Page 112 of Cruel Demands

“Yes, I knew,” he continues, his eyebrow lifting. “So, when you followed me, you knew full well that that was a dangerous choice, and you did it anyway, and⁠—”

“I didn’t know you were—” I start angrily, my voice high, walking up to him quickly.

He puts the hand holding his drink up to silence me, not losing a drop.

I stop talking immediately, pressing my lips in and swallowing. There is a flutter inside my stomach that I’ll ignore for now. I’ve come close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, though I didn’t realize how far I had crossed the room until there was barely any space left between us.

“—Violent?” he asks. “Spare me. You knew that too. AND—” His jaw is set, face red. “When you saw the drugs, you did not leave. When you saw the first punch, you did not leave. Tell me, Taylor, when do you think is the right time to leave a scene like that?”

He’s seriously yelling at me right now. He’s angry at me. A combination of terror, anger, and humiliation has been blanketing me all night, and now I can add in confusion because this makes no sense. Something about the way he’s staring into my eyes compels honesty out of me, and I say, “I was too afraid to leave. I couldn’t move.”

His voice drops. “I could have lost you tonight.”

His words stop me in my tracks, and that fluttering in my stomach and the pounding in my heart seem to be dancing together.

“You could have—” I swallow, tilting my head. I whisper, “Lost me?”

“If someone other than one of my men had found you outside that warehouse…” He trails off, shaking his head and taking a swig of his drink.

“He offered to kill me in front of you.”

“He will never make that mistake again.”

Cold moves down my spine. “What does that mean?”

Mikhail looks away. It’s the first time I have seen him do it during this conversation. The answer arrives without words.

I take a step back. “Oh my God. He will be killed?”

“He touched you.”

“He thought that was what you wanted.”

“It was not,” he grunts. “And he thought that I wanted to…” He bristles, his lip curling in disgust. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. I know what Vladimir thought Mikhail wanted from me.

I whisper, “That’s the part that I still don’t understand.”

His eyes darken. He’s angry that I’m still trying to understand anything at all. “What?”

“People like Vladimir. People lower their voices when you enter rooms. They wait for you to tell them where to stand.”

“That is called authority.”

“No. It’s called fear.” His expression changes. There. Small, but unmistakable. I have struck something true. “You don’t have security. You have soldiers.”

“They are not soldiers.”

“That’s what you object to?”

He says nothing. I feel the pieces shifting into place. I think of Petyr’s warning. There are men for whom wealth and power are only the visible portion. My throat tightens. “This isn’t just corruption. You’re not just…dirty. That’s not quite the right word,” I say.

Mikhail’s face remains still. If I were wrong, he would laugh. If I were wrong, he would call me dramatic, tell me I had misunderstood, explain the drugs, the blood, the dead man at his feet. He does none of those things.

My pulse thunders in my ears. “You’re not just taking bribes or trafficking drugs. You’re not just a criminal.”

“No.”

The answer is almost gentle. That frightens me more than everything else.