Page 14

Compared to Lukas, I just feel cheap. I’d almost rather be naked.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

I wonder if I’m what he expected.

I wonder if I’m already disappointing him.

I sit. I wait. But still, the conversation goes on.

And on.

And—my God—on.

It takes me an embarrassingly long second to realize that the reason I don’t understand what he’s saying is because he’s speaking in Russian. Shockingly, my two years of high school Spanish are doing me no favors in terms of figuring out what he’s talking about.

“It seems like you’re busy,” I mumble after another couple minutes have passed. “I’ll come back.”

I start to stand—then, without pausing his conversation, or even looking at me, Lukas moves.

He raises one hand, palm out.

Sit the fuck down,it says.

Then his finger curls downward.

Stay the fuck there,it says.

My ass hits the leather before my brain catches up. I swallow hard.Sir, yes, sir.

I fold my hands in my lap and do my best to calm my racing heart. I don’t try to move again. I don’t even think about moving.

Because when Lukas Lazarev tells you to sit, you sit.

While I wait, I study the office because there’s nothing else for me to do. It’s as haunting and bare as the rest of his top floor domain. The oil painting off to my left is a vast, colorless snowscape, with a tiny smudge of black in the middle that looks like a traveler lost in the tundra. Pretty depressing, if we’re being honest. On the bookshelves, I see titles in Russian and English mixed together, their spines cracked from use. The desk is devoid of everything but a laptop, a leather-bound notepad, and a thick gilded pen, all resting alongside an ashtray that’s half-full.

It’s like a room designed by someone who wanted to prove they needed nothing. Mission accomplished, I’d say.

The phone slams down without warning. I jump in my seat. I don’t scream, but it’s a close call.

Lukas swivels to face me. Those gray eyes are stormy this morning. But the beard, the suit—everything else about him is flawlessly groomed.

“Ms. Everett. You came.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, Mr. Lazarev.”

He raps his fingers on the armrest. “I recall specifically saying you had choices.”

“You also had my desk moved over the weekend.”

“Did I? How strange.”

I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t.

Instead, he settles his bulk back in his chair and folds his hands over his lap. “Let’s get to know each other,” he says.

I gulp and nod. “Oh. Okay, sure. Yeah.”

“Tell me about your brother.”