thump, banging against my sternum.

Across the room, Dmitri slips his phone back into his pocket. "Edward," he says, halfway shouting. "You will stay here with Ms. Swan until Feliks arrives, yes?"

My fist drops to my hip, and before Masen can reply, I spin on my heel and give Aronov's guard my best hateful glare. "Mitya, I told you I don't need a damned babysitter here in the house!"

Taking a page from Markovsky's pet marksman, Dmitri ducks his head with a polite, carefully deferential smile that contradicts everything I now know about him. "My apologies, Ms. Swan," he calls over his shoulder, already aiming for the exit. "But as you are aware, this is specific order from Mr. Aronov himself, so I would suggest you debate this matter with him directly."

Playing my part, my other fist falls to my hip, and I yell out a bitchy, "This is stupid!" But he doesn't wait around to argue, and as soon as the door clicks shut, I turn back to Masen. "Okay, now, what's going on with Koshmarin."

"It's what we figured would happen eventually." The cool, indifferent façade vanishes, and Masen's fingers ram into his hair. As usual, that bronze mop's a mess, still damp and darker from his workout. "He broke quickly. He's admitted to going behind Aro's back on Basayev and coming at you, but he still vehemently denies anything to do with Carl. Says he has no idea where that money came from."

Rosalie crosses her arms over her chest. "Is he believable?"

"I don't know." Masen tips his head in my direction. "But last night, he told Dmitri all about that little altercation outside of here before Florence."

"Fuck." In a rare display of nervous energy, Rosalie pads across the cushioned mat, covering the length of the bench before turning back. She cracks her bottle open but just fiddles with the aluminum cap, rolling it over the back of her knuckles. "Does Aronov know?"

"Yes and no. Sasha was there and stepped in. Waved the whole thing off and told Aro that he already knew about Kaius' little misstep." Leaning against one of the nearby racks, Masen tracks Rosalie's back-and-forth movement. "Said that Bella was defending herself just like she'd told him she could do. Told Aro that he was the one who made the call not to inform him."

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Glancing back to me, Masen's fingertips drum against metal. "Aro was fucking pissed, but not at you. If anything, he was… proud."

Just like that afternoon on his range.

And when I sentenced Ntaganda to his death.

And again, when I'd stood outside Aronov's office last week and demanded to watch him tear Koshmarin a new asshole like it was my due.

Abruptly exhausted in a way I haven't been in ages, I slump down on the closest bench and prop my elbows on my knees. "Did Koshmarin mention our little chat before I wrecked his shoulder? That I threatened him… in Russian?"

Masen shoves a hand through his hair again, turning it into a veritable bird's nest, and then nods. "Not to Aro, but Sasha was there."

The fist in my gut clenches, and I ram the heels of my palms into my eyes until misshapen clouds of red and green float across my vision. "What happened?"

"He called Kaius a fool, but I can't tell if he believed him or not."

Which means we should assume he does.

And again, I have no clue what kind of game that man's playing.

Plopping down on the bench beside me, Rosalie pipes in. "So, that's what Dmitri's afraid of? He doesn't want to be the one to tell that to Aronov?"

"Unlike Feliks, Mitya's not stupid," Masen says, flicking a hand at the door. "He was here when Aro went nuclear and murdered his wife, so he knows what he's capable of."

Masen pauses until I look up and then roams my face in a slow circuit. When his eyes trail down to the love bites on my throat, like before, his irises darken with instant fury, and that hard, no-nonsense mouth of his mashes. Cords of lean, cut muscle running along his forearms flex and roll, making the clean lines of the bone-frog and trident on his inner arm come to life. Yet as he continues, his voice is as soft as silk.

"Dmitri knows how Aro feels about you and what he has planned for you. There's no telling how he'd react to hearing that you'd lied about something like that, or worse, that he'd been played." Masen hesitates, thinking. "He could just as easily laugh it off as burn the house down, but either way, there's a strong possibility he'd shoot the messenger, literally."

I push off the bench. "How long do you think Dmitri will risk waiting?"

"I told him I'd pay Kaius another visit." Masen's cheeks puff out. "I can probably get away with knocking him out again, but beyond that, I'm going to have to kill him to keep him quiet."

Rosalie's cheeks crease. "Accidentally, of course."

Something moves in Masen's eyes, and his features slide into an eerily serene expression I've seen countless times, both in the mirror and on the battlefield. He matches Rosalie's smile with one of his own, and I almost feel sorry for Koshmarin. "Of course."

Masen's wrist buzzes a few minutes later. Tapping the screen on the high-end digital dive watch he always wears, he frowns and peers up at the ceiling.

"What is it?"

"Feliks is on his way down," he says, silencing the ping that immediately follows. "He also says Sasha's looking for me."

Damn it.

"What do you think that asshole is up to anyway?" I ask as we slowly skirt a pair of top-end digital weight racks and meander across the open mat in the center to the exit. "You saw him in Aronov's study. Something was going on."

Masen's frown deepens, and his voice drops. "He and Kaius knew each other before he joined Aro's security detail. Used to work for Kaius' father."

"You think he was involved in that shit in Florence?" When we reach the door, I pluck my discarded t-shirt off the wall hook, yank it over my head, ignoring the lingering stickiness from my run, and grab my phone off the floating shelf. "I mean, he was the one who was supposed to be there in the hall waiting for me when Basayev showed up."

"Unclear… but I aim to find out."

Masen doesn't bother getting dressed. Instead, he chucks his shirt – another plain black cotton tee – over his shoulder. My eyes automatically follow the movement, traveling down to the splotchy bruising on his ribcage that's now faded to a pale yellow-gray. His range of motion is back, too, and when Masen catches me staring at the maze of pretty lines and valleys crisscrossing his abdomen and chest, I don't even try to hide it.

Then again, I'm not the only one staring.

A throat clears beside me, but at least this time, Rosalie has the decency not to laugh... too loudly. "Ya'll done?"

I ignore that.

"You heading up?" I ask, all the while listening for the telltale rap of leather against stone outside in the hall.

"Yeah, I need to bathe… as do you." Rosalie's nose crinkles as she takes her time carefully pinning her ponytail into a sleek, sophisticated bun that accentuates the angular symmetry of her cheekbones. "Where are you going?"

"I may go soak in the pool for a while." I drain my water and slip the bottle into the bin by the door. "There's a set of high-pressure, heated jets calling my name. Plus, I need some time to figure out how I'm going to deal with Aronov tonight."

Rather than teasing, Rosalie steps back and scans me from head to toe, studying and cataloging my posture and tells with clipped, professional detachment. "Told you. Your ass'll be worthless tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah." Waving her off, I let out something between a huff and a sigh, even though she's right, and we both know it. "Can you contact Whitlock? Give him an update?"

Her lips purse like she wants to push. When my brows lift in question, she shakes her head. She tips her chin in a single, curt affirmative and, without another word, slides through the door.

Masen starts to follow but stops. With a quick check of the hall, he slowly eases the door shut until the latch clicks. Fabric rustles, loud in the sudden silence. There's a quiet intake of air as he turns back around, and we make eye contact for no more than a second.

In a single, fluid move, one hand finds my waist, fitting into the curve of my hip like it belongs there. He steps into me, crowding into my space as he corrals me sideways until my spine bumps into the wall.

Warm, soft lips ghost across the shell of my ear, and like Pavlov's dog, everything in me immediately relaxes.

For just a moment – just a tiny sliver in time – the room fades, and all is right with the world.

"Are you good?" he whispers as his thumb strokes across my cheek. "We can pull the plug on this right fucking now."

"It's fine. We're almost there," I say, nodding to myself as much as to him. My palms flatten against slabs of muscle that might as well be granite and then slide up his chest to the intricate, black and gray lines of the old-world map and nautical compass. "I'm going to see if I can pry those contacts out of Aronov tonight. Once we have that, we're done."

"Fine." It comes out almost like a curse, but he doesn't pull away. No, Masen's mouth trails along my jaw to my throat and then back again, almost kissing but not, until gooseflesh ripples across my skin. "But I don't know if I'll ever be done with you."

I still, as a rare, rare pink climbs my neck and face, warming my cheeks, and I smile against his skin. "Damn, that's a good line."

"It's not a line."

Masen flashes me a row of teeth before his lips finally slant over mine. He tastes earthy, like salt and sweat and desire, and like every time we were together like this, he kisses me until I nearly combust.

Footfalls pop against the stairs at the opposite end of the hall, echoing against the stone and tile.

"Go," I say, grinning like an idiot when he adjusts himself as we pull apart. "See if you can figure out what game Markovsky's playing. I'll talk to you later on tonight."

"Yes, ma'am." Masen's eyes dance, and then he leans down and touches his lips to mine one final time. "Be careful, Bella."

I step out of the shower at half past four.

Like the rest of Aronov's home, the shower rooms attached to his gym and sauna are yet another spa-like, travertine wonder, complete with luxurious steam baths, curtain sprays, cloud-soft linens, and a seemingly endless array of fancy, botanical products that all smell like a dream. Hot, humid air buffets my skin as I reach for the black, slinky one-piece I've claimed as my own, and for a moment, I close my eyes and breathe, sucking in lungfuls of lavender, citrus, and chamomile.

It's all pleasant enough that I almost change my mind and stay here instead.

Almost, I said.

I wasn't lying when I told Rosalie I needed a soak. So, after a quick scan of my messages, I gather my hair into a loose, wet knot, throw on my flimsy scrap of a bathing suit, and exit my momentary retreat.

As I start across the arced catwalk floating high above the glowing turquoise lake, I spy Feliks waiting for me in his usual spot. Like the last time we were down here, he's sans jacket and tie, with rolled-up shirtsleeves and a small arsenal strapped to his ribs. And just like before, he's slouching against the minimalist metal railing, lazily flipping through his phone in a picture of apathetic boredom.

Except that this afternoon, he's anything but.

As I walk by, a tendon flexes along the side of his neck, but I'm not stupid enough to think his reaction's due to the provocative cut of my suit. His massive shoulders straighten, stretching the fabric of his button-up. A knee bobs in time to the thrum of his fingers.

"Don't you ever get tired of babysitting?" I ask, slowing as I approach the stairs.

Feliks glances up from his phone, quickly masking his surprise with a small, polite smile. "It is not a problem." He inclines his head in another polite acknowledgment, but his smile fades. "Please, enjoy your swim, Ms. Swan."

With one eye on my beefy sentinel above, I circle the edge of the pool until I reach the inset heated section opposite the grotto. Like everything else down here, Aronov's version of a hot tub is something else. Surrounded by rock and the same tropical flora dotting the ledges above, it looks like a natural thermal spring boiling up from the cavern floor.

Hot, bubbling water creeps over my shoulders as I fall into one of the loungers beneath the surface. With a quick tap on the hidden waterproof panel, another set of high-pressure jets kick on. Strategically placed, they pound into my muscles. It's as good as any massage, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't bite back a moan.

Tipping my head back, I gaze across the pool and watch the dim light from the wall sconces flicker and dance. The roar from the waterfall fades into the background, and for the next thirty minutes, I ride that razor edge of wakefulness and dreaming.

Feliks gives him away.

I register motion up on the catwalk right about the time my internal radar lights off like a siren. Pretending I don't notice, wearing a happy, drunken smile, I tag Feliks as he straightens and casually pushes off the railing. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he strolls across the platform in some semblance of a patrol. Midway, he steals a quick peek down at me, checking to make sure I'm still dozing, and then he looks off to the right – somewhere on the other side of the pool. He nods once, turns, and silently disappears into the hallway.

I give it sixty seconds before I move.

Gradually sitting up, I lift my arms in a languid stretch and crank my neck sideways. My body protests the movement, but being tired and sore is nothing new. Letting out a tsk of annoyance, I check my wrist, grumble a complaint about running late, and haul myself up the carved rock steps onto the decking.

Halfway back to the main stairs, my radar pings again.

With the cavern's muted lighting and natural architecture, it's impossible to pin my intruder's exact location. There's at least a dozen dark niches where he could be lurking. This one's patient, too, and he's smart enough to use the rumble of the waterfall to muffle his steps. I have no fucking idea how he got down here but I know he's there. There's no mistaking the tingle that crawls up my spine.

So, I pause by the edge of the pool, pretend to wring out my hair, and wait for him to come to me.

It doesn't take long, either.

Right as I start to walk, a smooth, lilting baritone stops me dead in my tracks.

"Hello, suchka."

I freeze in feigned surprise.

But fuck me running.

This is not what I need right now, not who I wanted to see.

Not at all.

Slowly, I turn around as years of beaten-in training simultaneously kick in. My breathing lines out. My heartbeat settles into an even, steady rhythm, and my muscles relax and uncoil, readying for the strike I know will come.

At this point, I don't even try to hide my irritation. "You know, I would have thought you'd have learned some manners by now."

On cue, Koshmarin emerges from the shadows, stepping out from between a pair of stone pillars. He grins a mangled, jack-o-lantern grin. "Ya vezde tebya iskal."

"Really? Is that so?" I arch an arrogant brow and flip a dismissive hand at the bruised, bloodied, disheveled man before me. "I figured you were too busy trying not to die to worry about me."

Because, Jesus Christ, there's nothing Hollywood about him now.

Koshmarin's once-pretty face looks like someone took a hammer to it. Oozing burn marks and jagged knife wounds litter his tattooed chest and abdomen, visible from the stained, tattered button-up left open and hanging. Blackened stumps sit in the place of two of his fingers. His posture's off, too. It's obvious he's favoring his right, and I have no doubt that asshole's body is suffering some major internal damage.

Objectively speaking, it's fucking impressive that he's even standing.

Then again, amphetamines will do that for you, which I can only assume from the jittery hands and the quivering, pinprick pupils glaring back at me, screaming venom and violence.

"Bitch." He hocks a wad of blood and saliva, but I don't miss the way his right drifts toward the back of his waistband. "Under other circumstances, I might like that about you."

"Pity, I don't think there's anything I like about you," I say, eying him up and down. "Not really a fan of mass murderers and traffickers."

"Who sent you here?" When he extracts a matte black H semi-auto, I'm not exactly surprised, but I'm careful here. He's still too far away to take down, and unlike that night when Masen and I fought, Koshmarin absolutely will blow my brains out. "Who do you work for?"

I shift sideways as he advances, drawing him out in the open, closer to the edge. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Was it Platt?" Koshmarin growls out a curse. "Did Esme Platt send you to rescue that pathetic excuse for a husband?"

"Who?" I ask, mockingly light as I tilt my head in supposed confusion. In my periphery, I scan the empty catwalk.

"Grebanaya shlyukha!" he says, snarling the epithet as he aims his weapon straight at my chest. But whatever Koshmarin took to get him here is taking its toll. A thick, purplish vein pulses along his forehead, and his cheeks – what I can see of them – flare bright with his rage. "Do you realize what you have done? You have ruined everything. Everything!"

"I have to admit, you're starting to get on my nerves." I slide another foot to the right, forcing him to follow to keep me in his sights. "This hard-on you have for me isn't healthy." I cluck my tongue and tip my chin toward the catwalk. "You should have used the opportunity to get out of here instead of coming after me."

His laugh echoes in the cavern. "Have you seen nothing? Or have you been too busy choking on Misha's cock to notice who you play with?" He laughs again, and the sound is like razor blades against my senses. "Misha has whole of FSB in his back pocket. Sasha, or maybe more likely, Edward…" Another curse spills out. "They would hunt me down like a fucking bitch-dog and crucify me, regardless of where I go." Fury morphs into another mangled grin, this one even wider as he moves closer. "At least in this, I will have some satisfaction."

Shit, he's cracked, but he's not wrong. If he makes it out of here, Aronov will mow him down and gut him with glee.

Which means my options are limited.

And by limited, I mean singular.

Koshmarin takes a step toward me, and then another, eating up the distance between us.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Ten feet away, he slows.

I clock the wobble of his wrist and the tremble in his thigh, and I angle my stance to give him a smaller target. Sing-song and taunting, I ask him, "You sure that's not the drugs talking? Looks to me like he's already had some fun with you… On zastavil tebya krichat'?"

Koshmarin lets out a furious roar.

Before he can react, I bolt across the remaining feet between us. Mid-stride, I lower my shoulder and slam into him. As we collide, Koshmarin lets out a harsh, pain-filled grunt, and then he flies backward in a mass of flailing limbs. He still manages to get off a round, but it's a wild, errant shot that misses by a mile and ricochets off one of the pillars behind us. The sound is deafening, though, rupturing the air with an ear-splitting boom that reverberates off the cavern walls.

As we pull apart, there's a beat of utter stillness, where time itself seems to grind to a stuttering halt, and my head rings like I'm back on the battlefield. In slow motion, he swivels toward me. We make eye contact, Koshmarin growls again, and then everything moves in fast forward.

I sweep his legs as he rights himself, and my elbow rams into his sternum, targeting one of the inflamed, oozing wounds. Air punches out with another grunt, but he doesn't go down. Fueled by whatever concoction Feliks fed him, he clutches my shoulders to arrest his fall, squeezing into muscle, and as I go to throw him, a hard fist punches straight into my gut and doubles me over.

It's a brawlers' strike, meant to debilitate, and Koshmarin's packing a lot more strength than I gave him credit for. Another right hook follows on its heels, and this one empties my lungs on impact and lifts me a foot off the floor. As he rears back for a third, instinct takes over, however. I force my body to relax into the hit and I take him with me.

As we stumble backward, I seize his weapon, gripping it by the barrel to twist. Koshmarin yanks it free, only to whip around and crack me on the side of my head with the butt. It's a glancing blow, but it's enough that I see stars, and something wet runs down my temple.

Koshmarin fires a second time, but again, he's too close. His aim's complete shit, too, and I use the distraction to lock my hold around his opposite forearm. Stabbing two fingers into the pressure points on his wrist, I wrench his arm around in a hard clockwise rotation until his elbow bows backward. It's the same move I used the last time we fought and on the same shoulder I already wrecked, but this time, I shove upward until bone does more than grind. It snaps with a sickening crunch, and Koshmarin lets out a scream of agony.

Chest heaving, Koshmarin rounds on me. His left arm hangs limp and useless, but he manages to lift his right, this time aiming for my head. "Why don't you fucking die?"

"Khuy tebe," I say, spitting. Wiping blood off my mouth, I smile as we square up again. "Nu davay zhe, sukin ty syn. Let's go!"

Koshmarin rushes me before the words leave my mouth.

I time his approach. At the last moment, I rotate left and duck underneath his outstretched arm, using his momentum to jab my fist into his ribs with enough force that bone caves in. His weapon goes off with another ear-shattering boom, and we grapple, slipping on the wet decking.

My knee drives into his groin, and a high-pitched, wheezy whine hits my ears. Before he can retaliate, I smash an elbow into his windpipe and then his nose, and I make another grab for his weapon. We wrestle again, spinning and tumbling across the tile. My heel rams into his kneecap to maim him, and I hammer a right cross into the shoulder I just destroyed.

The air fractures again.

Howling, Koshmarin falls back. I lunge after him, but he dodges, and as I lean forward to follow, fire scorches through my abdomen.

It takes me about half a second to register that I've been hit.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"You asshole," I say, pissed off and growling, as one hand clamps over my side. Almost instantly, my palm feels slick and slimy, but I can't tell how much of it's mine without looking. Blood pours down Koshmarin's chin from his broken nose, and every time his chest heaves, he exhales a fan of atomized crimson. "Is that all you've got?"

Bloodshot eyes glare back at me, but he's flagging, and he knows it.

I need one more good hit, or preferably that goddamned sidearm.

Koshmarin coughs. It's a wet, gurgling noise that tells me one of those ribs I broke punctured his lung. His hand trembles when he tries to raise his weapon again, and his arm collapses before making it halfway up.

I ease backward until my heels hit the edge of the decking.

His feet telegraph his intent, and with a final furious yell, Koshmarin barrels toward me.

I don't move an inch. Instead, I bend at the waist to lower my center of gravity, and the instant his body crashes into mine, I wrap my arms around his upper body and launch off the side, taking us airborne.

We hit the water with a hard splash and instantly sink below the surface. His arms and legs go everywhere, thrashing like he's drowning.

See, Koshmarin is not trained for this kind of fighting, nor was he prepared.

I am.

Calling on the countless hours I've spent training for precisely this, I ignore the stabbing pain in my side and use his body as a pivot. Swinging around until his back's to my chest, I squeeze as I drag him deeper toward the bottom. Koshmarin fights me every inch, kicking and doing his damnedest to free his arms, but my wrists are locked, and all those miles and miles of running give me more than enough lung capacity to outlast him.

Plus, every time he yells, he's just doing my job for me.

We struggle for a few moments more. His boot glances off my leg, slowed by the water. He smacks at my biceps. He reaches behind him, clawing and jabbing his fingers into my face, pulling my hair, searching for anything that will make me let him go.

I don't.

His torso shakes as he runs out of air, and as his lungs push out a final bubble and he starts to go limp, I wrest the pistol out of his hand.

I roll us and shove him against the bottom of the pool.

Then before Koshmarin can react, I thrust the barrel directly into his chest and fire point blank, shredding his heart.

Everything abruptly goes silent.

My head breaks the surface a second later, and almost on autopilot, I slowly wade toward the wall. Vaguely, I note the stream of red that trails after me, and by the time I touch the coping, I'm panting, and my body's on the verge of collapse.

It takes three tries to get out, and it's not a pretty sight either. Crawling, I haul myself up on the decking, and once there, I drop to my hands and knees. For a moment, I just breathe, focusing on the steady pounding of my heart instead of the growing fire in my gut.

Water ripples behind me, and when I look back, Koshmarin's body bobs to the surface, face down and limp. Blood swirls all around him, spreading and staining the pristine, glowing turquoise of Aronov's pool.

Fuck.

Flinching at the tug on my abdomen, I gingerly climb to my feet and start to walk toward the stairs.

But then a chill races down my spine, flooding my veins with ice, and I still.

Because I know.

I just fucking know.

Wiping matted, waterlogged hair out of my face, I sluggishly look up, only to find the catwalk no longer empty.

With his hands stiffly braced on the metal railing, Mikhail Aronov stares down at me. His eyes drill into mine, black and empty, and like his expression, they're devoid of any hint of emotion. No worry. No fury. None of the usual blinding adoration.

Nothing.

My gaze flits to the corner by the ceiling, where a tiny red light blinks in time to the beat of my heart, and I let out an exhausted sigh. I should have known he'd turn the cameras back on after Cullen.

Then again, it wasn't like we were quiet either.

When I look back to the catwalk, Aronov's still staring at me, utterly motionless, and a short forever passes between us.

My abdomen spasms. I wince before I can stop myself, breaking the stand-off, and when I clap a hand over my side, hot, viscous liquid trickles between my fingers. It runs down my thigh in thick rivulets to pool on the decking.

A muscle jumps in Aronov's cheek, and then his jaw grinds.

For just a second, I think he's going to speak, but then he taps a single finger against the railing, and the back of my head explodes with pain.

My knees smack against the tile, and as I fall to the ground, my vision blurs into a kaleidoscope of turquoise and stone.

I blink, and then there's nothing at all.

.

.

.

Notes:

A brief note on firing pistols underwater: depending on the type, a pistol may effectively fire underwater 1-2 times shortly after being submerged. Ammunition is waterproof, at least in the short term, and the gunpowder contains oxygen, which is needed to fire. In the long run, water will seep inside the gun's crucial parts and render it useless, however. Water will slow the speed of a bullet, but at point blank, it'll still have enough punch to do the job.

Russian (transliterated):

Chto ty yemu skazhesh': What are you going to tell him?

Da khuy yego znayet… Mne kak-to ne ochen' khochetsya umeret' segodnya: Yeah, fuck knows… I don't feel like dying today

Ya ne i znal, chto ty takoye ssyklo: roughly, I didn't know you were such a pussy/wuss

Poslushay, eto, navernoye, ocherednoy bred etogo ublyudka: Look, it's probably just more of his bullshit

Nu vret on, kak dyshit: He lies as he breathes

Chto dumaesh': What do you think?

Ty khochesh', chtoby ya navestil Kayusa… Vozmozhno on budet bolee… pravdivym: You want me to pay Kaius a visit… Perhaps he would be more… truthful

Kak v posledniy raz… Ne znayu, chto ty s nim sdelal, no posle tvoyego "razgovora" on ne prosypalsya dva dnya: Like last time... I don't know what you did to him, but he didn't wake up from your chat for two days.

Ponyatiya ne imeyu, o chem ty: I have no idea what you're talking about

Suchka: diminutive of suka, so little bitch

Ya vezde tebya iskal: I've been looking everywhere for you

Grebanaya shlyukha: fucking whore

On zastavil tebya krichat': Did he make you scream?

Khuy tebe: Fuck you

Nu davay zhe, sukin ty syn: Come on, you son of a bitch

Glossary:

Embrace the suck: this is a slang phrase commonly heard in the US military, meaning to consciously accept or appreciate something extremely unpleasant but unavoidable

Sandbox: military slang for Iraq and sometimes Afghanistan

FSB: or Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii is the principal security agency of Russia and the successor to the Soviet Union's KGB