The apartment was quiet.You were tangled together on the velvet sofa, Ilya’s large frame hovering over yours. His hands were buried in your hair, and his lips were moving against yours with a desperate, hungry intensity that made the rest of the world blur into insignificance."I have to go back to hotel soon," Ilya murmured against your jaw, his Russian accent thick and roughened by the moment. "But I do not want to move.""Then don't," you whispered, pulling him back down by his collar. "Shane is at a team dinner. We have hours."The words had barely left your mouth when the heavy thud of the front door hitting the wall echoed through the hallway.You scrambled to sit upwhile Ilya slowly straightened, looking remarkably unbothered despite the flush on his cheekbones.Shane stood in the archway, his face transitioning from confusion to a terrifying shade of crimson."Is that..." Shane’s voice went up an octave, his finger trembling as he pointed at his greatest nemesis. "Rozanov? Are you kidding me?