THE DEVIL AND HIS ASSASSIN

Chapter 13

The chilled air was a shock against my skin, a sudden invasion that tightened my flesh and pulled my n*****s into two hard, desperate points. I walked to the full-length mirror and forced myself to look.

The woman staring back was a stranger.

My dark hair hung in wild, tangled waves around my shoulders. Across the sharp curve of my hips, faint yellow bruises bloomed like fading flowers—a f*****g map of where Dominic’s hands had claimed me. My gaze slid over my own t**s, still buzzing with the memory of his rough palms, down the flat plane of my stomach and settled on the dark, neatly trimmed hair between my thighs. Right there. The center of a throbbing, f*****g relentless ache.

My lungs seized for a second. I could almost feel his fingertips tracing the impossible softness of my inner thigh, that final, agonizing inch before he’d… f**k. The memory alone was a live wire against my nerves. It was infuriating. It was the most degrading and exhilarating feeling of my life.

How? How did he do this? How did he make me; a woman who could disassemble a man twice her size with her bare hands, who had walked through fire and blood without a second f*****g thought—burn and ache and need like some desperate, romance-novel heroine? I’d seen beautiful men. Powerful men. Men who would have pledged their entire kingdoms for a single night with me. And not one of them, not a single goddamn one, ever made me feel a fraction of this raw, screaming need.

Dominic Sokolov lit the fuse in a matter of days, and now I was nothing but the resulting explosion. It wasn't just the brutal, perfect architecture of his body—though, f**k, that was a masterpiece all on its own. It was the way he looked at me. Like he could see past every lie, every defensive wall, every carefully constructed identity, straight down to the raw, desperate core I didn’t even know I had. He made me feel dangerous. Seen. Wanted. More alive than I’d ever been.

And absolutely f*****g terrified.

The door opened again. I didn’t cover myself. I just turned, naked and utterly unashamed, to face Dmitri as he stepped back inside.

He stopped dead. His eyes did a quick, professional sweep of the room, pointedly avoiding any direct contact with my body. He cleared his throat. "He's not available right now. The matter is not urgent enough to interrupt him. I will bring your request to him when he returns."

Not available. Which meant I was on a leash, but the other end was currently tied to a doorknob.

I forced a sweet, understanding smile. "Of course. I understand. He’s a very busy man." I let the smile fade into a look of gentle concern. "But, Dmitri, there’s still the small matter of tonight. I can’t very well show up to his exclusive club looking like… well, like this." I gestured vaguely at my naked form, then at the pile of dull gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt discarded in the corner. "I’m done with that wardrobe. It simply won’t do. If I’m to represent Mr. Sokolov’s interests, I should look the part, don’t you think? It’s about reflecting well on him."

I took a single step forward, closing the small space between us. "So, if you wouldn’t mind terribly… could you please arrange for something appropriate to wear? Something befitting the establishment." I tilted my head, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And perhaps a cup of real coffee? Strong. Black. The stuff you’ve been sending up tastes like it was brewed through a used gym sock."

Dmitri’s jaw tightened so hard I could hear his molars grind. The implication was a beautifully crafted trap; failing to meet my needs was a direct failure in his duty to the boss. He was the head of security, a man who commanded fear and respect, and I was reducing him to a personal shopper and a barista. The pure irritation flashing in his dark eyes was deeply sarisfying.

"I am the head of security here," he ground out. "Not a f*****g steward."

My smile widened. "Yes, Dmitri. I know. But right now, you’re the only person standing between me and being late for your Boss's very important event." I made a soft tsking sound. "Tick-tock. Are you really going to risk explaining to Mr Sokolov why his new dancer is tardy and dressed like a homeless person because his head of security was too… proud… to fetch a dress and a cup of coffee?" I took one final step, now well inside his personal space. He didn't retreat, but his entire body went rigid. "See, I’m not asking for a favor. I’m simply trying to ensure I meet the high standards your Boss has set. Think of it as… efficient delegation."

He stared down at me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. I could see him calculating the chain of command, the path of least resistance, the sheer absurdity of the situation. He hated it. He hated every single syllable coming out of my mouth.

He finally let out a low, barely audible curse in Russian. It sounded like a death threat. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with a force that made the walls rattle.

***

He did bring a dress.

He’d picked a deep wine-red slip dress which was indecently short, yet somehow too elegant to be dismissed. Definitely not what I would've chosen, but after a week in those awful, prison-issue sweatpants they kept me in, it felt… almost like freedom.

And yes, he brought coffee. Two cups. Probably to avoid coming back again.

I thought briefly about dumping them out, because, knowing Dmitri, he probably fantasized about poisoning at least one, but I was too exhausted and coffee deprived to care.

I slipped into the dress, grabbed the tiny clutch they’d tossed on the bed, and climbed into the waiting car. The fabric clung to me like armor, and for the first time in a week, I felt a sliver of control.

Dmitri drove in total silence. His posture was so stiff it made mine tense just watching him. His hands stayed locked on the wheel, and he didn’t check the mirror once after I got in, like acknowledging me might break whatever rule he was following.

The city passed in muted streaks of light until the car slowed in front of the club Dominic had brought me to a week ago.

Dmitri opened my door with a curt, "Let’s go."

I clutched my purse and followed him through a plain service door, the bass from the main club rattling faintly through the floor with every step. We didn’t go toward the music. Dmitri cut straight through the back corridors, stopping at a private elevator. He pulled a keycard from inside his jacket and swiped it without a word.

When the doors slid open, it wasn’t to flashing lights or noise, but to a quiet, carpeted hallway that smelled faintly of perfume, cigars and expensive whiskey.

Dmitri guided me into a sleek office where a woman sat behind a glass desk, typing like she had a deadline only she knew about. She looked up the moment we stepped in, and the weight of her stare hit me head-on. She was beautiful, with ice-blonde hair pulled tight, features carved like she’d been sculpted out of frost.

Her eyes flicked over me once and the tiny smirk that followed made it clear she’d already decided I wasn’t worth her time.

"This is the new girl?" she asked Dmitri, her tone smooth enough to be polite but cold enough to sting. She didn’t wait for him to answer. Her eyes swung back at me, slicing straight through the room.

"Your wardrobe is through there." She pointed toward a side door with a bored flick of her wrist. "Find something that fits. Try not to look cheap."

The door clicked shut behind me.

The dressing room was massive with rows and rows of expensive lingerie and costumes, each piece more outrageous than the last. I let my fingers glide over a strip of black lace and plucked it from the rack.

When I stepped back out, Dmitri was gone and the lady who clearly ran the place was still typing.

She didn’t look up from her monitor for a full minute, letting me stand there like a naughty schoolgirl summoned to the principal’s office.

Finally, her frost-blue eyes lifted, scanning me from the messy knot of my dark hair down to my bare toes. Her lip curled like she'd smelled something rotten.

"The chemise is acceptable. Barely. I suppose it’s the best one can expect with your frame. Let’s be perfectly clear, little bird." Her voice dropped. "Your presence here is a mystery. An anomaly. This floor is for professionals. For women who understand the nuances of power and allure. Not for back-alley sluts who spread their legs for a promotion."

This f*****g b***h.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

She didn’t bother responding. Instead, she lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. A moment later, another girl appeared in the doorway.

“Starlet,” she said, not even gracing her with eye contact. “Show her the ropes. The basic ones.” With that, she turned and walked away.