Chapter 10 Getting worked up,

Vladislav Mikhailov pov

I had endured torture before.

Gunshots, drowning in a tank headfirst, knives... name it all. Yet I had emerged as a survivor.

But this? This was actual fucking torture, and I had only myself and that fucking prison cell to blame.

But don't get me wrong.

I'm a man of reason, strategy, and-most importantly-control.

Though the latter is often accompanied by the seductive taste of manic fixation.

Some might say I'm just... sociopathic. A perfect representation of plot holes and uncertain outcomes.

A bit too black to be gray. Too gray to be black.

I'm nothing short of a conundrum for most people, which is exactly how I prefer it.

Dad taught me that people fear what they can't figure out.

They respect you, fawn over the merest hint of your attention, grovel beneath the weight of your authority.

Which is why I've made it my mission to remain clear of the public eye.

The eldest heir to two of the world's largest empires is a mystery by all important accounts.

A handsome mystery.

A seductive-as-sin mystery.

Still a mystery, though.

They see my outer self and the persona I choose to adopt in public, but no one can tell what I'm planning until it's too late.

And yet, none of those details deterred their attention. Far from it.

I stared daggers at my laptop, willing myself to focus on Leo's security debrief instead of the pristine porch visible from the study window.

"And don't come here throwing the blame on anyone else," Leo was saying, voice crisp over the line but it bubbled through my ears like a far away echo. "We've got a lead on the mole. The one who burned you. Might be someone from the old Istanbul pipeline-"

But my eyes were no longer on the screen, they were strained far ahead of me

Her porch is still. Neat. Those potted plants annoyingly symmetrical.

A soft ping hits my burner.

I swipe the screen.

No name. No subject.

Just a photo.

Caitlyn.

Mid-stride. Jogging.

Her tank top soaked and transparent, nipples outlined like a fucking fantasy.

A timestamp. Five minutes ago.

The caption beneath it?

"You really should keep a better leash on your little doll, Pakhan. She wanders."

My blood turns to ice.

Who the fuck took this?

Who got this close to her?

And where did he take this from?

She always leaves at 6:00 a.m.

Always.

I whipped my eyes towards the porch only to discover her running shoes that were lined up by the mat the last time I checked are no more.

But I was too busy watching the porch.

Waiting for movement that had already slipped past me like a whisper.

I don't know when she left.

And that makes me furious.

And why didn't I know she was gone?

I slam my laptop shut and toss it to the backseat.

My pulse is a fucking drum. My jaw locked tight.

She left before her usual time.

While it was still dark. Vulnerable. Alone.

And now someone else-someone untraceable-got eyes on her before I did.

What if they'd taken her?

What if she was already in some van on its way out of the city while I was parked here like a goddamn idiot?

Rage roars in my chest, black and primal.

I throw the door open and start running.

Hard. Fast. Dangerous.

I know her trail.

She always loops the path around the cemetery and up by the reservoir.

I follow it. Sprinting past sleeping houses and flickering streetlamps, barely feeling the ground beneath me.

***

Then, finally-I see her.

A few meters ahead, my little Babochka runs like she's trying to escape something.

Her joggers hug every perfect curve, the soft fabric clinging to her thighs like it's been assigned the privilege.

Her tank top is damp, nearly see-through, sticking to skin I shouldn't be thinking about.

Golden-brown strands of her ponytail gleam in the early morning light, swaying back and forth with each graceful stride.

She seems okay...unharmed. Bless my heart.

I break into a light jog. Slow. Silent. Deadly.

She feels it.

The shift in the air. The weight of my gaze.

The inevitability of what's coming.

She accelerates, pretending I don't exist.

Pretending the danger behind her is imagined.

That's what makes this fun.

I let her pretend for a little longer.

Matching her speed like I've got all the fucking time in the world. Because when it comes to her? I do.

Then, I tighten the leash.

Faster. Closer.

Her head twitches like she wants to look back-but doesn't.

Good girl.

Fear and excitement live in the same breath, and right now, she's inhaling both.

She slows for just a second.

Mistake.

I strike.

"You run fast for such a soft little thing."

She spins, eyes wild. Chest rising. Sweat glistening on her collarbone.

Fuck.

"W...What the hell are you doing here? And do I know you?" she snaps, hurling that pathetic oblivion card before turning on her heel and sprinting like she actually thinks she can escape me.

Like a good little prey.

"Watching," I jog. One step.

"You." Another.

"Run."

"Who are you?"

I smirk. "It's me, Vlad. We met yesternight. At my fucking club... Oh right! You can't seem to remember a dang thing because you were too busy begging me for more,"

"I... I was not!" she barks, voice cracking.

Bingo.

Why the fuck do I enjoy making her stumble on her words like that?

"Getting all worked up, are we?" I taunt, watching as heat betrays her-creeping up her neck, blooming on her cheeks like a secret she doesn't want anyone to see.

She tries to run again. Tries to flee.

But she's already too late.

I keep pace. Easily.

Effortlessly.

"What's the rush, babochka? We've got some catching up to do."

She doesn't answer.

I lean close to her ear. "Did you touch yourself while thinking of me, little Babochka? Or were you too scared to be that filthy for anyone but me?"

She falters.

Barely. But I notice.

"You look so fucking pretty when you're breathless."

Her step stumbles again.

Before she can fall, I catch her wrist. Firm. Possessive.

She crashes against my chest, gasping, her pulse racing.

"You shouldn't be here... I never want to see you again," she whispers.

Lie.

I hear it in her voice.

Feel it in her fucking nerves.

I grin, lips brushing her ear. "Never is a stretch. You begged for me last time, remember? My fingers burried deep your pussy, your cunt pulsing around them, your eyes rolling-"

"Let me go," she tries, her voice trembling. "Or else..."

"Or else what?" I challenge. "You'll run again? Cry?" I pause. "Come?"

She bites her tongue. Doesn't speak.

I want to tear the defiance out of her mouth and swallow it whole.

But instead, I let go.

She stares at me, frozen.

Then, finally, she runs.

Not a jog. A sprint. A full, desperate escape.

Disappearing around the corner like she thinks I'll let her get away.

I won't.

But I'll let her have the illusion.

For now.