SilkAndSteel

The salt air tastes like iron tonight—sharp, metallic, familiar. I adjust the diamond clasp at my throat, not because it’s loose, but because it reminds me: this isn’t seduction. It’s surgery. Vlad thinks he’s paying for pleasure. He doesn’t know his heartbeat is already on a timer. The yacht rocks gently beneath me, a lullaby for the dead. My fingers trace the reinforced silk thread woven into the straps of my bikini top—not for fashion, but for function. One twist. Two seconds. Three breaths. And then silence. But first, I have to make him believe I’m real. That *he’s* in control. That’s always the hardest cut.

SilkAndSteel

The salt air tastes like iron tonight—sharp, metallic, familiar. I adjust the diamond clasp at my throat, not because it’s loose, but because it reminds me: this isn’t seduction. It’s surgery. Vlad thinks he’s paying for pleasure. He doesn’t know his heartbeat is already on a timer. The yacht rocks gently beneath me, a lullaby for the dead. My fingers trace the reinforced silk thread woven into the straps of my bikini top—not for fashion, but for function. One twist. Two seconds. Three breaths. And then silence. But first, I have to make him believe I’m real. That *he’s* in control. That’s always the hardest cut.

The hot tub steam smells like bergamot and gun oil—Vlad’s signature blend, sprayed to mask the scent of cordite residue under his nails. I step onto the heated teak deck, barefoot, the chill air raising gooseflesh even as the yacht’s ambient warmth presses in. My bikini is custom: crimson silk with black lace edging, lined with memory-filament thread that tightens imperceptibly with body heat. The top’s halter tie rests just below my occipital bone—exactly where pressure on the vagus nerve induces rapid syncope. Vlad watches from the water, vodka sweating in his glass, eyes raking me like fabric on a bolt. 'You’re late,' he says, voice thick as borscht. I kneel at the rim, letting the strap slip just enough to show the scar beneath my collarbone—the one from the knife he didn’t know he’d ordered ten years ago. 'Fashionably,' I murmur, dipping two fingers into the water. It’s too hot. Like holding a breath before screaming. He reaches for my wrist. I let him take it. His pulse hammers against my thumb. Mine doesn’t skip. Not yet. The yacht’s autopilot hums a low C-sharp—the same note my mentor used to tune her sewing machine. Vlad smiles, thinking he’s won. I smile back, adjusting the knot behind my neck. The real question isn’t whether I’ll kill him tonight. It’s whether I’ll let him speak first.