Page 52 of Cruel Demands

The thought immediately flashes through my mind that she expects me to stuff my face with snacks because I’m American. Then the thought crosses my mind that she is right.

Just as I reach for a soda, Viktoriya looks past me. “Perfect. Governor Korolev, we were just talking about you. This is the new intern, Taylor Hayes.”

At my name, the man reaching for the coffee grounds above the sink goes completely still.

He is wearing navy trousers and a white dress shirt, his suit jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs. Broad shoulders pull the white linen taut. Silver catches at his dark temples beneath the fluorescent light.

He turns. My fingers freeze around the soda tab. My pulse skips so violently I feel my heart thudding against my ribs. I worry that I might actually die in this tiny room where there is not enough space for me to fall properly.

No. No, no, no.

Mikhail looks at me.

For one second, neither of us moves. His expression doesn’t change, but the hand holding the coffee tin tightens once before he sets it on the counter. His brown eyes move over me. Not like last night. Like an assessment. His gaze pauses for the smallest fraction of a second on the faint mark below my jaw. Heat drains from my face, then rushes back so violently that I feel it in my ears.

“Miss Hayes,” he says. His voice is formal.

Governor Korolev extends one hand toward me. I stand there in my new-job clothes with his shirt folded in my bag and the memory of his fingers still embedded in my skin. He raises one eyebrow when I fail to move.

“Governor Korolev,” I manage, stepping forward and taking his hand. The moment I touch him, the muscles between my legs pulse, and my chest swells with heat. His grip is professional. Firm. Entirely appropriate.

Then his thumb moves once across the center of my palm. My mouth falls open slightly.

“I look forward to working with you,” he says. His mouth does not smile. His eyes do.

And that is so much worse.

11

MIKHAIL

My first thought is that I am surprised, and for a man like me, that is an insult to my bloodline. I am not a man who survives by being surprised. Surprise is for men who do not have enemies, men who sleep deeply, men who believe locked doors mean safety. I have built my life around expecting the knife before it appears.

And still, when Taylor Hayes follows me into my office in a little skirt and pale blouse, clutching a visitor badge like it might save her, I am surprised. She is a knife in my back, a gun against my skull.

My second thought is that for all the effort she has put into looking proper and professional—and I can tell she has put in effort—she has come out the other end looking sexy.

The outfit is modest enough by most standards. A light green blouse, silky and flowing, tucked into a tight black skirt that goes all the way down to her knees, tights, and shoes that close around her toes with a heel she will not trip over. Her hair is brushed back into a low ponytail. The makeup from last night has been covered with more makeup. She has on new mascara, but I can still see the old rings around her eyelids.

When she swallows, my eyes cannot help but dart to her throat, where I see a faint mark beneath her jaw that she has tried to cover and failed. My mark.

My cock twitches behind my zipper, and I run my tongue over my teeth. “Well, Miss Hayes, I hear you were late this morning.”

She flinches at the formality. Good. Let it cut. Let it remind both of us where we are.

“Yes, I was,” she says, and there’s enough acid in it to clean blood from tile.

I turn to Viktoriya, who watches us with her eyes moving back and forth as though they’re mounted on a track, ready to identify whatever electricity is buzzing between us. “Miss Milova, you may return to your desk. I will finish the tour.”

Viktoriya looks between us and nods slightly, dawdling at the door for one moment before disappearing. I should send Taylor away before the others become curious and start to pry as well. It would be easy. A placement error. An administrative conflict. Move Miss Hayes to another department, another building, another country if necessary. I have done more difficult things before breakfast.

But if I do that, people will ask why. Not directly, of course. No one asks me why unless they have forgotten what I am. But they will think it. They will wonder what I have done, whether I am afraid of a little girl. They will ask amongst themselves. They will chatter.

“Punctuality matters here.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”