The Price of Her Mouth

She struggled, but his grip was iron. "Go to hell."

He nipped at her throat. "I'm already there."

His mouth found hers again, and this time, she didn't fight it. This time, she arched into him, her nails scraping down his back, her hips grinding against his. He made a sound—half growl, half prayer—and lifted her onto the windowsill, the fractured glass biting into her thighs.

She could feel how much he wanted her. It should have disgusted her. It didn't.

Then reality crashed back in.

She shoved him away, her breath ragged. "This is wrong."

Dmitry stepped back, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he looked as shaken as she felt. "Yes."

The piano music still played. The city still glittered. And Sofia still wanted him, even as she hated herself for it.

She slid off the windowsill, her legs unsteady. "I'm going to destroy you."

Dmitry watched her pick up her gun. His voice was quiet. "I know."

She left without looking back. The elevator doors closed on the sight of him standing amid the wreckage of them both, blood on his lips and fire in his eyes.

The ride down was long. Too long. Sofia pressed her forehead against the cool metal, trying to steady her breathing, trying to forget the feel of his mouth on hers.

She failed.

Outside, the snow fell. The night swallowed her whole.

And somewhere above, Dmitry Kuznetsov watched her go.

The whiskey burned Dmitry's throat but did nothing to wash away the taste of her. He sat in the dim glow of his study, fingers tracing the edge of the glass where Sofia's lips had touched it last. The memory played behind his eyes like a broken film reel—the way her body had arched against his, the sharp gasp she made when he bit her lip, the moment her fingers had dug into his shoulders not to push him away but to pull him closer.

He drained the glass in one swallow.

The knock at the door came too soft to be anyone but Igor. Dmitry didn't answer. He didn't need to. The door opened anyway, revealing his bodyguard's massive frame silhouetted against the hallway light.

"They're waiting for you," Igor said. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet.

Dmitry stared at the empty glass. "Let them wait."

Igor stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet click. "Your father—"

"Is not my keeper." Dmitry stood abruptly, the chair scraping against marble. He walked to the window where Sofia had pressed against him hours before. The glass was still cracked from her bullet. He touched the fracture line, remembering how her hips had felt beneath his hands.

Igor cleared his throat. "The Volkov girl is at the warehouse. She's crying. Making a scene."

Dmitry's hand dropped. "How old?"

"Sixteen."

Of course she was. Andrei had been nineteen. Children playing at war because men like his father made the rules.

Dmitry turned. "Tell them I'm coming."

Igor didn't move. "You have blood on your collar."

Dmitry looked down. The red smear stood stark against the white cotton. Sofia's doing. She'd split his lip when she kissed him. Or maybe when she pulled away. The lines were blurring in his mind.

He unbuttoned the shirt with methodical movements, letting it fall to the floor. "Better?"

Igor's eyes flicked to the fresh bruises on Dmitry's ribs—another gift from Sofia. "She's getting under your skin."

Dmitry selected a fresh black shirt from the wardrobe. "She's nothing."

"You keep saying that." Igor stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But I've known you since you were twelve. I've seen you kill men for looking at you wrong. Yet this woman shoots at you, hits you, spits in your face—"

"And I should what?" Dmitry whirled, his control snapping. "Cut her throat? Hang her from a bridge? Would that prove my loyalty?"

The silence stretched.

Igor exhaled through his nose. "It would prove you're not a fool."

Dmitry laughed, the sound hollow. "Too late for that."

He finished dressing in silence, each movement precise. Black shirt. Black suit jacket. The knife at his waist. The gun in its holster. When he was done, he looked every inch the Kuznetsov heir.

Only Igor saw the way his hands shook as he fastened his cufflinks.

The ride to the warehouse passed in silence. Snow fell in thick sheets, turning the city into a ghost town. Dmitry stared out the window, watching the lights blur past.

"You know what you have to do," Igor said finally.

Dmitry didn't answer.

The warehouse loomed out of the darkness, its rusted gates standing open like a hungry mouth. Inside, the air smelled of diesel and old blood.

Aleksandr sat at the head of a makeshift table, flanked by his lieutenants. The Volkov girl—just a child, really—knelt at his feet, her face swollen from crying.

"Ah," Aleksandr said, spreading his hands. "My son arrives at last."

Dmitry took his seat without a word.

Aleksandr studied him, his gaze lingering on the fresh bruises. "You look like hell."

Dmitry poured himself a drink from the bottle on the table. "I feel worse."

Laughter rippled through the men. The Volkov girl flinched at the sound.

Aleksandr leaned forward. "Anya here has been telling us a fascinating story." He stroked the girl's hair like one might pet a dog. "She says her brother was innocent. That he stole nothing. Betrayed no one." His fingers tightened suddenly, yanking her head back. "What do you think of that?"

Dmitry met the girl's terrified eyes. "I think grief makes people say stupid things."

Aleksandr released the girl with a shove. "Hear that, little rabbit? Even my softhearted son thinks you're lying." He stood, circling the table. "Which brings me to my next question." He stopped behind Dmitry, resting his hands on his son's shoulders. "Why is she still alive?"

The room held its breath.

Dmitry sipped his drink. "You want me to kill her."

"I want you to remember who you are." Aleksandr's fingers dug in. "This family. This name. It's all that matters."

Dmitry set down his glass. "Then let me ask you something, father." He turned in his seat, forcing Aleksandr to meet his gaze. "If family is all that matters, why did you make me execute Uncle Misha last winter?"