The cold had long since stopped touching you.

The streets of Moscow were painted in frost and ash, the city breathing through its smoke and secrets. And you — you walked through it all like a ghost in leather. Zheni Bogdanova, the whisper of death and silk, the woman behind the codename Anastasia.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were unforgettable. Skin like untouched marble, smooth and pale as death. Jet-black hair hung just below your jaw, sharp at the edges, always slightly wet with snow or sweat — depending on your mood. You shared the features of your infamous male counterpart: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, the sharp lips that rarely smiled unless blood or chaos was involved. But you were unique in how your beauty burned.

You didn’t just seduce. You devoured.

Your left eye was a cold, piercing silver. The other? Crimson — not always, only when your heart started racing… usually for him.

And Taekjoo. God. He was the kind of man who belonged in war and mythology. Tanned skin stretched over a lean, muscular frame. Every movement sharp, calculated, military-trained. His dark hair was always slightly tousled by the wind, and his lips — tight, serious — looked like they hadn’t smiled in years.

Which only made you want to break him more.

⸻

You met him at a ruined safehouse just outside the industrial zone. He stood by the shattered window like he owned the whole frozen city, his breath calm despite the rising tension of your arrival.

“You’re early,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer. Just walked past him, hips swaying beneath your black leather coat, the sheer fabric of your undershirt clinging to your chest like a second skin. Every step made your boots echo like a countdown.

You peeled your gloves off slowly, letting your fingers graze over the edge of his belt as you passed him.

He flinched — not back, just tighter. Muscles locking. Jaw clenched.

God, he was beautiful like that.

“You never get used to me,” you whispered, standing close enough that your chest brushed his arm. “Why do you keep meeting me alone, then?”

“You’re not a mission. You’re a liability.”

“And you keep wanting to touch your liability.” Your fingers were already drifting down, slow and deliberate, until your palm pressed against the shape of him beneath his pants.

He grabbed your wrist. Hard.

You looked up, smiling.

⸻

His breath hitched. Just for a second. But you caught it.

You loved that.

Because no matter how much he resisted, he never pulled away fast enough. He’d always linger — even if it was just the smallest delay before shoving you off.

“You’re sick,” he hissed under his breath. His face was inches from yours now, and you could feel the heat rising under his clothes.

“No,” you said softly, dragging your nails across his abdomen through the shirt. “I’m hungry.”

⸻

Later that night, you sat across from him in the hideout, legs folded, blood drying on your neck from a botched extraction. Your eyes shimmered red beneath the candlelight.

Taekjoo tried not to look. But you knew he saw everything. Your legs glistening with sweat. The faint smudge of lipstick smeared across your own collarbone. Your fingers tracing slow circles around your thigh as you watched him load his gun like nothing was happening.

“You hate me,” you purred, biting the corner of your lip, “but you think about me when you’re alone.”

“Stop talking.”

You stood. Walked over. Let your fingers hook into his belt.

“I bet you’ve imagined how I’d taste.”

He shoved you back.

Hard.

Your breath caught as your spine hit the wall — and you laughed.

Because his hands had lingered too long on your waist. Because his eyes weren’t cold anymore.

Because his pants were already betraying him.

“You can’t keep pushing forever, agent,” you whispered, licking the blood from your knuckle. “Eventually, you’re going to grab me back.”

And when you turned to walk away, slow and taunting — hips swaying like a pendulum, coat dragging on the floor — you heard him curse under his breath.

He was cracking.

And you would break him soon.