Kat
Pavel’s lips leave mine, but the heat of the kiss lingers, sizzling low in my stomach.
I’m so turned on I can hardly think straight. My panties are soaked, and I want to squirm. I’m breathless, completely undone.
He lifts his hand, his fingers skimming my jaw before his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, a slow, almost lazy, touch, like he’s savoring the moment. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“So beautiful,” he says.
The sound of a microphone crackling fills the space, followed by an announcement that sends my stomach plummeting. “Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to the happy couple!”
Pavel removes his arms from around my waist slowly, his fingers trailing along my back before he steps forward. He plucks two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, effortlessly stepping into the role of the adoring husband.
He hands me a glass, then lifts his champagne flute, all eyes on him, on us. The room hushes into silence. Pavel glances down at me, snaking his arm around my waist again, before he speaks. “I wasn’t planning on giving a speech tonight, but standing here now, looking at my wife…” He pauses, his gaze dragging over me like a physical caress, makes my skin heat up, “I’ve realized something.”
I swallow hard in anticipation. The look in his eyes gives me anxiety.
“This marriage is supposed to be about family, about alliances, strength.” He lets the words settle, his fingers tapping lightly against his glass. “That’s how it is in our world. But for me, it goes beyond that.”
The room is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Even Piotr is paying close attention, watching Pavel with a sharp glint in his eyes. Vlad is in the corner, a thoughtful expression playing across his features, as if he’s trying to figure out what angle Pavel is playing.
Pavel shifts the flute so that the stem is between his two middle fingers, the glass resting in his palm. He turns it around in his hand as he continues, his other hand firmly pressed against my ribs. “Those who knew me years ago, knew Kat was my future. But then one day, she was gone.” He exhales sharply, proof of the weight of his words. “That’s life, is it not, always taking us in directions we don’t expect.”
My throat tightens as I try to guess where he’s going with this.
“And here I am again, my life taking yet another direction. She’s here, beside me. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in second chances.” His eyes flick to mine, his arm holding me close.
“This woman… She’s fierce, she’s smart, she’s stubborn as hell.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd, but I can’t even break into a grin. I can barely breathe. “And after all these years, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I inhale sharply as the crowd gasps a collective, “Aww.”
He turns back to the guests, lifting his glass slightly higher. “Everybody, please raise your glasses to my wife; to Kat Fetisova.”
A chorus of, “To Kat!” rings through the room as the guests lift their glasses and drink.
I lift mine as well, my hand trembling slightly, as I take a sip of champagne. He’s too good at this.
Pavel takes a long sip of bubbly before handing the microphone back to the DJ.
“What a speech,” the DJ says, turning to address the crowd. “For us, the night is only getting started, but for the happy couple…”
Smiles appear on the faces of the guests. They know what the DJ is about to say.
“It’s time for them to take their party of two upstairs!”
Bratva weddings are like medieval royalty—it needs to be announced that the couple is retreating to consummate the marriage.
Applause erupts, and a wave of cheers rolls through the crowd. The moment startles me, and I step back, trying to catch my breath. Pavel notices: He has a strange look on his face.
“Come,” he says, taking my hand in his. “It’s time to go.”
I force a smile as I turn toward the guests, playing the perfect blushing bride, as we weave through the well-wishers.
It’s suffocating—the hands reaching out to clasp ours, the shouts of congratulations, the envelopes stuffed with cash discreetly slipped into Pavel’s grip. Bratva tradition—power disguised as generosity. Everyone in the room knows what this marriage means, what it cements, and they play their roles well.
As do I. I smile when I’m supposed to, nod when appropriate. I keep my hand tucked in Pavel’s, trying to ignore the warmth of his grip, as I remind myself over and over of the plan.
Suddenly, Piotr is standing in front of me. His arms wrap me into a firm but brief embrace, his lips brush my ear as he whispers, “An extra vial of poison is in your makeup case. Add it to a glass of wine, and he’ll be gone within the hour. You can do this, sister. Good luck.”
I don’t flinch; I don’t react at all. Instead, I tilt my head slightly, as if he’s murmuring something sentimental, some sort of brotherly advice.
Piotr pulls back, smiling down at me. I play the part of the devoted sister perfectly as I smile, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His hand tightens briefly at my waist before he releases me, shifting his focus to Pavel.
“Brother,” he says simply, offering his hand.
I glance at Vlad, searching for reassurance. His gaze is serious and unreadable, but he finally steps forward and pulls me in for a hug. “Good luck,” he says quickly and quietly.
I feel my chest tighten. “I don’t need luck.”
“Remember, it’s not too late. It’s never too late, until—”
Pavel reminds me it’s time for us to head upstairs, preventing Vlad from finishing his sentence. He doesn’t have to. I know I can back out until the second Pavel’s lips touch the glass.
Vlad pulls back, his jaw twitching, but he says nothing else. Instead, he turns to Pavel, shaking his hand and giving him a subtle nod.
I inhale sharply as Pavel’s hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit. My skin burns under his touch, my body betraying me once again.
One more hour. That’s all I have to get through.
The elevator doors slide shut, sealing me in with the one man around whom I should never let down my guard. My body still hums from his kiss and the way he made it feel like he still had the right.
I lean back against the wall, exhaling sharply. My feet are killing me. I bend down, ready to yank off my heels, but before I can, Pavel steps in front of me, his large hands wrapping around my wrists, stopping me mid-motion. His touch is firm, commanding.
“Let me,” he says, already lowering himself to one knee.
I freeze. Oh hell, no.
Before I can argue, he slides his hands down my calves, taking his sweet time as he reaches my ankles. A sharp jolt of heat flares up my spine, and I grip the railing behind me for balance.
His fingers make quick work of the delicate straps, peeling them away from my skin with a gentleness that belies the dangerous man he’s become. When his thumb brushes the arch of my foot, I have to prevent myself from moaning.
“You’ve been on your feet all night,” he says. “You should’ve worn something more comfortable for the reception.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean like combat boots? Might not have had the same aesthetic appeal.”
His lips quirk. “Maybe, but at least you wouldn’t be wincing in pain.”
His grip tightens slightly before he begins massaging my foot with slow, deep circles. My head tips back against the elevator wall, a sigh slipping out before I can stop it.
“Better?” he asks.
This man is ruining me with nothing but his hands, and he knows it. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body reacts, trying to remind myself that I’m supposed to kill him tonight. But then he moves to the other foot, and I can barely suppress the full-body shudder that rolls through me. By the time he’s done, I feel boneless, my body betraying me yet again.
He stands, my strappy heels dangling from his fingers as he towers over me. I reach for them, desperate for a reason to put some space between us.
“I’ve got them,” he says smoothly, his tone making it clear that there’s no point in arguing. “Let me help you.”
I glare up at him, forcing my voice to remain cold and steady. “I don’t need your help.”
His smile is slow, almost indulgent. “You do; you just don’t like admitting it. You’ve always been that way.”
The doors slide open before I can snap back at him, and he gestures for me to step out first. The moment I do, my breath catches.
The view from our Four Seasons suite is breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the New York skyline, the city lights glittering in the distance. A massive king-size bed sits in the center of the room, draped in luxurious white bedding. A bottle of champagne waits in an ice bucket on the table next to a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. It’s romantic, intimate.
Completely at odds with the fact that he will be dead before sunrise.
I take a step inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. I can feel Pavel’s presence behind me like a dark shadow curling around my spine.
“You approve?” he asks.
“It’s nice.”
I hear him chuckle as I walk farther in, pretending to admire the view when, really, I just need to get my head on straight. I don’t plan on sleeping with him tonight—or ever. But standing here, remembering how he felt, how he tasted, how easily he made me come all those years ago, my body has different ideas. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories away.
Pavel was gentle that night, careful. He touched me like I was something precious, something he wanted to protect, to savor. I’d heard horror stories from other girls about how painful the first time could be, but he made it sweet and tender. I shake my head, pushing the thought away. No more thinking about the past.
Before anything happens, I need to freshen up, get out of this dress, get the poison.
End this.
As I turn, ready to excuse myself, Pavel is already there, holding out a glass of champagne. My breath catches as I stare up at him, his blue eyes burning into mine like he can hear my thoughts. Slowly, I take the glass, my fingers brushing his as I do. There’s too much heat, too much history.
We sip in silence, the energy between us so thick it’s nearly suffocating. I try to look away, to focus on anything else, but it’s impossible. His gaze holds me, keeps me rooted in place, his presence swallowing me whole.
When I lower my glass from my lips, he takes it from my hand, setting it aside before stepping closer. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. He kisses me, not like before, not teasing, not testing. This kiss is claiming.
And, at that moment, I know I don’t have the strength to resist him.
