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"Yes." I see no point in lying, though I offer no explanation.

She sits up, sheet clutched to her chest in sudden modesty that seems incongruous after the intimacies we shared. "Why?" A single syllable containing multitudes.

"Business." The word sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Now?" Her eyes narrow, taking in details I'd rather she miss—the subtle bulge of my shoulder holster beneath my jacket, the tactical watch, the tension in my stance. "You're running from something."

Too perceptive by half. A dangerous quality in Markov's daughter.

"Not running. Responding." I stand, establishing distance. "I received information requiring immediate attention."

She studies me, mind visibly working behind those dark eyes. "Information about me?"

The direct question catches me off-guard. "Why would you think that?"

"Because nothing else would make you look at me like that." She meets my gaze unflinchingly. "Like I've suddenly transformed from woman back to target."

The accuracy of her assessment is unsettling. I maintain neutral expression, but internally I'm recalibrating my estimation of her perceptiveness, her potential threat level.

"You should return to your hotel," I say, sidestepping her observation. "Your father will be concerned about your absence."

Something flickers across her face—not the expected reassurance at mention of paternal concern, but something darker. "My father doesn't know I'm missing. Not yet." She tilts her head slightly. "But that's not why you're leaving, is it? You're not concerned about my father's worry. You're concerned about who might be watching us."

My stillness betrays me. Her eyes widen fractionally at the confirmation.

"Those men from the alley," she says softly. "Their associates are looking for me. For us."

The perceptiveness—accurate though not complete—confirms my earlier assessment. This woman sees too much, understands too much of the world we both inhabit.

"Your safety is my priority," I say carefully. "Which is why you should return to your hotel as soon as possible."

"Liar." The word carries no accusation, just quiet certainty. "Whatever you're involved in connects to them. To me."

"Anastasia—"

"Was last night part of your 'business' too?" Her voice remains remarkably steady. "A strategic move to gain leverage through the daughter of a powerful man?"

Yes. No. I don't know anymore.The conflicting responses war within me, leaving me without an answer.

"Last night was unexpected," I say finally, the closest approximation to truth I can safely offer. "For both of us, I think."

She nods slowly, accepting this limited honesty. "And now reality returns, as I predicted." A bitter smile touches her lips. "The Bratva princess and the mysterious operative, sharing one night of freedom before returning to our respective cages."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is with men like you. With men like my father." She looks away, vulnerability briefly visible before her features compose into the perfect Bratva mask—Anastasia Markov, untouchable ice princess, revealing nothing.

I should leave now. The conversation has already taken up too much precious time. Anton would be apoplectic at this unnecessary risk. Whatever selfish, manipulative potential I had in mind for her last night is gone. And until I can get it back, there’s nothing more that can exist between us.

My phone vibrates with another message: PERIMETER CLOSING FASTER THAN ANTICIPATED. TACTICAL TEAM 1 POSITIONING AT NORTH ENTRANCE. 4 MINUTES TO BREACH.

Four minutes. The Petrov faction is moving fast. If they're accelerating their timeline, it means someone high-ranking is coordinating the operation personally. Perhaps even Oleg Petrov himself, seeking to capitalize on the capture of Markov's daughter.

"Chert!" I curse under my breath, the agitation not lost on Anastasia.

"What is it?" she asks, instantly alert.

I make a split-second decision, violating every protocol I've established over five years of covert operations.