Page 67 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Now,” Yakov murmurs, still behind me, “if someone grabs you like this—” His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. The contact is electric, professional boundaries disintegrating at his touch.

“Don’t struggle forward,” he continues, voice rough. “Drop your weight. Make yourself harder to control.”

I follow his instruction, letting my body relax against him. The move brings us impossibly closer, my back pressed to his chest, his arm banded across my ribs just below my breasts.

“Like this?” I ask breathlessly.

“Exactly like this.” His voice is strained. “Now drive your elbow back. Here.” His free hand guides my arm, fingers wrapping around my wrist as he positions me.

I execute the move in slow motion, feeling the power behind it. When I’m done, we’re still locked together, his arm around me, my body molded to his.

“Again,” he says, but neither of us moves.

By the third session,the pretense of actual self-defense has become laughably thin. Every lesson is an excuse to touch . Every demonstration an opportunity to feel.

“Grappling,” he announces, leading me to the mats. “An essential skill.”

He shows me how to fall properly, his hands guiding my body down to the mat. But when it’s my turn to practice the takedown, I end up straddling his waist, my hands braced on his chest, both of us breathing hard.

“Good technique,” he says, voice hoarse. His hands rest on my hips, brushing the exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up.

The guard glances over but sees nothing more than standard training. He can’t see the way Yakov’s thumbs trace small circles on my skin, or how my pulse jumps when he does it.

“What’s next?” I ask, not moving from my position.

“That depends.” Darkness bleeds into his eyes. “How far are you willing to go, Dr. Agapova?”

The question has nothing to do with self-defense.

“As far as you’ll take me.”

His grip on my hips tightens fractionally. “Dangerous answer.”

“I’m learning to like dangerous.”

The fourth sessionpushes us to our limits. He’s teaching me to break free from a pin, which requires him to hold me down on the mat while I practice the escape. But every struggle brings us closer, every movement more charged.

“Focus,” he commands when I fail to execute the move properly. “Don’t let me distract you.”

But he is distracting me. The weight of his body over mine, the way his muscles flex as he controls my movements, the heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with combat training.

“I can’t,” I admit, breathing hard beneath him. “You make it impossible to think.”

Something primal flickers across his features. “Then don’t think.”

He releases my wrists but doesn’t move away. We’re frozen like that—him above me, me beneath him.

“Mila,” he breathes my name like a prayer.

“Yes.”

“Tonight,” he says, low and quiet. “Midnight. The east corridor. The camera loops from 12:05 to 12:15. Guard swap at 12:10.”

I don’t ask how he knows.

This time, when the guard looks over, Yakov is helping me to my feet with perfect composure. But the promise in his eyes burns like a brand.

As I collect my things, he approaches again. Casual on the surface. Anything but underneath.