Dark purple bubbles swell at the water's surface and pop, releasing the scent of grapes with the rising steam. A woman sighs as she sinks into the sweet, thick water. Who knew grape jelly could be so good for the skin? Finding the right ratio took some time, but this half-and-half mixture feels right to her. A nice hot shower after she finishes soaking, and then a good night's sleep in comfortable pajamas and silk sheets, and she'll be ready to tackle whatever tomorrow may bring.

The jacuzzi is in a sunlit alcove, elevated above the tiled bathroom floor by a short set of stairs and surrounded by a marble lip for personal care products, snacks, or books. She brought nothing with her today. Today, she's enjoying the jets massaging her back as she reviews her day and releases her thoughts, one by one. A soft violin arrangement weaves its tune through the thought bubbles. The violins live under the bathroom counter, and despite the humidity, they're never out of tune when she calls on them to perform.

They hit a wrong note when they hear a knock at the door. She winces. The thought bubbles pop.

“Are you decent, milady?”

She relaxes again, a corner of her lips turning up into a smirk. “No. Come in.”

He's a sight for sore eyes. Actually, he's a sight for pain-free eyes, too. His height and broad shoulders fill the doorway and his tailored black suit well, and he's carrying a silver tray and a folded newspaper. He sets both beside her.

“Champagne or vodka?”

“I take it you have good news. Hm… let’s start with champagne and see what happens.”

She sits upright and dries her hands on a nearby towel. His dark eyes drop to the red straps over her shoulders, and he smiles as he uncorks the champagne. He knew she was teasing him about being indecent. Of course, there are plenty of people who would think this entire situation is indecent, but these two have no trouble rationalizing it. Nobody would care if her butler were serving her champagne while she soaked in a hot tub on a patio. This is her hot tub. The patio will come after she settles more important matters.

She picks up the newspaper and reads the headline, then skims through the front-page article. Her smile widens with every word. "'Organized Crime Disorganized by Mafia War and Mass Arrests.' Oh, my. 'Don Don Ravioli behind bars....' Tut, tut. 'Ricotta mi Ravioli under twenty-four-hour psychiatric observation...' Dear me. 'Don Arnold S. Hunk and wife missing...' Goodness. What a mess. It's almost as if someone with insider knowledge gave the police a pile of evidence and said, 'Have at it.' But who would do such a thing?”

She's giggling when she folds the newspaper and hands it back to him. He offers her a glass of the bubbly.

“Then the threat of a mafia war was real.”

“Two mafia families can’t maintain an amicable coexistence without something like an arranged marriage tying them together. You should know that.”

“The KGB and the American mafia are quite different. Cannoli?”

“Only if you used an egg substitute.”

“I purged the mansion of eggs when you gained residence, milady.”

“You can drop the act now. We’re alone.”

He smiles. When he speaks again, he unleashes a thick Russian accent, complete with rolled Rs and hard Vs that send shivers down her spine.

“I can’t believe she never noticed there were eggs in every meal she ate.”

“Well, we did a good job of keeping her distracted. That was an excellent shot with the dart gun, by the way. I didn’t even see where you hit her.”

“The bottom of her foot. The dart fell out in the ensuing chaos. No one would think to check an anaphylactic patient for an injection site there, would they?”

She laughs. "That was a funny scene. I didn't think he'd panic that much. He fell for her much earlier than I expected, even with the mating bond."

“That I don’t understand. How did you know they were fated?”

An impish grin plays across her lips. "I didn't. But it is possible for certain pheromones to stimulate certain physical responses, and in theory, that effect can be heightened when those pheromones are aerosolized and released into something like, oh, say, the steam inside a sauna. In theory.”

He chuckles. “You planned everything down to the tiniest detail.”

“I don’t like to leave anything to chance, and neither do you. Won’t you join me? I assume you came prepared.”

He reaches up to undo his tie. “I’m always prepared.”

She's seen him act in many undercover roles, some of which involve makeovers that heighten his attractiveness, and some of which are not good looks on him. The handlebar mustache is her least favorite modification so far. She was glad when he got rid of it. It obscured his thin lips and his adorable overbite, and it downplayed his strong Roman nose. To her, his natural, rough-cut features and mannerisms are far superior to his polished impressions, and his physique—well. Tattoos aren't her thing, but scars do strange things to her. He has none of the former and plenty of the latter. He also has a wonderful habit of keeping her guessing by saying and doing things that subvert her expectations. Like right now. He's wearing Mickey Mouse swim trunks under his suit. She could melt into a puddle of grape goo at the sight. They didn't plan this, but Minnie Mouse is front and center on her red one-piece bathing suit.

He climbs the stairs to the jacuzzi and lowers himself into the viscous purple water. The way it laps at his skin makes her mouth water. She disguises her drooling by focusing on her cannoli, but when she reaches for another and passes it to him, their fingertips brush, and a frisson runs up her arm. The golden spark leaves a trail of flushed skin on its journey toward her heart. Inside, a kaleidoscope of butterflies swirls around a bouncing, squealing little girl. She blushes and looks away from him. This is embarrassing. She's a mature, responsible adult—wearing a Disney swimsuit, yes, but mature and responsible nonetheless. Swooning over a man is undignified. Even if he's the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, and sitting inches away from her in a jacuzzi, and wearing Mickey Mouse swim trunks, and has the sexiest accent—

“Are you starting your own Witness Protection Program now?" he asks, interrupting her spiraling thoughts.

She shakes her head to dislodge the little pink hearts crowding her mind. "I've only done this twice.”

“Yes, and you’ve made a KGB member disappear, along with a mafioso’s entire family. I’d say you have a talent for this kind of work.”

“Thank you, but no, I'm not turning this into a business venture. People came to me asking for help, and I liked the challenge. That's all. Oh, on that note, it's all settled with the university. I'm funding their new research project, a study of education's effects on a backward, chauvinistic werewolf pack. I trust my lawyer worked something out with the judge?”

“Yes, she did. They're all out on bail now, and she's optimistic about getting their charges reduced. A little community service, and then they'll have paid their debt to society.”

“While one stupid alpha and two branches of the mafia rot in jail.” She snickers. “I get such a sick sense of satisfaction just thinking about it.”

“You’re not concerned about them organizing in prison?”

She waves her hand to dismiss the question. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I have it all under control. Oh, and I’m meeting Luna’s younger sister, Aurora, for lunch tomorrow. She’s an English major with a specific interest in teaching, and she has a great figure. I’m sure she’ll accept the same offer Y/n gave Luna. What broke college student would pass up an opportunity like that?”

She licks cream from her fingers and leans back against the jacuzzi. He rests his elbow on the marble and traces circles on her shoulder.

“You could do the modeling job yourself, love.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I know.”

A definite perk of this arrangement is privacy. They don't have to worry about anyone seeing them mix business with pleasure. Aside from their aversion to public displays of affection, their relationship is still a secret. When they're around others, he becomes her strong, silent bodyguard, and she either ignores him or turns into Miranda from The Devil Wears Prada. The roleplay was fun for a while. Now, they're tired of pretending.

He leans toward her and kisses her. She loops her arms around his neck and kisses him back. The violins transition to romantic music. One thing leads to another, and when they pause to catch their breaths, she's sitting on his lap, and he's rubbing her back. Both have swollen lips and wide smiles. The pink hearts are leaking from her ears.

“The board called another emergency meeting for tomorrow,” he tells her. “I think they’re ready to sell.”

“Good. I’m ready to buy anytime.”

“How would you like a summer wedding, milady?”

She tilts her head to the side. "Hm... I'll have to check my schedule, but I think I can squeeze that in. And maybe a weeklong cruise for the honeymoon. I should have all of BTS' assets transferred to my name by then.”

Her phone buzzes on the counter. Her smile slips as she closes her eyes and exhales a heavy sigh. The ringtone clashes with the music.

“Katie?” he asks.

“Or Mrs. Hunk. They can wait.”

The sky is darkening to violet when they pull the plug to drain the jacuzzi, and they're both violet as well, albeit a paler shade. He's a little paler than she is. A trickle of red runs down his neck. She cleans the puncture marks and applies a Band-Aid, and then he collects his clothes and the serving tray, and he leaves. Her phone buzzes again. She ignores it until she finishes showering and dons her fuzzy bathrobe and fuzzier slippers. Then she unlocks the screen and flicks through her texts while she shuffles through the bedroom and into the closet.

She has pajamas for every mood, and now that she's donated BTS' clothes to charity, she has no trouble finding the hot pink nightshirt that's calling to her with high-pitched cheeping sounds. It's emblazoned with a fat yellow chick wearing a polka-dot bikini and sunglasses. Above the comical picture is the phrase 'Hot Chick.' She pulls it on and returns to the bedroom and its enormous bed. Her phone goes on Do Not Disturb mode, and she climbs into the warm embrace of blankets and sheets. The violins are trying out something reminiscent of Enya for a change.

“You can stop now.”

The bows still. The unmanned orchestra drifts back into the bathroom and their home beneath the counter, where they seem to be quite happy. They need to get out more. Maybe she'll take them to the greenhouse when the repairs are done. The fresh air would do them good.

She pulls up her favorite web novel app, where a book on her recommended list catches her eye. She taps it, and as she scrolls through each chapter, her smile widens until her cheeks hurt. A laugh escapes her from time to time. This was the reason she didn't tell the police about the North Dakota mafia branch. How bad can anyone with a Canadian accent be? And Rough Seedy has a genuine talent for writing. With Aurora's help, maybe he can expand this short story into a full novel, and then he can pursue publishing. 

She finishes the story and turns her attention to the new batch of silenced texts and calls flooding her notification bar. Katie and Mrs. Hunk. She thought they'd settled everything after Katie wrote everyone into reality, so why are they pestering her now? This is fiction. She can't do anything to help in the real world. Then she sees an incoming call from Katie appear, and, with great reluctance, she answers it.

“Yes?”

“Finally! I know you've seen my texts because they're marked as 'read.' What took so long?”

“I have a life, and my workday ends at five o’clock every day. Believe it or not, I’m trying to relax.”

“Well, this won’t take long. I just need to borrow him for a little while.”

“No.”

“Only for a little while! I promise!”

“No. I just drank some of his blood. He needs time to recover.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Hm… that shouldn’t be a problem. It’s an easy job.”

“Easy or not, you can't have him unless you tell me where you need him and what you want him to do.”

“That’s a secret.”

“Then this conversation is over.”

“Please don’t make me say it.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m hanging up now. Good—”

“Deploying Plan A!”

“You dirty—”

She hangs up before finishing that sentence. It's no use. She knows he's gone, whisked away to who knows where, and she either has to wait for him to return or go searching for him. But she's too busy tying up the loose threads her stand-in left behind to go anywhere. Katie made sure of that—or so she thinks.

Yekaterina climbs out of bed and goes to the refrigerated cabinet where she keeps her arsenal. It's as eclectic as everything else about her: a picture of her beloved, a banana peel, a candlestick, a stick of dynamite, an egg, a feather, a gun, the keys to a helicopter, an ice pick, a jar of grape jelly, a sleeping kitten, a Luna doll, a carton of milk, a blank space, a toy parrot, and a sketch of Freytag's pyramid. She grabs the gun and straps it onto her thigh.

Operation Save Aleksey has begun.