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When I finally give in to the need to use the bathroom, Mikhail is at his computer, back turned to me, his headphones on. It’s almost midnight, and the sun has set. At some point, he turned on the lamps without me even noticing. My eyes feel strained from all the staring.
After returning from the bathroom, I look at him again, wondering if I should go over to Mikhail and gently place my hand on his shoulder. I could give him a soft squeeze of support and … and what? Andlove? Those kinds of thoughts don’t belong in my head. Maybe all the lust is mixing me up, making me think of things that aren’t true. Love.Love?
I go back to my computer and get to work. I’m not sure how much time passes. I’m hammering every avenue I can thinkof, manually going through phone records, cross-referencing, double-checking, and finally finding what I’m looking for—the location. It’s right there! Artyom Dragomirov, the Sokolov soldier who not only lived in Serbia but served in the Serbian military before coming to the US at a young age, has several phone calls with the dead Serbian attacker.
“Mikhail,” I almost yell, wrenching off my headphones and spinning in my computer chair.
But he’s not there. I didn’t even hear him leave, but that’s not exactly surprising when I’ve been letting music pump so loudly in my ears. I quickly scribble down all the details—the calls, the times, and, most importantly, the address linked to him. It’s three a.m.! I had no idea it had been so long. I feel wired in that all-nighter way, which makes me wonder if I’ll be able to get any sleep tonight ortoday, more accurately.
Tucking the paper into my pocket, I creep through the house. I don’t want to wake the butler, servants, or anybody else. I walk up and down the hallway, whispering his name. When I reach the ground floor, I find Mikhail walking toward me with a body in his arms.
Panic grips me. It’s a woman. Has Mikhail killed awoman? My throat tightens as my tired, stressed mind whirs into motion. I don’t want to think about anything ugly like that, but this is a savage, cruel reminder of what being Bratva really means. It’s violence. It’s pain. It’s sin, hate, and sadism, but I never thought Mikhail would …
“It’s Ania,” Mikhail whispers, giving me a strange look. “She sleepwalks. She was outside. I’m just taking her to bed.”
“Oh.”
“What did you think?” he says, his voice dark.
I don’t reply but follow him quietly as he carries Ania to her bedroom. I wait outside the room, moving from foot to foot, too full of anxious energy. When Mikhail emerges, he’s got that same look on his face, like he knows precisely what I was thinking.
He takes my hand, then moves closer to me, gently pushing me against the wall. His warm breath caresses me as he leans down, whispering temptingly over my skin. “I thought you’d forgotten I existed,” he says, smirking, then presses his lips against mine.
I savor the kiss for way too long. How could I do anything else? Then I remember my note.
“I found the address,” I tell him.
Mikhail’s eyes sparkle with … pride? Nobody’s ever looked at me like that except for Mikhail. It makes me think I’m worth something and can make a positive difference. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself into believing this world isn’t as dark as it is.
“Tell me,” Mikhail says.
Reaching into my pocket, I hand him the piece of paper. “Artyom Dragomirov links to the Serbians who attacked Dimitri. He might also have a connection to my dad.”
“I’ll call Dimitri.”
“Are you going to the city with him?”
Mikhail shakes his head.
“Why?”
Suddenly, he’s close to me again. His warm body presses against mine so I can feel all the passion coursing through him. It’s like any second, he will set his clothes on fire.
“Do you even have to ask that?” he says fiercely, smoothing his hand over my hip. He pulls in a trembling, husky breath, and I know he’s struggling not to kiss me again. “I need to call Dimitri.”
“I’ll be in my room,” I murmur.
Mikhail smirks. “Is that a hint?”
Say no, but I can’t listen to the reasonable voice in my head. I feel like I’m on a high after all these hours of work finally paying off. “Maybe … maybe not.”
He laughs in that deep, attractive way. “I’m going to ignore thenotpart.”
“I think that should creep me out.”
“Should,” he repeats, with a classic Mikhail smirk, still with that pride burning in his eyes.
He turns and strides down the hallway, almost as if he wants to get away from me as quickly as possible. I go to my bedroom and sit on the bed, wondering if I should put on something sexy, wondering if it’s okay to forget about everything else and throw myself into the steaminess.
