Page 5

Chapter 5

Terms and Conditions

Vasiliyi

T he world collapses into a single point the moment Galina Olenko walks through my door, heels clicking a war rhythm straight into my bloodstream.

I hear you’re hiring.

The audacity.

Two weeks ago, I had her clawing my back open in a Moscow bathroom. Now she’s dressed for a boardroom and speaking like this is a goddamn interview?

The ledger creaks in my hands, the weight of missing money suddenly meaningless compared to the hurricane wrapped in a blouse standing in front of me. Looking at her feels like standing in front of a loaded gun—beautiful, cold, and aimed straight at my chest.

“Sit.” It comes out like a growl.

She obeys, crossing the room with unhurried steps before perching on the edge of the chair like a panther ready to strike. Her perfume hits me a second later—vanilla and sin—and I’m thrown backward in time to sheets soaked with sweat and betrayal.

I lean back in my chair, studying her like a threat I haven’t decided whether to watch or kill. Conservative black skirt. White silk blouse. Hair pulled into a no-nonsense knot. It’s a costume. She’s playing nice. Pretending she’s harmless.

But I remember the wildcat who ripped my skin to ribbons, the devil who tried to destroy my sister’s life.

And now she wantsin?

Not a fucking chance.

“Does your father know you’re here?”

She hesitates. Briefly. Then, “No.” Just above a whisper.

“Good.”

Our eyes lock.

The fire that burned between us in Moscow hasn’t gone out. It’s simmering, deeper now, coiled like a viper. It’s no longer hate. It’s something worse.

Want. Poisoned and raw.

I shift forward, keeping my expression flat, though everything inside me roars to life.

“Why should I hire you?” I ask, voice iced over.

As if I don’t already know the answer.

As if this isn’t already the start of something that could ruin us both.

She shifts, settling into the space. “I know every inch of this club.” Her voice is calm, edged with steel. Those jade eyes lock onto mine, unflinching. “Every hidden corridor, every safe behind false paneling, every regular who wants his bourbon with a side of blow.” She lets that hang, then drops the kill shot with a faint smile. “I also know which of your staff are skimming from the register.”

Clever little snake.

She’s sniffed out the missing money and decided to use it as her weapon. She’s dangerous—too dangerous. My instincts prickle. The kind of full-body awareness I learned in Siberia, when something cold and feral pressed against your back in the dark. She reeks of it.

And yet.

She walked in here, alone, unarmed, and still managed to put me on edge. That kind of audacity makes me wonder: is this the Olenko family’s final play, or just hers?

“All things that can be learned,” I say, voice flat.

She tilts her head, all sweetness and venom, legs crossed. That look shouldn’t stir anything in me, but it does. Prison didn’t strip me of every weakness.

A smirk tugs at her lips, slow and smug. Game on.

“Not everything.” She shifts just enough for her blouse to pull taut over her breasts. My jaw clenches. “I can make this club your crown jewel. Your empire’s flagship. And maybe,” her voice dips, “offer a little intel on operations moving through the Echo. Since I’ll be here anyway…I can ensure things run smooth.”

My hands ache to tear through that blouse, just to see if the heat under her skin still matches the chaos in her eyes. Instead, I lean forward, letting my words bite.

“Why work for the man who took your inheritance? The club that should’ve been yours?”

She meets me head on, unblinking. “Because I’m practical.” She crosses her legs again, silk whispering against silk. “The club is yours. I can either drown in nostalgia or adapt.”

A harsh laugh tears free, sharp and joyless. “You? Practical?” I round the desk. “You nearly set the city on fire last year.”

She lifts her chin, baring her throat like a challenge. “People change. They heal.”

“Not in my experience.”

I cage her in, arms braced on either side of her chair, close enough to smell the vanilla laced with fury. Close enough to feel her heartbeat hammering just beneath that icy calm.

“What’s your real angle, Galina?”

She breathes, slow and shallow, but doesn’t retreat. “No game. Just survival.”

That tongue flicks over her bottom lip like muscle memory, and I swear my mouth floods with the taste of her—Moscow, sweat, and the copper tang of need.

We’re too close. The space between us crackles with unsaid things and remembered sins. My hands shift lower on the chair, and our bodies inch closer, breath syncing without permission. Her hands grip the arms like she’s bracing for impact. The leather groans under the strain—an echo of another night, another battle, another loss of control.

My grip tightens.

This isn’t dominance.

This is obsession, wrapped in bloodlust and desire, blurred beyond reason.

I breathe her in and pull back just enough to speak.

“The job is yours,” I say, voice low and firm, “if you agree to a few conditions.”

She nods, barely. Her green eyes widen, the air between us thickening as the seduction slides away and something rawer takes its place. No more mask. Just Galina, stripped down to pride and desperation, fury and fire.

I lean in, letting my voice drop low, a whisper against her skin. “Let’s make one thing clear.”

Her breath hitches.

“If you want this job, you become mine. Fully. No hiding, no running. Every part of you—your time, your loyalty, your body—belongs to me.”

The temperature in the room shifts, like we’ve stepped onto a wire stretched above an open flame. Her pulse stutters at the base of her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, just enough to betray the war behind her eyes.

“You’re asking me to be yours,” she says, voice tight. “Professionally?”

I don’t blink. “And personally.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick enough to drown in. Her mouth parts, a breath escaping like she’s trying not to tremble.

“Is this your idea of a contract?” she asks, voice dry, but her hands are clenched tight on the armrests. “Or ownership?”

“I’m offering you control disguised as surrender,” I say, tracing the edge of her jaw with the back of my knuckles. She shivers but doesn’t break eye contact. “Think before you agree. Because once you do, there’s no doing this halfway. No blurred lines. No pretending this is just a job.”

She lets out a breath that shakes, but it’s not fear I hear—it’s something darker. “And if I say no?”

“Then you leave. Now. And we forget this ever happened.” I straighten, giving her space. “But we both know you won’t.”

Her eyes flicker, her mask cracking just enough to show the storm underneath—humiliation, hunger, the quiet ache of someone already halfway surrendered.

“You’re a bastard,” she breathes.

“Yes,” I agree, voice cool. “But you knew that even before you walked in here.”

She stands slowly, chin lifting. “If I’m going to sell my soul, I might as well get something valuable in return.”

There it is.

Not just desperation. Desire.

She’s not here because shehasto be.

She’s here because part of her wants to be.

As she turns to go, I catch her wrist, gently, deliberately. “Not so fast, lisichka .”

She flinches at the nickname, which only makes it more perfect.

She yanks her arm free. “If you think I’m going to fuck you before you even give me the job?—”

“I already fucked you,” I cut in, voice quiet, threading heat through control. “And if I decide to do it again, I won’t be asking.”

She stiffens, rage and arousal flashing in tandem. My hand slips lower, firm but brief, just enough to remind her who’s making the rules.

“If you stay,” I say, “you make yourself available to me. Fully. No games. No condoms. I won’t be restrained. You’ll be mine. And you’ll be taken like it.”

Her breath falters. Fury burns behind her eyes, but something else flickers there too.

Curiosity.

Hunger.

I release her and step back.

She’s off balance, gripping the edge of the desk to ground herself. She’s furious, humiliated.

And wet.

I can smell it.

“Anything else?” she snaps, trying to reclaim the upper hand.

“Yes,” I say, voice low and rough. “You remember who you belong to now. I don’t share. I don’t tolerate lies. And I expect you clean, loyal, and mine .”

“Then write it into a fucking contract,” she snarls.

I smile—slow, dark, unshakable. “Don’t worry, lisichka . Your physical’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

She turns sharply, walking out like she doesn’t feel every inch of her body still reacting to mine. But her scent tells a different story. Her pulse. The flush at her throat. The sway in her hips that wasn’t there when she walked in.

“Just remember,” I call after her, “a deal is a deal.”

She hesitates at the door, swallowing hard.

And I know I’ve won—for now.

But this is no victory.

This is the start of something that might burn us both to the ground.

And I can’t wait.