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“We’ve got twelve hours to kill before Vienna,” I continue, taking the direct approach that seems to be the only language they fully understand, "we've got twelve hours to kill before Vienna, a shitty safehouse with one bed, and enough tension in this room to power a small city.

" I drain my glass, setting it down with deliberate precision.

"We might as well fuck the edge off before we go hunting. "

The silence that follows is nuclear, pressing against my eardrums like I'm deep underwater. Mikhail's expression doesn't change, but his pupils dilate, black eclipsing gray. Volkov watches me with the same clinical interest he'd give a particularly complex explosive device.

"Don't look so shocked," I say, leaning against the table. "You've both seen me naked already. Mikhail when he patched me up, and you," I nod to Volkov, "when you fucked me raw.”

"Is bad idea," Mikhail rumbles, but his eyes say something different, something hungry and primal beneath the professional control.

"Oh please," I snort. "Like either of you gives a shit about workplace ethics. We're plotting an assassination. I don’t think there’s an HR department that covers our profession."

Volkov's lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough. "She has point, Mikhail."

"Doesn't mean smart," Mikhail counters, but he makes no move to leave, his massive body angled toward me like a compass finding north.

"Smart died back in that apartment," I say, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his broad chest. "Smart stayed with Killion. This is about survival now. And people like us survive on adrenaline, violence, and skin against skin."

I reach up, my fingertips brushing the stubble on Mikhail's jaw. His skin is hot, almost feverish, the muscle beneath tensed like he's fighting his own response. "Am I wrong?"

His hand captures my wrist—not roughly, but with the implacable strength of someone who could snap bones without trying. For a second, I think he'll push me away. Instead, he tugs me closer, until I'm flush against him, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart through layers of fabric.

"Not wrong," he concedes, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my ribcage. "But complicated."

I glance at Volkov, who watches us with unreadable eyes, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. "Life's complicated," I tell him. "Death's simple. I prefer the messy option."

Volkov crushes out his cigarette, the gesture deliberate as a full stop at the end of a sentence. "Then we choose life," he says, rising from his chair with liquid grace. "For tonight."

His hand slides along my jawline, thumb brushing my lower lip in mirror of our first confrontation days ago. "But understand, kotyonok . There is no love here. Only momentary distraction from what we are."

"Love is for greeting cards and suicide notes," I reply, leaning into his touch. "I'm just looking for something real in a world built on lies."

Mikhail makes a sound deep in his chest—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl.

His massive arm encircles my waist from behind, creating a cage of muscle and heat.

I'm trapped between them now, Volkov's lean predator body before me, Mikhail's solid bulk behind, their contrasting physicalities creating perfect equilibrium.

"Then we give you real," Mikhail murmurs against my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "Nothing pretty. Nothing gentle."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," I say, tilting my head to give him better access, even as my hands find the buttons of Volkov's shirt.

We move toward the bedroom like a six-legged creature, a tangle of hands and mouths and competing desires. The vodka burns in my veins, loosening muscles and dissolving whatever boundaries might have existed.

Clothes fall away like discarded morals—Volkov's precision giving way to uncharacteristic urgency, Mikhail's controlled strength becoming something darker, hungrier.

The bedroom is spartan—nothing but a mattress on a metal frame, sheets gray with age but clean. The light from a single naked bulb casts harsh shadows, highlighting the topography of scars and muscle that map these men's violent histories.

Naked, they are studies in contrast. Volkov is all lean efficiency—whipcord muscle over blade-sharp bone, skin mapped with the precise scars of someone who's survived by skill rather than luck.

The bullet wound from Killion puckers beneath his ribs, a starburst of angry tissue that never quite healed right.

Mikhail is a monument carved from flesh—broad-shouldered, chest thick with muscle and dark hair, thighs like tree trunks.

Where Volkov's scars are precise, Mikhail's are brutal—jagged tears across his back, burn marks on his flank, what looks like shrapnel damage scattered across his left side.

His cock matches the rest of him—thick, heavy, intimidating in its proportions.

I stand before them, tits out and pussy wet. They circle me with predatory focus, assessing weaknesses, points of entry, places to exploit—the same calculation they'd bring to a mission, now applied to flesh and desire.

I don't want the fake shit," I say, meeting their eyes as adrenaline drums through my veins. "No gentle bullshit. I'm not made of glass."

Mikhail's laugh rumbles like distant thunder. "We see you clearly," he says, those bear-paw hands circling my waist, lifting me like I'm hollow-boned. "Cut from same cloth. Damaged goods who damages back."

He deposits me on the bed like I weigh nothing, the mattress creaking in protest beneath us. Volkov follows, movements fluid as mercury, his eyes never leaving mine as he positions himself behind me. I'm caged between them again—Mikhail's broad chest before me, Volkov's harder angles at my back.

What follows isn't sex so much as consumption—teeth and tongues and grasping hands, choreographed violence channeled into something almost like pleasure.

Mikhail kisses like he's trying to devour me, all teeth and urgent hunger, while Volkov's mouth traces the vertebrae of my spine with scientific precision, identifying each nerve cluster, each sweet spot that makes me arch and gasp.

Their hands map me like territory to be conquered—Mikhail's grip bruising my hips, Volkov's fingers tangling in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. The pain blurs with pleasure until I can't distinguish between them, my body responding to both with the same electric current.

"Tell me, kotyonok ," Volkov murmurs against my ear, his accent thicker with arousal, "did Killion fuck you too? Make you his in every way?"

The question lands like a slap, shocking in its directness. "No," I gasp as Mikhail's teeth find my nipple, the sharp edge of pain sending lightning down my spine. "Not like that."

"But you wanted," Volkov presses, hand sliding between my legs, finding me already dripping. "I see how you look at him. With hate, yes, but something else."

I start to deny it, but Mikhail chooses that moment to drop to his knees, spreading my thighs with those massive hands, his mouth finding my center with devastating accuracy. The denial dissolves into a strangled moan.

"Don't lie," Volkov continues, two fingers sliding inside me from behind while Mikhail's tongue works magic from the front. “I’ll know if you lie.”

The dual sensation short-circuits my brain, pleasure building like a gathering storm. "Fine," I pant, hips rocking between them. "I wanted. Happy now?"

Volkov's laugh is soft and dangerous against my neck. "Thought so. We all want what destroys us."

He maneuvers me until I'm on hands and knees, Mikhail's massive cock positioned at my lips, Volkov behind me. They enter simultaneously—Mikhail's thickness stretching my jaw to its limit, Volkov's more moderate but still substantial length filling me from behind.

It’s not the first time I’ve been in this position but it’s so much better than anything I’ve ever experienced before. Maybe it’s the thrill of fucking such dangerous men that puts the cherry on top but being taken, used, filled from both ends nearly makes me writhe like a cat in heat.

I take Mikhail deeper, feeling him hit the back of my throat, using every trick I learned in club bathrooms and Sienna's specialized training. Behind me, Volkov sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me forward onto Mikhail in a feedback loop of penetration and surrender.

Time dissolves into a blur of sensation—positions changing, bodies rearranging, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. Mikhail lifts me like I'm weightless, impaling me on his substantial length while Volkov watches with predatory interest, stroking himself until he's ready to replace Mikhail.

They pass me between them like a weapon being shared, each using me according to their nature—Mikhail with brute force that knocks the breath from my lungs, Volkov with calculated precision that finds nerves I didn't know existed.

"Harder," Volkov commands Mikhail, his voice precise as surgery even with his cock destroying my throat. "Arch your back more." His fingers thread through my hair with a hard grip, using me like a whore and I loved it.

" Bozhe moy ," Mikhail groans, his earlier one-word vocabulary suddenly flowering into strings of Russian that flow like dark poetry.

" Ty prekrasnaya v svoey sile... kak ogon', kotoryy ne mozhet byt' potushen.

" The words spill from him in rhythm with his thrusts, eloquent in ways his English never allowed.

"Look at me," Volkov growls, grabbing my hair as Mikhail pounds into me from behind.

"Fuck, your eyes when you're being taken.

.." His breathing hitches as he watches me get filled, his own cock rigid.

Sweat drips from his forehead as he thrusts, matching Mikhail's brutal rhythm.

"That's it, take him deeper. Show me what that pretty throat can do. "

His composure cracks when I hollow my cheeks around him, a Russian curse tearing from his lips. His hips buck forward involuntarily, control slipping as pleasure overtakes calculation. “…just like that," he hisses through clenched teeth, his accent thickening with each thrust.

Mikhail grips my hips, surprising me with tenderness. " Ty ponimayesh', chto my vse tut slomannye? " he whispers, words flowing like wine now that pleasure has unlocked his tongue.

"Fuck," Volkov grunts, fingers digging into my scalp as he empties down my throat with a strangled groan. He staggers back, collapsing onto the mattress, chest heaving as he watches Mikhail take over.

And holy shit, the mountain of silence turns into a fucking avalanche.

Mikhail's massive hands bruise my hips as he drives into me like he's trying to split me in half, muttering filthy Russian phrases that don't need translation to understand.

The quiet, stone-faced giant becomes pure animal—all grunts and growls and sweat-slicked power.

It's always the quiet ones who fuck like they're exorcising demons. The ones who barely speak two words suddenly find religion when their cock's buried deep.

We fuck like the world is ending—because for us, it might be.

Tomorrow brings Vienna, brings Harlow, brings the possibility that one or all of us won't survive what comes next.

This isn't about connection or even particularly about pleasure.

It's about feeling something real, something visceral, something that cuts through the layers of lies and masks and false identities.

When I finally cum—Mikhail beneath me, Volkov behind, both filling me in a fullness that borders on pain—it's not with a scream but with a broken laugh that might be mistaken for sobbing.

The release isn't just physical but existential—a momentary clarity in which I recognize exactly what I've become and find I don't particularly care.

Afterward, we lie in a tangle of limbs, sweat cooling on skin, the room thick with the scent of sex and spent adrenaline. No one speaks. No one needs to. This wasn't about words.

Volkov is the first to move, extracting himself with that same fluid efficiency, reaching for cigarettes and lighter.

The flame illuminates his face briefly—calm, composed, already mentally elsewhere.

He passes the cigarette to me after one drag, a strange intimacy more revealing than what came before.

Mikhail stirs, his massive arm still draped across my waist, his breathing already steadying toward sleep. He murmurs something in Russian, too low for me to catch, but Volkov's expression shifts—just slightly, a secret glimpse of what might be genuine emotion.

"What did he say?" I ask, exhaling smoke toward the cracked ceiling.

Volkov reclaims the cigarette, taking another drag before answering. "He said even broken things deserve moment of peace."

The words settle over me like a blanket—not warm, exactly, but substantial. I close my eyes, feeling the steady thump of Mikhail's heart against my back, the weight of his arm anchoring me to the present.

Tomorrow brings Vienna, brings Harlow, brings the next bloody chapter in whatever story I'm writing with my bad choices and worse luck. But tonight—for these few hours stolen from fate—I'll take the closest thing to peace people like us can find.

In the arms of monsters who recognize their own kind.