Yuri Ivanov had been given many assignments over the years. High-profile clients, dangerous targets, jobs that required precision and an unshakable will. First from the army, securing the Motherland's interests overseas. Then, from private contractors, one interested in hiring men of his unique skillset.
But this—this was different. This was not a mission. It was glorified babysitting.
Aleksandr Volkov, Russia's biggest arms dealer, had called upon him personally, a man accustomed to having his orders followed without question. He wanted his daughter kept in line, protected from the world, from herself. She had burned through every guard before him, chewing them up and spitting them out with little more than a tilt of her head and a calculated pout. She was reckless, spoiled, and insufferable. But Yuri was not like the others. He had spent the past month shadowing her, curbing her tantrums without raising his voice, redirecting her defiance without playing into her games. She threw everything she had at him—manipulation, provocation, outright hostility. And yet, she had not broken him.
Like a leashed puppy, she had been reigned at every opportunity. Every bark from her thin throat resulting in nothing more than whimpering protest.
He had to admit, though; she was uniquely qualified at getting under his skin.
The men had been predictable.
Hired muscle, disposable at best. They came in numbers, but numbers meant nothing when they relied on brute force over skill. The first had swung at him, wide and careless. A mistake. Yuri caught his wrist, twisting it until a sickening pop cut through the alley's din. A howl of pain. Another lunged, a flash of a knife catching in the dim light. The blade never found its mark. A single step to the side, an elbow driven into the man's ribs, and he crumpled like a marionette with its strings severed.
Two more followed, each just as foolish. They fought with desperation, the kind that came from being paid well but not enough to die for it. And that was the difference. Yuri fought with purpose. His hands moved with the precision of a man who had been doing this his entire life, a machine honed by discipline and necessity. When the last man staggered back, gasping, his lip split and one eye swelling shut, he saw it.
Fear.
Good. Let them take their bruises and broken bones and crawl back to their employer. Let them tell her that it had failed.
He stepped over them, his breath steady, his posture unruffled, and disappeared into the night.
Finding her had not been difficult. Polina was not the type to blend into a crowd. She was a beacon, a live wire of reckless energy, drawing eyes without even trying. Up on the second floor, bathed in neon and strobes, she preened under the weight of attention, a goddess of youth and alure in her element. But when her gaze met his, the shift was immediate.
A spark of recognition. A flare of panic.
She ran. Of course, she ran.
Yuri exhaled through his nose, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before moving. He did not rush. There was no need. Wrinkling his fine black suit and the white dress shirt underneath any further than it had been from the attempted attack earlier would only raise his irritation at the whole ordeal. She was really crossing lines this time.
Through the undulating crowd, she slipped, winding past bodies that swayed to the bass-heavy pulse of the music. She was fast, he would give her that, but not fast enough. He had spent the last month memorizing her patterns, anticipating her next move before she even made it. This would be no different. When she disappeared into the restroom, he did not follow.
Instead, he walked outside.
The back alley was dimly lit, the scent of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol hanging thick in the air. His steps were unhurried as he moved toward the far end of the building, stopping just beneath the row of narrow, high-set bathroom windows. And then, he waited. Sure enough, a scuffling sound.
A moment later, a figure wriggled through the opening, limbs flailing, balance lost.
Polina tumbled gracelessly from the window...and Yuri was there to catch her. Strong arms closed around her waist, steadying her with infuriating ease. For a brief second, she was weightless, held against him, the scent of expensive perfume and adrenaline clinging to her skin. His grip was firm but not harsh, a silent reminder of control. His skin was warm, but not heated. No sweat upon his brow, a reminder that he hadn't broken one from her attempted discarding of him.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. Amused.
"Going somewhere, princess?"
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