The Pleasure Directive

Lysandra had three minutes to stop being herself.

The city glowed beyond her windows, a wash of neon smeared over black glass. Inside, the penthouse looked like every expensive sin in the city had come here to rest—art on the walls, silk on the furniture, low music humming like a dirty promise.

On her desk, an encrypted progress bar slid toward 100%.

Last Siren codes. Last trace of her real identity.

“Transfer complete,” Aria murmured in her ear, voice low and tight. “You’re clear on this side. He’s coming up.”

Lys set her wineglass down without a tremor. “ETA?”

“Elevator override engaged. Building security is blind. Bratva convoy arrived fifty‑nine seconds ago.” A faint click of keys. “Four men stayed downstairs. Two in the service lobby. Primary is in your private lift.”

Of course he was. Men like Kael Petrov didn’t wait in lobbies.

“Profile,” she said, out of habit more than need.

Aria snorted. “Don’t get cocky, Lys. He’s not a mark—he’s a monster with a board seat. Second‑gen Bratva, billionaire, runs half the city in suits and gloves. Suspected of funding Siren acquisitions five years ago. Statistically, ninety‑two percent chance he kills you if we misplay this.”

“Encouraging,” Lys said.

She crossed to the mirror.

The woman looking back wasn’t a weapon. Not to a casual eye.

Champagne silk clung to her curves like it loved her. Strapless, no visible place to hide a blade. Dark hair over one bare shoulder. Smoky bronze at her eyes. Gloss on her mouth. Bare feet, bare throat. Vulnerable.

Under the skin, nothing was soft.

The hidden collar wrapped her cervical spine, metal laced into bone and nerves. Siren nodes hummed awake, tasting the building’s power grid, the thrum of the private elevator rising.

Her heart stayed slow. Her palms stayed dry. Conditioning held.

“Remember,” Aria said, the clinical edge back. “His neural implant is high‑grade. Pleasure‑kill protocol at full strength should overload it in under eight seconds. You’ll both feel it. Hit him fast, hit him clean, get out. We need his systems, not his corpse.”

“I know the drill.” Lys smoothed a wrinkle from the silk. “Relax. I’ve been training for this my whole life.”

The elevator dinged.

Sound slid along her nerves like a fingertip.

Music throbbed low from hidden speakers, sultry jazz wrapping the room in smoke. Lights shifted warmer at her mental command, throwing flattering amber over marble and glass.

Lys walked toward the living area, every step lazy and unhurried.

The doors slid open.

Kael Petrov stepped into her home like he’d already bought it.

Taller than in the surveillance stills. Broad shoulders filling a tailored black suit, white shirt open at the throat. No tie. There is no attempt to soften the edges. A thin, faintly gleaming line of tech vanished beneath his collar at the side of his neck—his neural implant.

His eyes were wrong for this city: pale, cold, winter‑storm gray. They swept the room once, fast—exits, cover, cameras, her.

He smelled like cold air and clean soap over a darker base: gun oil, leather, a hundred unspoken threats.

Two men followed, guns under their jackets, and steps practiced. One peeled off to the left, one to the right.

Kael lifted his hand without looking. They froze.

His gaze locked on her.

For a moment, the world narrowed to a line between them.

Lys let her lash lower, chin tilt, mouth crook into a slow, amused curve.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice a low, lazy lure. “And you’re wearing far too much Kevlar for a Tuesday night. Didn’t the agency tell you? I prefer my guests to leave the hardware in the hall.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or annoyance. It was gone in a blink.

“This isn’t an agency call,” he said. His voice was lower than she expected, rough around the edges, Moscow buried under boardroom polish. “And this isn’t a booking, printsessa.”

Princess.

She let the corner of her mouth tick up. “Then you’ve definitely got the wrong penthouse.”

“Clear,” one of his men muttered, finishing a sweep. “No other heat signatures. No weapons visible.”

Lys didn’t look away from him. Siren 101: Make the most dangerous man in the room forget anyone else exists.

“Name,” Kael said.

She arched a brow. “You tell me. You’re the one who barged into my home in the middle of the night. Most men at least pretend to know who they’re paying for.”

His jaw flexed once. He took a slow step closer.

Her collar itched. Her nodes hummed louder. The air between them tightened as if his presence had its own gravity.

Aria’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Biometrics spiking. His, not yours. Pupils dilated. You’ve got his attention.”

Lys shifted her weight, silk skimming over her thighs. “Was there a mix‑up with your assistant? Or is this how you usually treat women you show up for—no hello, no drink, straight to threats?”

“I don’t buy women,” he said.

Lie.

She knew the ledger. The night she disappeared into Siren hands, a transfer had moved through accounts bearing his name. Whether he signed it or someone used him, she still tasted that betrayal when she woke up screaming.

She smiled sweeter, burying the spark of rage. “Then you really are lost. Want directions, or are you here to drag me out by my hair for the fun of it?”

His gaze flicked down, quick, over bare throat, bare shoulders, the dip of silk at her breasts. Assessing, not leering.

Her skin prickled where his eyes passed.

“We’re here for a traitor,” he said. “Someone selling data on something called Siren Protocol. This unit is one of three endpoints on the route.” He slid a hand into his jacket, produced a small, black device. “Everything points to here.”

The scanner hummed faintly as he raised it. Colored lights blinked.

Her collar pulsed once in answer.

“Biometric scanner,” Aria hissed. “If it locks onto your nodes, we’re done. Distract him, Lys.”

Lys laughed softly and took a step toward the device, raising her arms as if surrendering.

“Traitor? I’m hurt,” she said. “If anyone was stupid enough to run illegal traffic through my apartment, I’d have charged them triple. Do I at least get a cut?”

He didn’t smile.

The scanner’s beam washed over her, cool, impersonal. Lights shifted from blue to an uneasy amber. His gaze flicked to the readout, then back to her face.

“What is it?” one of his men asked.

“Her baseline is wrong,” Kael said. “Too smooth.”

Of course it was. Siren implants flattened the spikes normal humans threw off. Heart rate low. Temp slightly off. Neural patterns are too clean.

Lys dipped her chin, watching him from under her lashes. “You can scan me all you like, Mr. Petrov. But if this is your idea of foreplay, I’m bored already.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know who I am.”

“I make a point of knowing the men who bring armed convoys into my building,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation is that?” he asked.

She closed the last of the distance between them until only inches of charged air separated their bodies.

“The kind,” she murmured, “that makes men forget why they came.”

Heat coiled under her skin. The Siren nodes along her spine flared. Data scrolled in her vision: micro‑twitch at his jaw, thirty‑percent increase in respiration, fractional spread of his fingers on the scanner.

Interested. Controlling it. Barely.

“His implant is talking to the room,” Aria breathed. “Encryption thick. You get one clean shot, Lys. Make it count.”

If she waited, the window closed. He’d tear the place apart piece by piece. Someone in his network would recognize Siren hardware, and then she’d be in a cage instead of a dress.

She stepped right into his space.

One of his men muttered a curse. “Boss—”

Kael lifted a finger, eyes never leaving hers. The man fell silent.

Lys lifted her hand, fingers slow and deliberate, and rested her palm on his chest.

Heat. Solid muscle. A steady heart, beating just a shade faster than regulation.

“You kicked in my door chasing a ghost,” she said quietly. “I’m flesh and blood. Do you really want to waste your night on conspiracy theories when you could have me?”

His gaze dipped, once, to her mouth.

There.

She went up on her toes and kissed him.

Contact was a closed circuit snapping live.

The protocol fired the instant their mouths met. Siren nodes along her spine lit in sequence, dumping a precision‑tuned blast of pleasure down the new bridge her lips opened between his implant and her system. It was supposed to be a one‑way surge—her current into his circuits, overloading, shorting, dropping him in eight seconds or less.

Instead, his implant grabbed it.

Not passive. Not a stunned client, not a soft‑wired mark. His hardware bit down on her signal like it was built to hunt back. It seized the current, twisted it, and drove it straight back into her.

The loop closed.

Pleasure hammered into her nerves in a perfect, vicious circle—her own weapon ricocheting through both their bodies. No clean curve, no controlled arc. Just rising, rising, no release point.

Her knees buckled.

Kael’s hand snapped to the small of her back, hauling her closer, keeping them both upright. His other hand fisted in her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper instead of breaking it.

The loop intensified.

It wasn’t heat, not exactly. It's more like a live wire run along every nerve ending at once. The world outside her skin fell away. There was only his mouth, his grip, the roaring bright rush detonating behind her eyes.

A sound tore out of her throat, swallowed by his lips. Not calculated. Not faked. Startled, needy.

He answered.

His body jerked, a low, rough noise escaping him that had nothing to do with control. The fine line of tech at his neck flickered, a faint corona of static crawling over the skin there. His fingers dug into her back as if he needed her contact as much as she needed air.

ERROR codes flashed across her vision. FEEDBACK LOOP. OVERRIDE FAILED.

Aria’s voice shredded through static. “Lys, his system is mirroring you—he’s feeding it back, I can’t cut it—get out—”

She ripped her mouth from his, gasping.

The room lurched sideways. Her muscles refused orders. Every nerve sang with jagged aftershocks.

The scanner in his hand shrieked, lights slamming red.

Kael’s pupils were blown wide, chest heaving. He looked down at the device, then at her—for the first time, truly unsettled.

“What did you just do to me?” he rasped.

Lys tried to answer. Her tongue felt thick. Her vision blurred at the edges, the penthouse warping in and out of focus.

*So this is what losing control feels like,* she thought distantly.

One of his men stepped forward. “Boss, her collar—”

Kael moved faster.

The arm at her back slid up, pinning her arms to her sides with ruthless efficiency. His other arm hooked under her knees. The world tilted as he lifted her clean off the floor.

The room swam. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

“Hey—” the closer guard started.

“She’s not a bystander,” Kael said, voice gone flat and lethal. “She’s the asset.”

Panic flared under the fading rush. She tried to twist free. Her overloaded nodes fizzed uselessly, muscles firing a beat too late.

“Put me down,” she forced out, hating the rasp in her voice.

He glanced once more at the shrilling scanner, then smiled—a brief, sharp thing with no humor in it.

“Found you,” he said.

He turned toward the elevator, carrying her like she weighed nothing. The men fell in around them, eyes wary now, fingers close to triggers.

“Aria,” Lys whispered, or thought she did. “Plan B.”

Only static answered.

At the threshold, Kael paused. He looked down at her—at the Siren who’d just tried to kill him and nearly dragged them both into something, neither understood.

His eyes were still cold. But something darkly interesting moved underneath, like a shark circling below clear ice.

He bent his head, lips close to her ear.

“Whatever you are,” he said softly, “you’re coming with me.”

The elevator doors slid shut on the life she’d staged in silk and glass.

Then there was only the hum of descent, the iron weight of his arms, and black.