In the stillness of the early morning, Kirill awoke. The light filtered in through the filmy curtain. He had forgotten to draw it the whole way across the night before. He'd been…preoccupied.

He glanced sleepy eyes over at her. She was sleeping on her side, a smile across her face. She was beautiful.

And she was his.

He stayed for some minutes, just looking at her. Then he reluctantly moved away from the bed, and stepped into the bathroom. He went straight for the shower. As the water poured down his face and back, he thought.

It was simple. He'd go back to Moscow. He'd tie up some loose ends. Then he'd emigrate.

He scrubbed his teeth and rinsed.

It wouldn't be too hard, he thought. He'd settle down. Australia was multicultural. He'd blend in. There should be plenty of jobs in security, and with his skill set it wouldn't be very difficult to-

"Morning."

Her sleepy voice echoed off the tile.

"Morning, princess," he said. "Are you going to join me?"

He heard her chuckle. "That shower is not big enough for two."

"I can make room," he purred.

"It's alright, baby," she said giggling. "I'll wait my turn."

He was disappointed, but she was probably right. He heard her brushing her teeth.

He finished up, and was patting himself dry when the shower curtain was yanked apart. She was there, and she didn't have any clothes on.

She stepped in and kissed him. He returned it amorously.

And then she pushed him out.

"I'll meet you on the bed in fifteen minutes," she said with a lazy grin. She flicked on the water.

Kirill grumbled as he closed the bathroom door, snatching a smaller towel from the rack on his way out and wrapping the big one around his waist. He was already semi-hard, and it was going to-

He froze.

A familiar figure was standing in the lounge of the suite. A figure he definitely did not want to see right now.

He studied the man, and then flecked the small towel over his hair.

"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly in Russian.

The man, who was tall, with blonde, almost white hair, remained stoically rooted to the ground. He replied back in Russian.

"Gretkov wants to see you."

Kirill continued to dry his hair. "I'm on vacation. My month is not over."

"He wants to see you now," the other man said firmly. "You're to take the next plane to Berlin. Pack your bags."

Kirill looked up, his nostrils flaring. "This is bullshit, Vadim."

"I don't care if it is or isn't. You're getting on that plane, and I'm going to make sure you do."

"Let me get organised, then."

Despite his calm exterior, Kirill's insides were panicking. He didn't see that he had much of a choice. He was just hoping Vadim would go away, and that would hopefully give him time to explain something satisfactorily to Michelle- and then he could sort out whatever it is he needed to. Bloody Gretkov! He thought. Of all the times, of all the places…

Vadim nodded. "I'll wait for you outside. Half an hour, Kirill."

"What's going on?"

Vadim stiffened, and reached a hand towards his holster. He stopped when Michelle appeared in the doorway, dressed in an oversized Tshirt, her hair wrapped in a towel.

"Who's this?" he asked in Russian.

Kirill's jaw tightened. He bit into his cheek.

"It's no one," he said, his voice feigning complete apathy. "I slept with her, that's all."

Vadim relaxed his arm. "Tell her to go."

Kirill nodded.

It wasn't how he wanted to say goodbye, but it was imperative she left, and left now.

"Kirill?" Michelle's voice was anxious.

He moved towards her but did not touch her. "You have to go. I haven't time to explain." He knew Vadim didn't speak English, but any prolonged conversation would make him suspicious.

"Kirill, what's going on? Who is he?" She flicked her eyes across to the bigger man.

"Please, just go." Kirill said, his voice cold and eyes pleading. "I will contact you. I will find you. Just go."

She looked at him for a second, then, nodding, she turned to leave.

"Stoy." At the sound of the bigger man's voice, Michelle froze like a rat in a trap. Vadim spoke again. "Tell her to come here, Kirill."

Kirill's blood ran cold. "Why?

Vadim smiled coolly. "She knows your name."

"Da. So?"

"Don't tell me so, Kirill. She doesn't look like one of your easy lays, either."

Vadim assessed him with a sneer.

"She comes with us."

Kirill stared out of the black limousine. They were somewhere in Berlin. His hand covered Michelle's, but he did not speak to her. He knew she was frightened, but speaking to her would only let slip how much he cared, and he could not put her in a more dangerous position than she was. Three goons sat around the limo alongside Vadim, and he knew at least one of them spoke some English.

Vadim did not leave them alone in the hotel room. He barely had time to pack and throw something on, and he'd instructed Michelle to do the same. She'd been white faced, but she did what she had been told. They had sat in silence on the way to Charles de Gaulle, and on the plane. Vadim had escorted her to buy her ticket, his hand pressed a little too hard into her back. Michelle did not utter a sound, but her eyes looked at him the whole time, pleading.

His other hand clenched. He had been such a fool, he thought.

Leverage.

She was leverage now. Gretkov could make him do whatever he wanted.

They pulled to a stop.

"Vne," Vadim said stoically.

Kirill looked at Michelle, then started to make his way to the door. She followed.

"Niet."

Vadim shook his head. One of the big goons blocked her way.

"She stays. Gretkov wants to see you alone."

Kirill glared at him fiercely.

"Touch her and I'll-"

"It's no use threatening me, Kirill. I have orders."

Kirill looked at Michelle. She was pale, but in control of herself. She had sat back down.

"I'll be back," he said tersely to her. That was all he could afford at this point. She nodded.

He climbed out of the door. Vadim followed him.

"This way."

They were in the middle of the Karl Marx Allee. A sign hung from one of the big housing buildings. 'Tatra Motokov'. Gretkov liked to keep things discreet.

A car stood on the bend. It was black, nondescript.

As he reached the back door, the window rolled down. The face was lean, shrewd and bespectacled.

"A girl," he scoffed. "Getting sentimental, Kirill."

Kirill knew better than to take the bait. He stood silently, his face stoic, aloof.

"Your phone is off," Gretkov continued irritably. "What the hell is going on?"

He replied slowly, casually. As if he didn't give a fuck.

"You told me I had one month off."

Gretkov glared ever so slightly, his jaw set and eyes angry.

"You told me Jason Bourne was dead."

Kirill was trained not to give away his emotions. He slowly turned his head, his chin dipping downwards, his eyes giving one pointed, incredulous look towards his employer.

"The girl I keep for insurance."

The window of the limousine rolled up, leaving Kirill fighting a blind panic that had suddenly coursed through his veins.

He heard the screech of tyres. The black limo was leaving. He launched himself towards the car, but was drawn back himself by a pair of strong hands.

"What the fuck-" he spat as he struggled. Something cool nudged up against his back.

"Don't make a scene," Vadim said, his face stern. "Or we shoot you, then we shoot her."

Kirill became still. His eyes were menacing. The car pulled out and headed down the road.

And he could do nothing.

He watched helplessly as the car drove off, wanting to run after it until his feet bled. All he could do was stare and memorise the license plate.

Vadim spoke again. "Cooperate, and she will be let go."

"If they lay one finger on her-"

"She will be looked after."

Vadim's tone was blank, unreadable.

He knew what that meant. He'd said the same thing to several people several times over.