Page 37 of Brutal Monster
"It's not entirely a performance," I remind her, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek.
Something flickers in her eyes—vulnerability, perhaps, or simply calculation. With Inez, the line blurs. "No," she agrees. "Not entirely."
As she moves past me toward the house, I allow myself a moment to watch her go. In six days, she'll be my wife—this brilliant, dangerous woman who matches me step for step. If we survive that long.
My phone buzzes again. Another update from Mikhail.
The game continues.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
INEZ
Istep into the shower, letting hot water cascade down my body. Steam rises around me, enveloping everything in a hazy cloud as I close my eyes. The tension of the morning—the news about Emilio, the wedding preparations, the constant vigilance—begins to dissolve under the water's pressure.
I press my palms against the cool tile, head bowed, watching rivulets course down my skin. My mind refuses to quiet, cycling through contingency plans, security weaknesses, and the guest list. Who among my inner circle could be feeding information to my stepbrother? The question burns hotter than the water against my back.
Strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist from behind.
I don't startle. Don't reach for the knife embedded in the shower caddy. My body recognizes his touch before my mind processes his presence.
"Vanya," I breathe, not turning around.
His chest presses against my back, solid and warm. I feel him, hard against me, his breath hot on my neck despite the steam. Water runs down his arms where they cross my stomach, holding me against him.
"You seem lost in thought," he murmurs, lips grazing my ear.
"I had things to consider."
"You always do." His hand slides up to cup my breast, his thumb circling my nipple until it hardens. "What is it this time? Security protocols? Guest arrangements? Or the identity of your mole?"
I lean back into him, letting my head fall against his shoulder. "All of the above."
"And have you reached any conclusions?" His other hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing patterns across my abdomen.
"Several." My breath catches as his fingers find their target. "None I'm willing to share just yet."
He turns me to face him, water streaming down his face, those steel-gray eyes intense beneath wet lashes. "No secrets between us, remember? That was our agreement."
"Professional courtesy isn't secrecy." I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him, satisfaction blooming as his eyes darken. "I'll tell you when I'm certain."
His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding. I match his intensity, biting his lower lip until I taste the metallic hint of blood. This is how we communicate best—through touch, through taking and giving control in equal measure.
He lifts me suddenly, pressing my back against the tile wall. The contrast of cold ceramic and his burning skin sends a shiver down my spine. I wrap my legs around his waist, digging my nails into his shoulders.
"You think too much," he growls against my throat.
"Maybe, you don't think enough." His words hang in the air, quickly swept away by the steam enveloping us. I gasp as he enters me in one powerful, deliberate thrust, causing a shiver to ripple through my body.
The warm water cascades down on us, mingling with our movements as we find that familiar rhythm.
I watch his face intently, mesmerized by the way concentration etches deep lines across his brow, the slight parting of his lips signaling his focus. Even here, even now, part of him remains calculating, strategic—just like me.
Moments later, the pressure builds inside me, a delicious tightening sensation that begins deep within and spreads outward like ripples in a pond. Vanya's movements grow more urgent, each motion filled with a sense of barely contained intensity. His fingers weave into my damp hair, gripping it tightly, and he pulls my head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of my throat to the cool air.
"Let go," he commands, voice rough.
I almost laugh. Letting go isn't in my nature. Control is survival.
