All Chapters of Cracking His Code: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

KirillThe elevator ride up to the penthouse is quiet, giving me way too much time to think. I can still smell the gunpowder residue on my jacket and my knuckles throb from where I caught one of the targets in the jaw. My pulse is finally starting to slow down.Three Bratva hitmen are currently bleeding out on the floor of a dingy Brighton Beach apartment.Tracking the courier from the bakery was easy. Max killed their localized security feeds. Dom breached the rear exit. We cleared the entire space in under five minutes. It was an efficient, brutal piece of work.Interrogating them beforehand didn't give us much.They didn't know anything useful about Augustus Scott’s plans. They didn't have the identities of the other kill teams. They were just local muscle looking to score a massive payday, operating on Silas Vance’s say-so and dark web rumors.Putting three bullets into three heads thinned the herd, but it doesn't fix the real problem.Many more are still out there. With the h

KirillI’m not sure what the time is, but I know it’s very late.Shadows stretch across the vaulted ceiling of the master suite, shifting slightly as the wind rattles the heavy glass of the windows.Beside me, Oliver is dead to the world.His face is mashed into the pillows, his long limbs tangled in the twisted, damp wreckage of my duvet.A soft, rhythmic snore escapes his parted lips.We fucked twice more after that first explosive round.My muscles are heavy, drained to the marrow, and throbbing with a deeply satisfying ache. Pushing my physical limits is a daily requirement in my line of work, but the sheer stamina required to keep pace with Oliver’s ravenous appetite was a different kind of marathon entirely.He wrung me out.Laying here in the dark, my mind is spinning far too fast to allow for sleep.The lingering scent of intense sex hangs thick in the air. It serves as an undeniable reminder of exactly what just happened in this bed.The raw passion was staggering, but what

OliverPacing the length of the living room does absolutely nothing to burn off the restless, jagged energy buzzing under my skin.Outside the massive windows, the weather matches my mood. The city looks washed out and exhausted.Frustration burns a hot, corrosive path through my chest.He actually walked out. After the most mind-bending, reality-altering night of my entire existence, Kirill looked me in the eye, shut down my perfectly logical tactical proposal, and left to go do whatever he does at the gym.Judging by his huge muscles, he probably bench presses the entire bench with every weight attached to it.I’m willing to admit that springing the hack on him right after I drained his balls might have been an error in judgment.The blow job seriously wasn’t intended to be a bribe. He tastes so fucking good, and he looked so content in sleep, that I couldn’t resist the temptation.And then he seemed so damn relaxed while shoveling in bacon and eggs that I figured it would be a goo

KirillOliver is standing in the center of the foam mat. He has a plastic bottle of water pressed against his flushed cheek, using the condensation to cool his skin. His t-shirt is molded to the damp lines of his chest and abdomen.His eyes are dark, the black swallowing the blue as he watches me walk back toward him."You dismissed the class," Oliver notes, his voice dropping low and husky."I told you I was handling your hand-to-hand combat," I reply, keeping my tone perfectly level, though the blood roaring in my ears makes it difficult to hear myself think.Stopping inches away from him, I reach out and pluck the water bottle from his loose grip. I toss it onto the bench without breaking eye contact.“You must stay hydrated, but too much water will make you puke,” I tell him."Put your hands up," I command, stepping into his guard.Oliver raises his bruised forearms, adopting the sloppy defensive stance Max taught him earlier. It’s completely ineffective against a man my size, b

KirillMidnight passed hours ago, but neither of us has made a move toward the bedroom.The television casts a flickering, uneven glow across the dark living room. Another terrible action movie plays on the screen, full of muffled explosions and painfully bad dialogue. It serves as background noise more than actual entertainment.Oliver sits next to me on the sofa. He’s practically draped over my left side, his long bare legs tangled comfortably with mine. His head rests against the crook of my shoulder, his breathing is slow and even.My left arm is wrapped around his waist, my hand resting flat against his warm stomach.Relaxing is not something my body knows how to do naturally. Being off-duty usually just means a different kind of vigilance. But sitting here in the dark, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oliver’s chest against my side, a strange, unfamiliar calm settles into my bones.His fingers are idly tracing the ink on my torso.He does this often when we are alone. He