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Her expression shutters slightly. "Perhaps I'm not as valuable to him as you assume."

"We both know that's not true." I lean forward, elbows on knees, studying her intently. "Your father would burn cities to the ground if someone harmed you."

Something flickers across her face—not pride or reassurance at this knowledge, but something more complex. Resignation, perhaps. Resentment.

"Then let's say I needed to remember what freedom feels like," she says quietly. "Before going back to Moscow and accepting my role in his world."

"And what role is that?"

She looks away, out toward the rainy Paris night. "Whatever he decides it should be."

The vulnerability in those words triggers an unexpected surge of... something. Not sympathy, surely. I excised that particular weakness years ago, along with any other emotion that might compromise my mission. This is something different. Recognition, perhaps. A glimpse of kinship in our shared captivity to purpose.

The moment stretches between us, strangely intimate despite the calculating nature of our interaction. Then her phone buzzes, breaking the spell. She checks the screen, her expression hardening into the perfect Bratva princess once more.

"My father," she says, not looking up. "Checking in."

"By all means." I stand, giving her privacy. "I'll prepare the guest room. You should rest before returning to your hotel."

Her head snaps up. "Guest room?"

"It's after midnight, you're injured, and those men likely had associates watching your hotel." I keep my tone matter-of-fact, practical. "The storm has the streets flooded anyway. Safer for you to remain here until morning."

"In your apartment." She states it flatly, weighing implications.

"In my guest room," I clarify. "With a locked door, if you prefer. I give you my word that you'll be safe here."

She studies me, clearly debating internal calculations of risk versus practicality. "And the word of Viktor Baranov means something, does it?"

"In our world? It's one of the few currencies with stable value." I move toward the hallway. "Answer your father. I'll prepare the room."

In the guest bedroom, I quickly conduct another security sweep, ensuring all monitoring systems are functioning and no unexpected devices have been planted since my last check. I change the sheets—clean linens always prepared for contingencies—and set out additional necessities in the attached bathroom.

When I return to the living room, she's ended her call and stands by the windows again, watching lightning illuminate the Parisian skyline.

"All well with Mikhail Markov?" I ask.

"He believes I'm safely in my hotel room after a lovely evening at the Louvre and dinner with a visiting Russian art professor." She doesn't turn from the window. "Apparently I lead a very cultured, utterly boring life in his imagination."

"And the reality?"

Now she turns, something challenging in her gaze. "The reality is that I'm standing in the penthouse of a dangerous man I met hours ago, wearing his clothes, drinking his vodka, and considering spending the night."

"When you put it that way, it does sound rather reckless." I maintain careful distance, though something pulls me toward her like a gravitational force. "The guest room is ready whenever you are. Lock the door if it makes you feel safer."

"Would it make me safer, Viktor?"

The question hangs between us, layered with meaning neither of us acknowledges. The storm flashes again, lightning illuminating her face in stark relief—beautiful, intelligent, trapped in circumstances beyond her control. Just as I am trapped in mine.

For one dangerous moment, I consider telling her everything. Who I really am. Why I'm in Paris. What her father took from me. How she could be the key to everything I've worked toward.

Instead, I say, "We should treat those injuries properly before you sleep."

In the guest bathroom, I clean the cut on her temple with antiseptic, our faces close enough that I can smell the delicate floral notes of the shampoo she used earlier. Her pulse visibly thrums at the base of her throat as I work, a steady reminder of her vitality, her vulnerability.

"You've done this before," she observes as I apply butterfly closures to the small wound.

"Occupational hazard." I focus on my task, keeping my touch clinical despite the inexplicable urge to let my fingers linger against her skin.