Page 88 of Taken By My Grumpy Pakhan

“Osmosis requires a semipermeable membrane, idiot.”

“Given the situation, your brain qualifies as such.”

I slammed shut the file, looking up to find him slowly picking at his lifted finger. “Watch your tongue.”

“How about you watch yourself first?” he said, his accent swallowing most of the words.

I studied him for a bit. Nikolai sounded perfectly British, an accent he’d perfected to improve his image as the perfect gentleman, except for the few moments when he was upset.

“Out with it.”

I didn’t answer, which was answer enough for him. Nikolai had known me too long to need confirmation for things he already understood.

“She’s called in sick twice,” I said eventually.

“Maybe she’s actually sick, Kaz. People have this thing called immune systems and sometimes—”

“I know what a fucking immune system is.”

“Could’ve fooled me with all that brooding.”

“I am not—” I paused when I realized I was getting riled up. “What did you want to say, Nico?”

“The obvious: let her be.”

“I am not hounding her.”

A moment passed before he spoke again. “Ever considered Moscow was too much for her?”

My nostrils flared at the confirmation of my suspicion. “She barely has enough details.”

“Really?” Nikolai cocked a brow, sitting up. “Let’s see. A loan shark, shooting off people’s fingers in a club, turning up with blood and a couple of undisclosed meetings. Even a toddler would have it all pieced out. You barely tried to conceal anything from her.”

I hated how he sounded, but I knew he was right. I never tried to hide anything from her. Granted, I never took her where she didn’t belong, but I also never tried to disguise anything.

“She’s not sick. She hadn’t seen anything in Moscow that could make her sick.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he said in a calmer tone. “She’s not of this world and barely knows how to navigate it. Hell, I’ve spent over ten years with you and I still struggle sometimes. Give her room. It might be the best thing for both of you.”

I didn’t like the advice. I liked it less because some part of me, the part that had spent thirty years building an empire on patience and calculation, knew he was right.

I gave it one more day. One more day of silence, one more day of walking into my office and hoping to see her appear with her journals and rattling off a to-do list I already knew by heart.

By the third morning, patience had run out.

I told myself I was checking on an employee. I told myself it was simple due diligence, the kind any responsible employer extended to someone who’d been absent for three consecutive days, and if that employer happened to drive across the city himself instead of sending one of his men, that was a detail not worth examining too closely.

It took less than a minute to get her address and even less to find her apartment.

My lips curled when I saw the new model of the security lock installed in her door.

So trusting.

She answered the door in sweatpants and an oversized shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot, with a few strands matting to her reddened face. The sight of her stopped whatever speech I’d half-prepared in the car.

She looked pale, worn down, hollowed out at the edges, like something had been quietly draining her for days.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice rough, like she hadn’t used it much.