CAUGHT

The elevator felt like it was shrinking. Or maybe that was just Dimitri, filling the space with his presence as the doors slid shut with a soft ding that sounded absurdly cheerful given the circumstances.

Anya's back hit the wall. Cold metal through the thin fabric of her dress. Her heart was trying to jackhammer its way out of her chest, and for once she didn't have to fake the fear.

"I didn't see anything." The words tumbled out, breathless and high. Perfect. "I swear, I was just looking for the bathroom, I got lost..."

"Stop talking."

Dimitri's voice wasn't loud. Didn't have to be. It sliced through her panic like a scalpel, clean and precise.

He stepped closer. Not crowding her, not yet, but near enough that she could smell him, expensive cologne over something earthier, wilder.

Something that made her hindbrain sit up and pay very close attention.

"Your pulse is elevated," he said, tilting his head. Those ice-blue eyes tracked the flutter at her throat. "Breathing rapid. Pupils dilated. All the signs of genuine fear."

"I am afraid." Truth. "You just...that man..."

"And yet." He held up one finger. "You didn't scream until after you'd processed the scene. Tactical delay. Most civilians scream on immediate visual stimulus. You took approximately 1.2 seconds. That's training."

Fuck.

Her mind raced through her options. Deny everything? Double down on the terrified innocent? Try to...

Dimitri moved. One step. Close enough now that she'd have to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. Close enough that she could see her own reflection in his eyes.

"Please," she whispered. "I won't tell anyone. I'll forget everything. I just want to go home."

"That's better. More genuine." His hand came up slowly, giving her time to see it coming. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. Not painful. Just firm enough that she couldn't pull away without a fight. "There. Now I feel real fear."

Because he was touching her. Because through that point of contact, something wrong was happening. A warmth that started where his skin met hers and radiated outward, sinking into her bones. The genetic modifications were supposed to prevent this. The mate bond shouldn't affect her at all.

But her internal diagnostic, visible only to her, a faint overlay in her peripheral vision—flickered and updated.

IMMUNITY: 98%

Two percent. From one touch.

"Interesting." Dimitri's thumb pressed against her pulse point. "Now your heart rate is elevated for a different reason."

"Let go of me."

"In a moment. I'm still figuring something out." His nostrils flared. "You smell... wrong. Not wrong. Different. Like you but not you. Layered."

She jerked her wrist. He didn't release her, just tightened his grip fractionally. Enough to remind her that he was stronger. Faster. Other.

"What are you hiding, milaya?"

"Nothing! I'm a waitress, I just started tonight, I don't know anything about..."

He pulled something from his jacket pocket. Small, matte black, shaped like a phone but clearly not. When he pointed it at her, the device emitted a series of soft beeps.

Dimitri's expression went completely flat.

"You're wired." His voice dropped to something colder than his eyes. "Left collarbone region. Tracker. Military-grade frequency."

The elevator reached the ground floor. The doors opened onto the parking garage, concrete and fluorescent lights and the smell of exhaust.

Freedom was ten feet away.

Anya lunged for it.

Dimitri's hand shot out, caught her upper arm, and yanked her back with enough force that she stumbled in her heels. He steadied her with insulting ease, then steered her away from the exit and back toward the building.

"Where....no, please..."

"We're going to have a conversation." His tone suggested this was not optional. "About who sent you. And why you're pretending to be something you're not."

He guided her through a service entrance, down a hallway she hadn't mapped in her reconnaissance. Her mind was screaming abort protocols, fall back, extract, but there was no way out with his hand locked around her arm like iron.

They passed through a kitchen, stainless steel and the ghost of cooked meat, and down another corridor. This one ended at the same heavy door she'd "accidentally" opened.

Dimitri shoved it wide.

The body was still there, though someone had draped a sheet over it. The metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air.

Nikolai looked up from where he was washing his hands in a utility sink. His sleeves were still rolled up, knuckles bruised and split. When he caught sight of her, his entire face transformed. The cold focus vanished, replaced by something that looked almost like wonder.

"You brought her back." He dried his hands on a towel, moving toward them with fluid grace. "I thought she'd run."

"She tried." Dimitri pushed her forward, not rough, but not gentle either. "She's wired. Tracker. And her cover story doesn't hold up to basic scrutiny."

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

Anya put every ounce of confusion she could into her voice. "Please, I just want to leave..."

"Shh." Nikolai's hand came up, fingers gentle under her chin, tipping her face toward the light. "It's okay. We're not going to hurt you."

His thumb brushed her jaw. The contact sent another spike of wrong-heat through her system. She tried to pull back; he held her there, studying her face like he was memorizing it.

"She smells like mate," he said softly. "Tell me you feel it too, Dima."

"I feel something. Don't know what yet." Dimitri circled around to her other side. Between the two of them, she felt caged. Hunted. "But she's definitely not what she appears to be."

"I'm a waitress..."

"You're a very bad liar." Dimitri pulled out his phone. Started typing. "I'm running her face through our database. Let's see who Anya Brooks really is."

Panic spiked, sharp and real. Her cover identity was deep, decades of backstory, paper trails, digital footprints carefully cultivated. But if they had access to facial recognition that connected to...

The door opened again.

Alexei walked in, phone still in his hand, expression as empty as before. His gaze swept over the scene, Anya between his brothers, clearly distressed, clearly trapped, and something flickered across his face. Too fast to read.

"What's happening?" His question was directed at Dimitri.

"She's wired. Tracker, military-grade. And her fear response is inconsistent with a civilian." Dimitri's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. "Facial recognition is running, but... her background checks out on the surface. Anya Brooks, twenty-three, moved to Moscow six months ago, works three part-time jobs, clean record."

"Too clean," Alexei said immediately.

"Exactly."

"I'm right here," Anya snapped. "And I'm not... I don't know what you think I am, but I'm just..."

"Strip her." Alexei's tone was completely clinical.

"Check for other devices."

The words hit like ice water.

Nikolai's hand fell from her face. "Alexei..."

"She's an operative of some kind. We need to know what we're dealing with." Those silver eyes fixed on her. "Take off the dress."

"No." Anya's voice came out stronger than she felt. "Absolutely not."

"You don't have a choice." Alexei stepped closer. Not threatening, he didn't need to threaten. His mere presence was threat enough. "You can remove it yourself, or Nikolai will remove it for you. Either way, we're going to find out what you're hiding."

Her mind raced. If they searched her, they'd find the tracker, already compromised. They'd find the subdermal comm unit below her left ear. They'd find the false compartment in her heel with the emergency poison.

They'd find everything.

"Okay." She raised her hands, palms out. Surrendering. "Okay. I'll tell you the truth."

"Will you?" Dimitri's voice dripped skepticism.

"I'm... I'm in debt." The lie came smooth as silk. She'd prepared this one, a backup layer if the innocent act failed. "Bad debt. To bad people. They told me if I wore this..." she touched the small bump where the tracker sat beneath her skin, "...and came to work here tonight, they'd forgive what I owe."

"Who?" Alexei's expression didn't change. "Who told you this?"

"I don't know his name. He found me at my other job, said he knew I needed money, said this was easy. Just wear the tracker, serve drinks, let them know when you....when you three...were here." She let her voice crack. "I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know you were... what you are. I just needed the money."

Silence.

The three brothers looked at each other. Some kind of silent communication happening that she couldn't read.

Finally, Nikolai spoke. "You're saying someone wanted to track us?"

"I guess? I don't know. I'm sorry.... I'm so sorry." She let tears well up. Not hard, the adrenaline made them come easy. "Please just let me go. I'll leave Moscow. Tonight. You'll never see me again."

"No." Alexei's voice cut through her plea. "You won't."

He pulled out a phone, not his personal one, this was different, a burner maybe, and dialed. Someone answered immediately.

"Viktor. I need a full background workup. Name: Anya Brooks." He rattled off details while staring directly at her. "I want to know what she ate for breakfast ten years ago. And find out who's running surveillance on us through civilian proxies."

He hung up. Pocketed the phone.

"You're staying here until we verify your story."

"What? No, I can't...I have to..."

"You'll do what you're told." He turned to Dimitri. "Take her to one of the guest rooms. Third floor, east wing. She doesn't leave. She doesn't communicate with anyone. And get that tracker out of her."

"Alexei...." Nikolai started.

"Now, Kolya."

The nickname stopped whatever Nikolai had been about to say. He closed his mouth, jaw tight.

Dimitri grabbed Anya's arm again. Started pulling her toward the door.

"This is kidnapping," she said, more out of principle than hope. "You can't just..."

"We can do anything we want, milaya." Dimitri's smile was sharp as glass. "Welcome to our world. Where laws are suggestions and we make the rules."

He guided her out of the room, down another series of hallways she tried desperately to memorize. Up a service elevator, different from the one before, that opened onto a floor of obvious luxury. Hardwood and crown molding and artwork that probably cost more than most people's houses.

He stopped at a door, produced a key from somewhere, and unlocked it.

"Inside."

Anya walked into what could only be called a cell disguised as a five-star hotel room. King bed with silk sheets. Sitting area with leather furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows that she immediately clocked as reinforced and likely alarmed.

"Bathroom's through there." Dimitri pointed to a door on the right. "You'll find clothes in the closet. Everything you need."

"How did you..." She spun to face him. "You didn't know I'd be here. How is there already..."

"We've been preparing for you for a very long time." His expression was unreadable. "We knew someone would come eventually. We just didn't know when. Or that she'd smell like..."

He trailed off. Shook his head.

"The tracker needs to come out. I can do it here, or we can take you to our medical facility. Your choice."

"Here." Better to get it done. The tracker was already compromised anyway, they knew about it, which meant her handlers knew the mission was blown. "Do you have... supplies? Anesthetic?"

"Don't need it. Nikolai will be here in a moment. He's very good at making things painless."

As if summoned, a knock sounded at the door. Dimitri opened it, and Nikolai entered carrying a medical kit.

"Alexei wants this done fast," he said, setting the kit on the bed. "Before whoever's monitoring realizes we've found it."

"Sit down." Dimitri pointed to a chair.

Anya sat. Her mind was still racing, trying to salvage something from this disaster. The tracker was blown. But she still had the comm unit. Still had the poison. Still had...

Nikolai's fingers touched her collarbone, and her thoughts scattered like startled birds.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I know this is frightening. But I promise, I'll be gentle."

He meant the tracker removal. But the way he said it, the way his hands moved with careful precision, felt like something else entirely.

Dimitri stood by the door, watching. His phone buzzed. He checked it, and his expression went carefully blank.

"What?" Nikolai asked without looking up.

"Viktor found something. An old photo. From twelve years ago." Dimitri showed him the screen. "Orphanage in Volgograd. Girl named Anya, right age. But..."

"But what?"

"The face doesn't match."

Anya's blood turned to ice.

Nikolai's hands stilled against her skin. He looked at the phone. Then at her.

"Who are you?" he asked softly.

And Anya realized she was completely, utterly screwed.

The tracker came out with a quick slice of Nikolai's scalpel and a burning sensation that made her gasp. He held up the tiny device, no bigger than a grain of rice, and dropped it into a metal tray where it made a small tink.

"Done." He pressed gauze to the wound. "You'll want to keep this clean for a few days."

"Thank you," she said automatically, then wanted to kick herself. Why was she thanking her kidnappers?

Dimitri's phone rang. He answered immediately. "Yes?" Pause. "Send it to me."

He pulled up something on his screen. Studied it. His expression darkened.

"What?" Nikolai demanded.

"The photo Viktor found. Different face, but..." He looked at Anya. "You want to explain why there's a picture of you from twelve years ago with a completely different facial structure?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar." He turned the phone around, showed her the screen.

It was her. Younger, gawky, pre-pubescent. But definitely her. The same eyes. The same expression. But the nose was different. The cheekbones. The jawline. Everything about the bone structure was wrong.

Her cover identity had one weakness. One single point of failure that her handlers swore they'd eliminated.

They'd missed a photo.

"I can explain..."

"Don't bother." Dimitri pocketed his phone. "Alexei wants to see you. Now."

He grabbed her arm again, hauled her to her feet. Nikolai followed, medical kit forgotten, his expression troubled.

They took her back down to the first floor, to a different room this time. An office, clearly...massive desk, leather chairs, bookshelves lining the walls. The window behind the desk overlooked Moscow's glittering skyline.

Alexei sat at the desk, the photo pulled up on his computer. He gestured to the chair across from him without looking up.

"Sit."

Anya sat.

"I'll ask you once," he said, finally meeting her eyes. "Who are you working for?"

"I told you. I'm in debt..."

"You had reconstructive surgery before the age of twelve. That's not a civilian procedure. That's witness protection. Or intelligence services. Or something worse." His fingers drummed once on the desk. "Who. Are. You."

She could stick to the cover. Keep lying until they got tired and killed her. Or...

Or she could give them a piece of truth. Just enough to buy time.

"I don't know who I'm working for," she said quietly. "Not really. I was taken when I was young. Trained. Modified. They told me I was protecting people. That you..." she gestured to the three of them, "...were threats that needed to be eliminated. But I don't know who they are. Not their names. Not their faces. Just... instructions. Missions."

"You're an assassin." Not a question.

"I'm a lot of things."

Alexei leaned back in his chair. "And your mission tonight was to what? Kill us?"

"Eventually. First, I was supposed to make you think I was your mate. Get close. Gain your trust." She met his eyes. "Then kill you when you were vulnerable."

Silence.

Then Nikolai laughed. Not a happy sound. "She just admitted to being sent to murder us, and I still can't stop thinking about how good she smells."

"The bond doesn't care about intent," Dimitri said. "Only compatibility."

"What bond?" Anya asked. "I don't understand what you keep..."

"You're our mate." Alexei cut her off. "Fated. Destined. Whatever word you prefer. The three of us have been waiting over a century to find you. And you walk into our lives smelling like home and heaven, and you're here to kill us." He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "The universe has a sense of humor."

"I don't... that's not possible. The modifications...I'm immune to..." She stopped.

Because Dimitri was watching her with those ice-chip eyes, and she realized she'd just confirmed something he'd been guessing.

"Immune." He tasted the word. "They made you immune to the mate bond. But it's not working, is it? We can smell the pheromones. And I felt your pulse jump every time one of us touched you."

"That's fear..."

"It's not just fear, milaya." He moved closer. "Want to test it?"

Before she could answer, his hand cupped her face. Gentle. Almost tender.

The heat was immediate and overwhelming. Her diagnostic flickered in her vision: IMMUNITY: 96%.

Another two percent. From a simple touch.

"There." Dimitri's voice went soft. Dangerous.

"That's not fear."

Alexei stood. Walked around the desk. Stopped directly in front of her chair.

"We're not going to kill you," he said. "Despite the fact that you just admitted to being sent here to murder us. Do you know why?"

Anya shook her head.

"Because you're ours." He leaned down, hands on the armrests, caging her in. "Mate bond doesn't make mistakes. Which means whoever sent you made a critical error. They created the perfect weapon to destroy us. And then they gave her to us gift-wrapped."

His face was inches from hers. Close enough that she could see flecks of blue in those silver eyes.

"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay here. You're going to tell us everything you know about your organization. And you're going to explain exactly what they did to make you immune to us." He smiled. Cold and sharp. "And then we're going to decide what to do with you."

"And if I refuse?"

"You won't." Alexei straightened. "Because your other option is we hand you back to whoever sent you. And I'm guessing they don't have a generous policy regarding failed missions."

He wasn't wrong.

"Take her back to the room," Alexei said to Dimitri. "Make sure she has everything she needs. She's not a prisoner."

"I'm not?"

"No. You're a guest. Who happens to be unable to leave. For her own safety." His expression was utterly blank. "Welcome home, Anya. Or whatever your real name is."

Dimitri pulled her to her feet again. But this time, his grip was almost gentle.

As they left the office, Anya heard Nikolai say, "We can't just keep her here against her will."

And Alexei's response: "Watch me."