KILL SHOT
ROMAN
"I want to fucking snap her neck or fill her mouth with my cock."
It was a violent, dichotomous urge—pure destruction or pure possession. A familiar electrical current crackled at his fingertips, a phantom pain, a live wire begging to be grounded. It was the same sensation that would crawl under his skin before a fight in the pit. He soothed it with an unconscious, practiced motion, running the pad of his thumb over his index finger, a subtle tic that belied the storm raging behind his stoic mask. It was a ritual of control, a way to tether the beast before it was unleashed.
“Mr. Volkov.” Alexandra’s voice was a cool, efficient blade, severing his train of thought. “This is Maya Serin. She is your second personal assistant. She just arrived today.”
Roman’s gaze, heavy-lidded lifted from the financial reports on his desk. They raked over the woman standing before him, and a violent surge of what he could only describe as pleasureful displeasure tightened his gut. She was wide-eyed, undeniably pretty, with a cascade of ink-black hair and a face that held the last remnants of youthful softness. She was looking at him. No, he corrected himself with a jolt of internal disgust. He needed her to look up at him. Preferably from her knees.
The image was instantaneous and devastatingly clear: her on the floor, her wide eyes gazing up at him with a mixture of fear and reverence. He shook the thought away physically, a slight, dismissive turn of his head, and let his eyes fall back to his papers. “Coffee. Black. No sugar. If it is not at the precise temperature, you can pack your suitcase.” His voice was devoid of emotion, a flat, commanding monotone.
He didn’t watch her go, but he was acutely aware of the soft scuffle of her sensible shoes on the polished floor. He found himself counting the seconds, a pointless exercise that betrayed his fractured focus. Would she even know where the kitchen was? Would she be smart enough to ask?
Seven and a half minutes later, she was back. The cup she placed on his desk was from a blend he didn’t recognize, a single-origin perhaps, but the aroma was rich and inviting. He didn’t touch it immediately. Instead, he let his eyes flick to her. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, a quiet confidence in her posture. He wrapped his fingers around the ceramic. It was hot. He brought it to his lips. It was perfect. Eighty degrees, just the way he liked it. The taste was excellent—smooth, with a hint of dark chocolate and no bitterness.
Fuck.Obedient and competent. A dangerous combination. No. 23. Too young. Too fragile. He recited the facts from her file in his head like a mantra, a shield against the pull he felt.
As he placed the cup back on its saucer, a small smile touched her lips. It wasn’t ingratiating or flirtatious, just genuine. “I hope it is to your taste, Mr. Volkov,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “It is an honour to work with you.”
The corner of his own lip curved up in spite of himself, a rare, ghost of a smile. “We will see how long that sentiment lasts,” he teased, the words a low rumble. And then, like a physical blow, the urge was back, more potent than before. The need to see her on her knees was a primal, gnawing hunger.
He acted before the wall of his restraint could fully form. With a minute, deliberate movement, he nudged the full cup. It tipped, a dark cascade of coffee splashing onto the immaculate floor. He expected a gasp, a flinch. He got neither.
“It’s fine, Mr. Volkov. I’ve got it,” she said, her tone startlingly unbothered. From the pocket of her simple, cheap linen dress—a dress Roman hated for how much he liked its unpretentious grace—she produced a wad of napkins, probably from a café in the airport. She knelt. Without hesitation. Without a shred of self-consciousness, she knelt on the floor of his vast, opulent office and began to mop up the mess. She looked up at him from her position on the floor, a small, reassuring smile on her face. “All done, Mr. Volkov.”
His cock twitched violently against the constraint of his trousers.Three… two… one…breathe. He chanted the mantra of the pit in his head, a desperate bid for control. She looked exquisite. Devastating. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers, large and luminous, or from her lips, soft and curved in that innocent smile. She had some brown shit—kohl, he thought it was called—lining her waterline, making her eyes seem even larger, more vulnerable. It made him want to fuck her face under his desk all day long, to ruin that innocence, to claim it as his own.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t look at her. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out the slim folder that held her file. He would find everything he needed to know about Maya Serin the second she left the fucking room, stopping his body from walking off on its own, from yanking her to her feet, from bending her over his desk and having his way with her.
“Out. Return in two hours.” The words were clipped, harsh. He was trying to be a saviour, for both of them.*Not the fucking 23-year-old, Roman. You are not this fucking generic and predictable, like the men your age.*
As the door clicked shut behind her and Alexandra, he finally allowed himself to slump back in his chair, his hand drifting to the hardening rod pressing indignantly against his zipper. The fantasy was no longer a fleeting thought; it was a full-blown, high-definition film playing behind his eyes. Maya’s legs split open on his desk as he feasted on her, chewed on her clit while she cried and begged, her tears a sweet lubrication. It was a scenario of utter domination, of consuming her completely. But that was just not going to happen. He would not let it happen.
He slammed the intercom. “Alexandra. Postpone my three o’clock. Tell Cassandra to be ready in ten minutes.”
Cassandra was his breaking bitch. Her father, desperate to seal a multi-million dollar merger he couldn’t otherwise afford, had offered her up like a bargaining chip. Roman had accepted. She was trained by him, ruthlessly and, he found with a pang of boredom, rather effectively. She was too hardened now. Too willing. She took his fuck on the regular, in the guest room he’d had converted for that very purpose, never whimpering, never crying. It was efficient. It was functional. It was good enough.
But today, as he stood before her, watching her assume the position on all fours on the cool satin sheets—willing, honed, blonde, so generically, perfectly blonde—he felt nothing but a hollow craving. Cravings for soft-necked interns with ink-black hair and eyes that held no fear. He looked at her and saw the ghost of Maya. He walked away. He couldn’t even fake it.
He took the keys to his least conspicuous car, a blacked-out Audi, and set off. He drove for forty-five minutes, leaving the pristine glass towers of the city for a decaying industrial wasteland. It was a neighbourhood he should not be seen in, a place of rust and neglect that held the rotten, deep-seated roots of his soul. He pulled up outside the chain-link fence of a defunct olive oil factory, its sign a faded, cancerous sore. The building was a corpse, but like any corpse, things crawled inside it.
A man emerged from the shadows of the gate, silent as a wraith. He didn’t speak, just unlatched the lock and held the gate open. Roman walked through. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and stale beer. A man with a scar splitting his face from temple to jaw—Diablo, the fight manager—greeted him with a crooked smile. He rarely spoke. He just bet on Roman whenever he entered the pit, a sure thing he never acknowledged.
“Going to make me money today, Mr. Volkov?” Diablo’s voice was a gravelly rasp. “The cunt couldn’t keep up, it seems.” He smirked, a taunt meant to provoke. When Roman just stared back with flat, dead eyes, Diablo’s smirk faltered. He handed over the roster.
Roman scanned the names. He didn’t care about records or styles. He scanned for a face. A photo of a young man with close-cropped hair and angry, dark eyes stared back at him. Fresh meat from the Athens underground circuit. He had no idea who Volkov was. Perfect. Roman didn’t fight for money. He had more money than God. He fought for a fucking release.
In the makeshift changing room, he stripped off his thousand-dollar shirt and trousers, pulling on worn fight shorts. He didn’t just think of Maya as he taped his hands. He imagined his father, a ghost he could never exorcise, slapping him across the face before a fight when he was just thirteen, screaming at him to be a man, to be a killer. He killed him with his own fists when he was seventeen, high on the horse-grade testosterone his father had pushed on him. When the high had crashed, he felt nothing. Just a cold, empty void he’d been trying to fill ever since.
He entered the ring, a caged square of dirt and dried blood. The crowd, a mix of lowlifes and wealthy thrill-seekers, roared. His opponent, a bull of a man with pretty black eyes, snarled at him.Little bitch. You only look at me.His mind went blissfully, terribly quiet. He bent his head to the left, a sharp crack echoing from his own neck as he loosened his spine. Three. Two. One. The bell rang.
He let the man get the first hit. He wanted to feel it. The massive fist connected with his jaw, and a burst of salty iron flooded his mouth. The pain was a key turning in a lock, freeing the beast. He smirked, blood staining his teeth. And then it was a blur. A red-hot, roaring fury enveloped him. Liver shots that sounded like wet meat being pounded. The crack of jaws. The satisfying crunch of knuckles on bone. He was lost in the rhythm of destruction, every hit a purge. And he was fucking hard.
He stood over the broken fighter, a giant now whimpering and groaning in the dirt. He spat. A glob of blood and saliva landed in the dust beside the man’s face. He walked out of the ring, his chest heaving, the fire banked but not extinguished. He caught Diablo’s eye, who gave him a single, respectful nod. The winner. And then he was gone, back into the night.
When he entered his villa an hour later, showered and dressed in fresh dark clothes, the adrenaline was a dull ache in his bones. He saw her. Maya was sitting on a chair outside his office, her legs crossed, reading a book. Her long, black hair was now loose from its earlier constraint, a heavy curtain spilling over her shoulder and cascading down her back. He stopped dead. The image from the pit—the snarling, bloody face—was instantly replaced by this one. He immediately imagined his palms wrapping in the length of those silky strands, pulling, owning.
She looked up, sensing his presence. She immediately stood, the book clasped to her chest like a shield. Her eyes went wide as they took in his feral look, the lingering wildness that no shower could wash away. But she kept quiet.Good. That mouth could be put to better use. Hypothetically.
He entered his office, leaving the door ajar. She followed a few paces behind, a model of professional discretion. She didn’t speak. She simply placed a fresh bottle of cold water on the table next to his computer, its cap already cracked, a small, thoughtful detail. His eyes flicked to her, a silent question. She gave him a small smile, just the corner of her lip curving deliciously upward.
Don’t throw her against your knee and spank the living daylights out of her for smiling at you like you deserve to be smiled at.
Teach her a lesson.
Remind her what you are.
The internal command was a roar. He clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his temples jumped, and he glared at her without meaning to.
Her smile faltered, a flicker of confusion and hurt crossing her features before she ducked her head. She tried the smile again, a valiant, professional effort, and walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
He collapsed into his ergonomic, expensive leather chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. All he could see were her lips.Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.Not my type. I own to break.I want to break her against a fucking wall.His cock twitched in painful agreement.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. Then, with a guttural sigh of defeat, he unzipped his trousers and freed himself. He stroked slowly, the fantasy building with cruel precision. Her on her knees under his desk, his huge palm spread on her head like a fucking crown. Her wide, innocent eyes looking up at him. Her lips.
Mine.
No. Not mine.
Fuck.
He stayed in his chair, the only sound his ragged breathing, and stroked his cock. He imagined her mouth, the heat, the surrender, and came abruptly, violently, his hips jerking forward in a final, possessive thrust. He grabbed a tissue from the box on the table, cleaned himself up, and then, in a strangely intimate act, picked up the bottle of water she had brought and drank half of it in one long gulp.
This is going to be fucking hard.
He opened his laptop, his fingers, still smelling faintly of musk, resting on the keyboard. He pulled up the feed from the lobby camera. She was back in her chair, reading.What book is she reading? he wondered. The question was alien to him. Since when did he care about what books women read? He zoomed in on the cover.The Tears of Eros by Georges Bataille. Interesting. He’d half-expected some vapid romance novel. He pulled her file back up. A minor degree in Art History and Curatorial Studies. She’d chosen this job because it aligned with her expertise, working for a man whose vast, illicit wealth was partially laundered through a portfolio of legitimate businesses, including a prestigious art advisory. A little intelligent girl.
His fingertips began to prickle. The itch was back.Itch. Itch it. No.He slammed the laptop shut with more force than necessary.
He pressed the intercom. “Alexandra, ask Serin to go home early. She is to come tomorrow on time.”
The voice crackled back instantly. “Yes, Mr. Volkov. Will that be all?”
“Yes. That is all for now.”
He disconnected and leaned back, staring at the closed door. He imagined her gathering her things, walking out into the night, oblivious to the storm she had stirred in him. Little girl will be a problem. A beautiful, intelligent, competent, smiling problem. And Roman Volkov, who solved every problem with brute force and ruthless efficiency, had no idea what the fuck he was going to do with this one.
