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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

With Markovsky, Koshmarin, and now Masen in town, dinner takes for-fucking-ever.

We finally exit the formal dining room as the clock strikes ten, and at Aronov's direction, we head over to the plush sitting room on the opposite end of the main floor for after-dinner drinks.

Trailing a few feet behind, Rosalie and I meander past the slick, shiny grand piano and start our way across the open hall. Maybe a third of the way there, her arm loops around my waist. She throws me a pointed look when I glance over and then lets out a peal of throaty laughter. She sways like she's had one too many already, and right on cue, I grin and hug her back.

"I think you've had enough for the night," I say, loud enough for Aronov to hear.

"Come on, slow down." Whining and pouting for all she's worth, Rosalie drags on my shoulder until we're moving just above a crawl. "My heels are new and slippy."

I snort at that. "Are you sure that's what it is?"

She makes a pissy little sound, and I almost lose it. "Whatever."

As we decrease our pace, the distance between Aronov and us stretches out. Mid-conversation with Koshmarin, Aronov peeks back, seeking me out like he always does. The second he sees Rosalie hanging on, his eyes gleam with mischief and bright amusement. Like the consummate gentleman he pretends to be, he pauses to wait, but I just shoot him a playful wink in reply and then, with an exasperated shake of my head, motion for them to go on.

A few seconds later, the two men follow Markovsky and Masen and disappear around a thick, stacked stone column. Stealing a quick look around, I whisper, "What is it?"

Giggles abruptly ceasing, Rosalie's head bends to mine. "You have Spooky's pills?"

Nodding, I slide my hand into the deep, roomy pocket of my dress to finger the non-descript, unlabeled bottle of tiny yellow tablets that found their way into our gear.

One perfectly sculpted brow arcs. "She tell you what they are?"

"She just calls them Scrambled Eggs."

"Of course, she does." Rosalie lets out an inelegant sputter and rolls her baby blue eyes. "But seriously, what the fuck are they? Sedative?"

"Who knows." Blowing out a slow, even breath, I will my heartbeat to slow and try my damnedest to ignore the heavy ball of nerves that bloomed in the pit of my stomach the moment Masen finally showed back up. "I'm assuming some shit she picked up from one of her old psyops contacts. Very illegal, I'm sure." As we pass by one of the fresh floral sprays, I suck in a chest full of lightly fragranced air and repeat the same slow, steady exhale. "She just said give it fifteen minutes, plant a few suggestions, and then get the hell out of the way."

Rosalie's nose scrunches. "That sounds… dramatic."

"No shit."

"Well," she says, rolling her shoulders in a loose, lazy shrug. "Let's just hope they work really, really well."

As we round the column, my eyes skip past the central staircase to the end of the grand hall. As Masen and Markovsky slip inside a pair of ornately carved doors, Aronov looks back at me again, tracking my every move like a hunter stalking its prey. His gaze, now dark and penetrating, travels the length of my body and lingers on the strand of sparkling gems circling my throat. When his lips curve, there's no doubt whatsoever what he expects from me tonight.

And I've stalled as long as I could.

Fuck.

"Yeah, let's hope," I murmur, smiling at the man watching me. "I'm going to need them."

Twenty minutes later, as one of Aronov's impeccably attired staff delivers a tray of zakuski and chilled vodka, along with a set of stemmed, shot-sized crystal glasses, a shadow passes over my shoulder. A beat later, Masen, back in his signature black-on-black, silently skirts the adjacent end table and targets the fine leather chair across from my sofa. As he eases into his seat, we make eye contact for no more than a second, but I swear my entire body buzzes like it's been zapped by lightning.

I tag Aronov in my periphery. Standing by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, he and Koshmarin continue their hushed conversation in rapid-fire Russian. I can't tell what they're saying this far away, but judging by the deep lines crossing his forehead and the rigid brace of his jaw, Koshmarin's spitting mad. On the opposite side of the room, in complete juxtaposition, Rosalie's playing a calm, smiling Markovsky like a fiddle.

"Misha said you had to go to Greece," I say, giving Masen a small, polite row of teeth. "How was your trip?"

Masen doesn't answer. No, he just stares. That bored, impassive mask is back in full force, but the fury seething just below the surface tickles every one of my senses, along with something else I still can't quite name. Whatever it is, it's written in every one of the hard planes of his face and punctuated by the slow, rhythmic drum of his fingertips against the armrest. He glances away just long enough to signal the server to bring him his usual round of Scotch before turning back to me.

"Your trip?" I ask again.

A muscle in his cheek jumps. "Eventful."

When the server hands him a crystal tumbler, I catch a slight hitch in his movements. It's a barely-there jerk that I doubt anyone else would ever notice. Softly enough that only he can hear, I ask, "Are you okay?"

Masen drains a couple of hundred dollars' worth of Macallan's finest and motions to the server for another round. "I'm just fine," he replies, blasé and oh-so-cool. Those eyes of his tell another story. They're a dark, teeming forest, alive and moving and flickering in the firelight from the nearby hearth as they trail down my face to my throat. "Nice necklace."

"It is." Sliding my palm over the cushion beside me, I absently trace the curling pattern of the silky brocade. It reminds me of the twining black and gray nautical design that covers his shoulder and chest, and I have the sudden, irrational urge to touch every one of those curving lines. "Your boss likes shiny things."

Something between a huff and a laugh punches out, but there's a bitter tinge to it. "That's one way to put it." He pauses as the server delivers another glass, and this time he sips. "You're an excellent shot."

I probably should regret that little show out on the range, but I don't.

It definitely won me some brownie points with Markovsky. Considering his increasing warmth and ease, I'm pretty sure he wants to adopt me.

Koshmarin's a different story, however. That one glares daggers every chance he gets.

"I'm all right," I say, shrugging. The motion tugs at the sculpted lines of my dress, yet another stupidly expensive navy-nearly-black, strapless number that gives me the illusion of curves. I don't miss the subtle tightening of his grip as he watches me, and I almost smile.

So, he's not just mad.

Eying me over the rim of his glass, Masen leans back and kicks an ankle over the opposite knee in his usual languid sprawl. He takes another slow sip of his drink, and then one corner of his mouth pulls up into a wry, lopsided smile. "But then again… having competed, I suspect you're used to a little more distance than that. Am I wrong?"

I study him for a long moment, taking in the dark bruises in the hollows of his eyes and the two-day scruff he couldn't be bothered to shave. His hair's a mess again. Angry, red scrapes crisscross the knuckles on his right, and when he shifts in his seat, his dinner jacket spreads just enough that I see he's missing one of his Glocks.

"Maybe," I reply, and that ball of nerves in my gut balloons. I sneak a furtive glance over to Aronov and Koshmarin and then back to Masen before quietly adding, "We need to talk."

"That, we do." His chin dips in a single, succinct nod. "Later."

Over by the windows, Aronov's palm abruptly pops against a nearby table, and the entire room freezes as he snaps at Koshmarin. "Prosto delay svoyu chertovu rabotu!"

Koshmarin's fists clench at his sides, and he growls out something low and livid under his breath, but the younger man stills the instant Aronov's hand slices the air. "Dostatochno! Kaius, ya ne khochu eto slyshat'! Ty menya ponimayesh'?"

Aronov glares at Koshmarin for a long, drawn-out moment, where it feels like every bit of the oxygen in the air sucks right out. The walls are suddenly too close, the ceiling too low, and pinpricks of awareness tickle my senses as Dmitri and Feliks subtly shift toward their boss. Not even bothering to hide my gaping, I watch the two men by the window square off, right on the cusp of violence, and I debate just how quickly I can grab Masen's remaining weapon.

Across the room, Markovsky tuts and mutters something low and fast, and Koshmarin's shoulders finally slump. "Da, Aro," he says. His teeth clack together. "Kak ty govorish', Ya ponimayu."

Aronov gives the blond one final piercing stare before spinning on his heel to target my sofa. His features, angry, cold, and vicious, warm immediately, signaling the rest of the room to continue. By the time he settles in next to me, he's right back to his typical oily congeniality.

Jesus Christ, this man's going to give me whiplash.

"Dorogaya," Aronov says, damned near crooning. He plucks a misbehaving curl off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear before trailing a forefinger down the column of my throat to the heavy strand of diamonds. "I fear I have been an inattentive suitor this evening."

"No, it's fine." I give him a bright smile that's nowhere close to the real deal. "You have other guests to entertain, and from the looks of that one…" I pause and nod over to Koshmarin as he strips off his navy jacket and stalks over to Markovsky and Rosalie. "He doesn't seem too happy."

Aronov snorts out a laugh. "It is true that we are experiencing some momentary… challenges with some of our business activities. Kaius and I have been discussing these things, not to mention his earlier missteps with you." A split-second of undisguised rage flashes across his face before disappearing just as fast. "Which, I assure you, will not occur again."

I swallow and fidget before looking him in the eye. "Well, that's good to know."

"Truly, you have nothing to worry about from that one." He strokes my face in another gentle, almost loving caress. "I will kill him myself if he tries something again."

Holy fuck.

When Aronov turns to say something to Dmitri, I look over to Masen, hoping to see something. Staring off to the left toward the roaring fire, he's the picture of casual disinterest. But there's no question that he's cataloguing every word, every movement, and every touch. He's too still, and his knuckles stretch white around his tumbler.

A few moments later, Aronov slides forward on the cushion to grab the bottle of vodka off the rustic, Tuscan-style coffee table in front of us. A light fog of condensation coats the outside, and when he pours a pair of shots into the delicate crystal glasses, the alcohol flows like silk.

"What's this for?" I ask when he hands me one of the glasses.

Aronov's grin stretches his face. Before I can object, his arm snakes around my shoulders, and he pulls me flush against his side. "Because it is tradition to drink for celebrations."

I lean into him like I know he wants and lift a brow. "I didn't know this was a celebration."

"Konechno." His shoulders shake, carrying me with him. "I have a beautiful woman sitting next to me. What is not to celebrate?"

Ducking my head like I'm embarrassed, I sigh. "And like I've told you, you're a handful."

"Most assuredly." The rim of his glass clinks against mine. "But let us drink to that… to you… here in my home with me." Before he takes his shot, Aronov rubs his face in my hair, inhaling my perfume before bending close to whisper in my ear. "Ya khochu tebya… Ty ne predstavlyayesh', kak sil'no."

A slight shudder skates down my spine, and like always, he takes my reaction as that of arousal. "What does that mean?"

"It means I want you very, very badly." He makes a low, gravelly sound, and I register the bite of teeth. "You have no idea what you do to me." His eyes darken, and his hand settles on my knee, sliding under the hem of my dress and up my thigh. "You will come to my bed tonight."

It's not a request.

Great, just fucking great.

I don't answer for a moment. In my periphery, Masen slugs back the rest of his Scotch. A beat later, his tumbler clatters against the table. He shoves out of his chair, still wearing that fucking bored mask, and slowly ambles over to the others. As much as I want to react, I can't. So, I do what I'm supposed to do and plaster on my best smile as I clink my glass to Aronov's.

We suck down two more rounds, with each one heralded by some random bullshit toast that Aronov makes up as we go along. I've never been much of a vodka drinker, but even I can tell this is, by far, the smoothest I've ever tasted. Clearly, Aronov shops off a different shelf than me. I don't think I want to know how much that gold-labeled bottle set him back.

By the third round, on top of all the wine at dinner, Aronov's cheeks begin to burn pale pink, and with the steadily increasing tingle of my lips, I figure now is about as good a time as any. As he laughs and calls over his shoulder to Markovsky, I surreptitiously slip my hand into my pocket, twist the cap on Spooky's bottle, and after a second of slow, careful maneuvering, palm one of the tiny round pills.

It's been a long time since I've drugged anyone.

This ought to be interesting.

Especially since I'm still not 100% clear on what exactly these things do.

"Here," I say, wresting the bottle from Aronov's grip. "Why don't you let me do that?"

Eyes glittering in delight, Aronov hands it over and then rattles off something else to the other man behind us. I take my time pouring, smiling all the while, and without looking down, sneak the tablet into his glass mid-pour. My heart rate soars when I lean forward to set the bottle on the table.

But my panic is wasted. That little tablet dissolves like magic.

Not a hint of it anywhere. No color. No cloud. Nothing but perfect, clear liquid remains.

Nerves still singing, I run a slow hand down the silk of Aronov's tie and finger the loosened knot at the base of his throat. As expected, my touch works like a charm, and Aronov cuts off his conversation and turns back to me instantly as Markovsky chuckles in the background. Handing Aronov his glass, I arch into him, scratch my nails along his neat, short-cut beard, and touch my lips to the skin just below his ear.

"I believe you said that you wanted me," I murmur. "Tonight."

He swallows and nods like an overeager teenager. "Oh, yes."

I shore up every bit of internal fortitude I possess, not to mention the contents of my stomach, and kiss his neck once more. When I whisper that I'm wet for him right now, I'm pretty sure he nearly orgasms on the spot.

I'm also pretty sure I'm going to hurl.

Aronov sucks in a deep, shaky breath through his nose, and then without warning, he grabs my wandering hand and hauls me up off the couch. "Come, my darling," he purrs, beaming like he just won the lottery. "I believe it is time for us to retire for the evening."

Amused at his eagerness, I gesture to his glass. "Last one?"

"Of course." Clinking his glass to mine, he offers the barest hint of a toast before gulping it down. "To everything I plan to do to you before dawn."

It takes us maybe five minutes to say our polite goodnights and exit the sitting room. As Aronov guides me through the doors, I peek back one last time. Standing by the fireplace, with one fist gripping the mantle – whether to pull it down or hold himself up, I don't know – Masen stares back at me, and I hate what I know he's thinking. When I mouth a silent, "Later," I might as well be talking to a wall of ice.

Fuck.

By the time we ascend three flights of stairs and navigate our way through the maze of hallways to the expansive apartments occupying the southern wing of the castle, we're well over ten minutes in. Neither of us speaks as we walk, and I focus on the path directly in front of me. But I feel the increasing tension torquing through his muscles and in his grip. I hear his breathing pick up in time. And I know exactly what's coming when we hit his rooms.

The second we step inside his door, Aronov slams it closed, throws the bolt, and shoves me up against it.

"Milaya, I must have you," he mutters, slurring the words so badly it takes me a moment to understand what he's saying. His palms clap against the wood by my head, caging me in as he stares down at me with wide, glassy eyes and pupils blown to the size of dimes. Sweat beads along his forehead and temples, and air saws rough and uneven in and out of his chest.

This guy is as high as a fucking kite.

Or stroking out.

One of the two.

That doesn't stop the pawing, though. No, when I don't immediately respond to his plea, that's magnified tenfold, as are the wet, slimy licks and sloppy, sucking kisses he places on my neck and chest. When I yank his head up to keep him away from my breasts, his mouth clamps to mine instantly, hard, hungry, and demanding, and his hands roam everywhere I don't want them.

When he goes to unzip my dress, I push him back, only to spin us and shove him against the ornate wood door behind us. "Let me," I tell him, grinning like I'm not utterly grossed out by everything about this. Aronov's features slacken, and as he grabs my hands and runs them down his chest toward his waist, his hips seek out mine, looking for whatever friction he can find. I allow it for the time being and slowly unknot his tie before moving to the pearlescent buttons of his oxford, dragging out the remaining minutes as long as I can.

"Tell me what you want to do to me," I say, remembering the rest of Alice's instructions as I peel starched white cotton off his shoulders. When he starts muttering a stream of garbled Russian, I laugh and put a finger across his lips. "In English. Slow down and tell me in English."

"Your mouth." Aronov says it haltingly, like he really has to focus, and his accent rolls and thickens until I barely recognize it. "I want your stubborn, willful little mouth…" Panting, one hand splays across the top of my shoulder like he wants to push me down to my knees right here and now, but his muscles betray him, and his movements grow increasingly uncoordinated and sluggish. "I want to see you on your knees…" A wistful smile plays across his lips. "I want to see you gagging on my cock. And then… and then I will bend you over my bed… and I will fuck your pretty little shyulka until you are incapable of walking."

Well, okay then.

At this rate, I'm pretty sure he's going to collapse instead.

"Come to bed, and we'll do all of that," I tell him, dragging him across the intricately patterned wood floor to the dark, four-poster monstrosity in the center of the room. I sling the bedspread back and heave him toward the mattress. "I'm going to freshen up for just a second. I want you stripped by the time I'm back."

Head lolling, Aronov follows my direction blindly. By the time I dart over to the ridiculously appointed marble bath adjacent to the bedroom, I watch a very naked fifty-something man gleefully chuck several thousand dollars worth of clothes on the floor and crawl under pristine white sheets. A drunk, ecstatic expression lights his features as he gazes up at the trayed ceiling high above. I have no idea what he's staring at, honest to God.

It's certainly not the slightly panicked woman who just drugged his homicidal ass.

When his hips bow and rock under the sheets, I thump the door shut, sink to the tile floor, and whip out my phone. I tap my code in record time and then blast a note to Alice.

What the FUCK is in these pills?

Because God doesn't hate me today, Alice comes back immediately.

MaryAlice999: LOL. A bunch of big, long science words. Think of it like… a blend of Rohypnol, Ecstasy, and LSD… but WAY better

Are you saying I just roofied this motherfucker?

MaryAlice999: Basically

Because, of course, she finds this funny, I scrub my face and shove a tired, shell-shocked hand through my hair. My eyelids slide shut as I tip my head back against the door, and I count down from thirty before replying.

Will he remember?

MaryAlice999: Only that you're the best lay he's ever had. When he wakes up tomorrow, he'll have no recollection of anything other than the deep fantasy he's living right now

MaryAlice999: And don't worry, he'll feel fine, other than fatigue and minor muscle soreness, which he'll just chalk up to all those superb bedroom gymnastics

I blow out a loud, relieved breath.

How long do I have before it wears off?

MaryAlice999: He'll probably pass out in… thirty minutes or so. He'll be out like a light for another 7-8 hours

Jesus Christ, Al

MaryAlice999: Well, would you have preferred to actually fuck him?

Okay, she has a point. And damn it, I'm going to owe her for this. If Aronov doesn't find out and kill me first, that is.

Fair point, but still, this is fucking disturbing. I don't know how I feel about this

MaryAlice999: ;)

I toss my phone onto a nearby rug. For a solid ten minutes, I just sit there on the cool tile of Aronov's bathroom and stare at the dark striations cutting through the slabs of fine Italian marble that form his enormous, walk-in shower, trying my best to process the surrealness of the situation.

A laugh spills out before I can stop it, and before I know it, I'm laughing so hard my sides ache.

It's nearly midnight when I kill the lights and slip out the door.

I scan down the wide, open hallway outside Aronov's opulent apartments, listening for any hint of movement or life. It's empty, just like when we came up, only now the shadows stretch across the entire length, and I no longer hear the distant rumble of voices echoing off the stone walls.

I don't hang around, though, just in case Dmitri or Feliks decides to show. I don't want to risk the grand staircase in the center of the house either, especially if Koshmarin and Markovsky are still up and about. Instead, passing by the rows of priceless canvases and museum-like décor, I aim for the service stairs at the far end of the hall.

It takes me no time at all to reach the stairwell. It takes even less to descend the hand-carved steps to the second floor, and when I crack the door and peer out, again, nothing but darkness and quiet await. Sticking close to the wall, I pad down the hall on silent feet and target the third door on the left.

Despite the risk, I hesitate outside Masen's room, and for a second, I just stand there, studying the dim yellow glow seeping out from underneath the heavy door. A cabinet bangs somewhere inside, followed by the distinct tinkle of crystal. Inhaling through my nose, I order my heart rate to slow, but for the past two hours, my head has spun in a nonstop, repeating circuit of those last few minutes downstairs. That image of Masen by the fireplace won't go away, so my pulse keeps hammering.

With one last survey of the hall and a whispered curse, I quietly rap my knuckles against the door.

Masen hears it, too, because all those little sounds from within abruptly cease, and the silence out here in the hall turns absolutely deafening.

When he doesn't answer, I go to knock again. The latch clicks before I can lift my hand, and the door slowly swings wide.

Haloed by the warm light streaming out into the hall, Masen stares at me for a short forever. With one hand gripping the knob and the other splayed against the frame, he might as well be a statue. He doesn't say a word, and his expression betrays nothing – no anger, no surprise, nothing. The only signs he acknowledges my presence are those dark, probing eyes. They travel from my bare feet to the heels hanging loosely by my side, then to my dress and the sparkling gems around my neck before finally settling on my face.

I look down the hall again, just to make sure, and softly ask, "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Masen pushes the door wider, and without waiting to see if I follow, he turns on his heel and walks deeper into the room, not stopping until he hits the large, richly-shaded Persian rug in its center. Wary but determined to finally have this out, I trail him inside, pausing only to bolt the lock behind me.

Like mine and the rest of the rooms in Aronov's castle, Masen's quarters exemplify classic luxury and comfortable warmth. A quick perusal finds fine, burled wood antiques lining the stone and plaster walls. Leather-bound books with glittering bindings occupy floor-to-ceiling shelves. In his private sitting area, facing yet another one of the castle's dozen or more massive hearths, plush fabrics and silky linens cover high-end sofas and chairs. A separate bedroom juts off to the side, beyond a set of double doors currently flung wide.

It's an objectively beautiful space, but it's nothing like his modern, gray and white bolthole in Vienna, and there's not a hint of him anywhere.

I bet he hates living here.

Stopping just inside, I wait for him to turn around and watch the slow, steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He's sporting nothing but a plain black t-shirt, untucked over the pants he wore tonight, but I'm not about to mistake casualness for inattention. No, beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his back ripples and flexes, waiting to strike like the panther I once named him to be.

After another few seconds, Masen angles his face toward the ceiling, exhaling a loud, exhausted sigh, and finally twists around. Still not speaking, his fists clench and fall to his hips, and as he stares at me from across the room, bright, cutting anger turns his irises as dark as night.

Boy, is he pissed.

But when I step to the edge of the rug, stopping under the glow of the antique bronze chandelier, he stills. Those angry, roaming eyes of his narrow in on my face and abruptly widen.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and the unexpected, contrasting gentleness of his voice makes me flinch.

"I'm fine," I say, ducking my chin once.

Lips mashing, Masen looks away, and his Adam's apple bobs. "Did he hurt you?"

He says it so very carefully that my forehead wrinkles in confusion.

But then I get it.

The bare feet, the creases and crinkles in my dress, the disheveled hair, the smudges from my mascara… he sees evidence of something much, much darker. And he knows Aronov well enough to know that man always gets what he wants. Hell, he's probably been around to witness it himself.

"No, he didn't hurt me," I tell him, slowly approaching when I see the rigid line of his shoulders slump ever so slightly. "And I didn't sleep with him either, in case you were wondering."

Or in case that's why you're so fucking mad.

Masen stiffens and then curses under his breath.

I stop no more than a foot away, close enough that I swear I can feel the furnace-like heat radiating off of him. And because I'm me, and since my patience is shot after all of tonight's bullshit, I cock an arrogant brow and unleash a little anger of my own. "You know, seeing as how you were supposed to be back days ago, for a while there, you had me a little worried."

His jaw ticks. "You shouldn't have been."

"Well, I was."

I don't know how long we stand there glaring and posturing. Only vaguely do I register the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock behind us. The room and everything in it fade into the background. And with each passing second, the air between us heats and sparks, stinging like a live wire lashing across my skin.

I know we need to talk, and I know that something happened while he was gone and that something has to do with me, but here so close, my fingertips itch to touch him. And judging by the quick, shallow movement of Masen's chest, I'm not the only one suffering this special blend of madness.

His teeth grind, and by his sides, those fists ball into tight hammers as his gaze drops to my mouth. His lips part ever so slightly.

And fuck it, I'm done.

I close the remaining distance between us in a single step, and before he can blink, I cup the back of his neck and pull his mouth down to mine.

On contact, everything freezes. The clock on the wall. The pounding in my chest. Masen goes ramrod stiff. A second passes, maybe more, and then the hard slabs of muscle under my palms shudder and roll, like he can't decide if he wants to fuck or fight.

For the record, I prefer the former, but at this point, I'll take either one.

A frustrated, needy sound I didn't know I could make spills out without my permission.

And it's like a light flips on, and everything suddenly moves in fast forward.

Warm, Scotch-spiced air punches out, and strong, sure arms cage me against the hard wall of his chest. His lips open and move, but Masen doesn't just kiss me.

No, his mouth takes mine, and like that night in the Schönbrunn, it's an aggressive, sensual, wet mimicry of sex than makes my heart hammer even harder. His tongue strokes inside, deep and slick and sliding, sending shockwaves of need and want through my whole body.

It's need and desperation. It's fury and relief. And if he stops this time, I think I might just kill him.

Heat tingles low in my abdomen when his right frames my side. Long fingers splay out and spread across my ribs while his left winds through my hair to tug my head back. He smiles against my skin when I arch against him, and then he kisses a slow, hot path along my chin to my neck before whispering in my ear.

"Take that shit off," he says, and it's a low, gravelly command. The hand in my hair falls to my nape to the delicate clasp of Aronov's necklace. "Before I break it off."

I laugh at that, but I do what he asks, and with a quick flick of my wrist, I toss the thing over on the nearby table. Lifting on my toes, I run my teeth along his jaw. "Better?"

Instead of answering, Masen assaults my throat once more. I grin, sliding my hands underneath his shirt, tracing all of those pretty lines and valleys, scraping my nails across his rougher skin. A low, rumbling sound – something between a growl and a groan – comes out, and then we're moving. Impatient, he corrals me back toward the open doors and the adjacent bedroom.

And all I can think is, Thank God.

Instead of heading straight to the bed like I expect and want, he stops us in front of a long, full-length, framed mirror hanging on the wall opposite his bed. He finds the hidden zipper of my dress, yanks it down, and before I know it, my dress puddles at my feet, and I'm standing in front of him in nothing but scraps of silk and lace.

Masen spins me to face the mirror and moves behind me, pulling my back tight to his chest.

In a brief flash of sanity, I recognize it's the same intimate position that Aronov had me in down in his library when he gave me that stupid necklace, but this is different. It's so, so different. The two might as well be night and day.

Watching me watch him, Masen palms my bare breasts, alternating rougher kneading and squeezing with sharper, tugging pinches on my nipples until I'm damned near begging. My back bows against him, and I try to turn. His grip tightens, holding me there, and he kisses another long, wet line down my neck to the top of my shoulder before taking my mouth all over again.

"I want to watch you come," he murmurs as one hand slides down to my stomach and the thin elastic band of my panties. When I drunkenly nod, his lips curve against mine, and he dips beneath the silk to the juncture of my thighs, running his fingers along my slit. "Fuck, you're wet."

Eyes burning into mine, he retreats only to bring his fingers to his mouth to taste what he's doing to me. It's a particularly carnal act, and as I watch him slowly lick me off of his skin, I don't know if I've ever been so turned on in my life.

I don't know how long we go on like this, but Masen plays with my body like it's his own personal playground, sucking and tugging and stroking until I'm a wet, writhing, panting mess of sensations. My spine arches and undulates with his touch, pushing my ass flush against him, and when I grind against the hard line of male muscle sandwiched between us, he groans like he's the one about to come.

"Shirt," I tell him, breathless. "Take it off."

Black cotton whips over his head with a single, fluid pull, and Masen makes another low grunting sound. But this one carries a different note. Before I can ask or twist around, he yanks me back against him, this time skin on skin. "Not yet. I'm not done with you."

Reaching blindly, I pull his face back to mine.

"That's it. Fuck, that's it," Masen whispers against my lips, finding the spot and rhythm that makes my body convulse and tremble. Chasing it, I grab his wrist, squeezing and holding him exactly where I want him until I come so hard I swear I see stars.

Coherence returns slowly, and as air finally finds its way back into my lungs, I slump against his chest. He slides his hand from my center, slowly trailing his fingertips up to my stomach, where they flatten to hold me against him. A wide, delirious smile stretches my cheeks, and for just a moment, I close my eyes and tilt my head back to rest on his shoulder.

Which is why I recoil in surprise when an ice-cold barrel kisses my throat.

Stilling instantly, I open my eyes to the reflection of a matte black Glock pressed tightly against my skin, aimed under my chin and into my skull… the same way I took out Andrey.

Mother. Fucker.

"Now," Masen says, tracing the shell of my ear with his lips as he stares into my soul through the mirror. "Tell me who you work for."

.

.

.

Notes:

Regarding Alice's Scrambled Eggs [mentioned in Chap 18, when Spooky texted Bella and told her to: "…scramble that stud's brains"]: This is obviously a made-up drug. That said, both natural and synthetic drugs that significantly alter consciousness do exist. And they definitely have been experimented with and used by certain intelligence factions over the years (e.g. see ProjectMKUltra).

Russian (transliterated):

Zakuski: this basically means snacks. See below comments on vodka and Russian culture

Prosto delay svoyu chertovu rabotu: Just do your damned job

Dostatochno! Ya ne khochu eto slyshat': Enough! I don't want to hear it

Ty menya ponimayesh': Do you understand me?

Da, Aro. Kak ty govorish', Ya ponimayu: Yes, Aro. As you say, I understand

Dorogaya: term of endearment, roughly darling

Konechno: Certainly / of course

Ya khochu tebya… Ty ne predstavlyayesh', kak sil'no: I want you… You can't imagine how badly (strongly)

Milaya: another term of endearment, roughly darling, honey, etc

Shyulka: literally, slit. In sex, pussy

Glossary:

Vodka and Russian culture: Vodka is the traditional Russian alcoholic beverage with a long history and deep cultural aspects. Typically, one doesn't just… drink it to drink it. There are protocols and traditions one follows.

First off, generally speaking, there should be a reason – a birthday, a wedding, someone bought a new car, etc. It's fine to make up a reason, but there should be one, and there should be more than one person drinking. Next up is a toast. Before each shot is taken, a toast is given. In my old group of friends, the first toast was always for health and a good life. The second was for mothers and women. Then they'd vary after that, sometimes hilariously. Another aspect you'll typically see is a spread of zakuski to chase the shots and help manage alcohol absorption. These will normally be salty snacks, like pickles, Olivier Salat (delicious), pickled herring (I never could do this one), or maybe simply some bread.

Also, just as a note, vodka is often best served chilled. As the temperature drops, the viscosity (thickness) of the vodka increases, and the result is a much smoother drinking experience.