Page 55 of His Contract Queen

Unease curls in my gut.

Katerina starts down the stairs, her heels clicking on the marble, the sound echoing over the hushed foyer louder than usual. Nikolai doesn’t even glance over at her. His attention stays on me.

I step forward, putting myself between him and the staircase without making it obvious, and incline my head with the smallest acknowledgment of respect I can manage while my pulse roars in my ears.

“Malyshko… to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

His lips curve into a very subtle frown.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” he replies.

When Katerina reaches the bottom step, I wave a hand in the direction of my office. I don’t give her time to ask questions. I don’t give Malyshko the opportunity to continue whatever reprimand he plans to give me in front of witnesses.

“Office,” I say simply.

Malyshko inclines his head the smallest fraction, an acknowledgment rather than an agreement, and turns without a word, already moving toward the corridor as though this was always the plan. His steps are unhurried with the same lethal calm he carries into every room he enters. I gesture once for my men to stay put and fall in line behind him. The silence between us grows heavier with every step.

Behind us, I know Katerina is watching.

I feel her eyes on my back trying to read the situation from my posture alone, and the way Malyshko’s presence has sucked every ounce of oxygen from the foyer. She doesn’t call out to me as we disappear down the hallway, nor does she follow. She’s too smart for that.

But I hate leaving her like this, standing in the middle of the entry hall as confusion and unease flicker across her face without fully understanding what is happening.

I hate it more than I can afford to admit.

However, this isn’t a conversation she can sit in on. Not if I want to maintain the illusion that I’m keeping her at arm’s length asa play toy I’ve grown fond of but refuse to fully commit to. The moment she steps into that room beside me, the illusion will shatter. She will become a partner, not a possession. An asset Nikolai will never tolerate my keeping.

The corridor stretches ahead, sconces throwing weak pools of light across the marble. Our footsteps echo in perfect, unsettling sync. I reach the door first and push it open, gesturing him inside first.

He does so without hesitation.

I don’t bother locking the door after sealing us inside. No one in this entire estate would dare open that door while two members of the Iron Pact are inside together.

Malyshko takes his time looking around.

He moves slowly through the space, cataloging the dark wood paneling, the heavy velvet drapes, the fireplace with remnants of the fire from last night. He passes over the bookshelves lined with volumes I’ve never read but keep for appearances, and over to the desk where the plans for the military gala are collected into envelopes and sealed with wax.

Names and addresses are printed on each of them—back up copies that will be sent to the Russian embassy once Katerina and I leave the gala.

When he finally turns his attention back to me, his expression is hard. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You are underestimating the military. They bend to us most of the time, yes, but do not mistake that for blind submission.”

My throat tightens.

I don’t interrupt him.

I know better than that.

His knowing about our plan is… unsettling, though not surprising. Deep down, I’m not really shocked. I’ve known Nikolai long enough to understand the reach he has far exceeds what Sokolov, Kuznetsov, and I can match individually.

His network is deeper, his sources unfathomable. Whatever channel he used to learn about the gala—whether through a planted bug snuck in during his last visit, drone footage, intercepting my encrypted network to access the data stored on my private server—had intrigued him enough to come here to confirm the rumor himself.

However he learned it is irrelevant now, an issue I will need to address later. What he plans to do with that knowledge is what matters.

He continues, stepping closer to the desk, fingers trailing once along the edge of the blotter.

“Our influence over them is extensive, but it is not absolute. Push too hard, expose too much, and they will respond in ways even the Pact cannot fully contain. Men like Ramil Borchin will not accept being humiliated. Not in front of every peer he’s spent forty years impressing.”