Page 60 of Cruel Demands

I think of my mother’s voice on the telephone. Men at her gate. Wolves smiling in daylight.

I think of Taylor in the back of my car, probably angry with herself and with me and with the world for being exactly as complicated as she feared.

“Your placement here could benefit you,” I say. “Recommendations. Access. Better assignments. Introductions. Language support. Additional paid translation work, if you need it. Safety.”

Her eyes narrow at the last word. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“That is not what I offered.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

“You think I am trouble?”

“Yes.” Immediate. No hesitation.

She is afraid. Not of me hurting her. Not exactly. She’s afraid of becoming a story told about herself in rooms where she is not present. Afraid every success will be contaminated by suspicion. Afraid that if I offer help, she will become the kind of girl who takes it.

“I want to do my job,” she says. “I want to get good grades. I want to learn the language. I want to go home without ruining my life. That’s all.”

Each sentence comes sharper than the last. Mine, the worst part of me thinks again.

No. She is not.

I fold my hands behind my back because I do not trust them. “You believe I would ruin your life?”

She gives me a tired look, and I want to let her rest her cheek in my palm. To take the weight from her. To show her what I mean. “I think I could probably do that all by myself,” she says. “You’d just make it easier.”

“Fine.”

She blinks. “Fine?”

“I will keep it quiet.”

Relief flashes across her face so quickly she cannot hide it. I dislike that too. “Although I still believe you should have used the leverage.”

Her eyes flash. “Well, it’s early days. I still could.”

My voice lowers before I can stop it. “I would love to see that, kotik.” Kitten.

The effect is immediate. Beautiful. Her whole body goes still. Then the blush starts. Not in her cheeks this time. Lower. At the base of her throat, beneath the collar of that pale blouse, creeping upward from the place where I remember putting my mouth. Slow and pink and impossible for her to hide.

She looks furious. She looks mortified. She looks, for one dangerous second, exactly as she did when she was trying not to say my name in the dark.

“Mikhail,” she whispers. A warning. A plea. A mistake.

I tilt my head.

“Governor Korolev,” I correct.

13

TAYLOR

Mikhail Korolev is not good at ignoring me. He doesn’t come to my desk or call me into his office again. He doesn’t say my name in front of anyone in that low, warning voice that makes my body tingle or look at the hem of my skirt for too long.

But he watches. He finds reasons to pass through the outer office far more often than a governor should. When I bring a stack of translated intake forms to the central desk, the top folder begins to slide, and he catches it as he passes, placing it safely back without so much as a glance my way. When I drop a pen and it rolls into the aisle, the toe of his polished shoe stops it. He bends, sets it on the corner of my desk, and walks away before I can thank him.

When the scanner jams, Dima leans around me and slaps the left panel with the flat of his hand. It immediately begins scanning again. “How did you know that would work?” I ask, laughing despite myself.