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I let my thumb brush her lower lip, smug at the tremor she can’t quite hide.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” I murmur.

“And you still haven’t earned it,” she shoots back, though her voice is rougher now, edges frayed by heat.

I smile, slow, dangerous. “Then I’ll keep collecting.”

Because one kiss isn’t enough. Not by a long stretch.

Natasha

The taste of him still burns on my lips. Heat and vodka and victory, curling down my throat like a drug I never meant to take.

I should shove him away. I should slap him, scream, bolt for the door. That’s what a sane woman would do when a Bratva heir decides she’s his for the night.

Instead, my hand is still fisted in his shirt, my body still betraying me with the tremor of want.

God, I hate myself for it.

I came here for a story. For evidence. For names and details that could burn this world down and drag the Bratva into the light. Not to melt against a man who embodies everything I should despise.

But the way he kissed me, like he already owned me, like resistance was just another part of the game, makes my head swim. No hesitation, no request. Just a collision of heat and demand that sent sparks through every nerve until I felt like I was being reduced to nothing more than glittery desire.

And the worst part? I kissed him back.

I can still feel the weight of his thumb against my cheek, the command in his grip. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he intended to take apart, piece by piece. And my pulse leapt like I wanted him to.

I force myself to straighten, to breathe, to remember who I am.

I’m Natasha Adeley. Investigative reporter. A woman who has spent years being told to write cupcake reviews and fashion blurbs while men with half my skill get the front-page spreads. I clawed my way into this masquerade for one reason, to finally prove I can dig into the darkest corners and bring back the truth.

That’s what matters. That’s what lasts. Not the way his mouth felt against mine.

I drag my gaze up to him, steady even as my lips tingle. He’s watching me, of course. Not gloating, he’s too disciplined for that. Just calm, assessing, like he’s already certain of the outcome.

My stomach twists, a knot of dread and heat. Because a man like him doesn’t try the way others do. He takes. He decides. And I—

I can’t let myself want this.

I can’t let myself become part of the very story I came here to write.

The room feels smaller than it did a moment ago, like the walls have inched closer. My heartbeat thuds against my ribs, too loud in the hush. His kiss still scorches my lips; my skin still remembers the pressure of his thumb.

I tell myself it’s adrenaline. It’s proximity to danger. That’s all.

But when I look at him, silver mask gleaming, eyes dark and steady, there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Not lust alone. Not the usual Bratva arrogance. Something heavier. Intent.

I need to get control back. I need to make this about the story, not the man. “If you want me to understand,” I say, keeping my tone crisp, “start talking. Tell me what you’re really doing here tonight. Tell me what your family’s hiding.”

He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No.”

My spine stiffens. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t understand the terms yet.”

I blink. “Terms?”

His mouth curves into a predator’s smile, soft as a blade. “You came here for a story. I’ll give you one. A story no reporter has ever had. Names. Faces. Proof that will make your career. But if I open my world to you, you don’t get to stay on the outside looking in. You step into it. You live it. You become mine.”