Page 73 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Elena doesn’t protest, which tells me she agrees.

Maksim continues. “Unofficially, everyone will understand that you can’t keep walking away from her door.”

Heat climbs under my collar. “Pakhan.”

“Don’t make that tone sound like innocence.” Maksim picks up a folder. “You’ll keep her useful, fed, and alive. You’ll keep your judgment clean, and you’ll not give Morozov another route through this house.”

Elena looks toward the window. “Dmitri?”

I glance at her.

“She’s not a file just because you can read her.”

The office becomes harder to stand in.

Maksim gives the final order. “Move your desk before dinner.”

I leave with the compromise in my hands. It’s sound on paper and is obvious to every person with eyes. That makes it worse.

By the time I reach the north wing corridor, I’ve already chosen the study closest to the library. From there, I can see the turn toward Cara’s suite and every man who crosses it.

The study is smaller than the offices downstairs, but it has what I need. One desk. Two secured lines. A wall screen that can lock to internal feeds. A cabinet Abramov’s men are already reinforcing. The door faces the corridor that leads to Cara’s suite.

Officially, this is efficient.

Unofficially, I almost smile when I see the study he gave me. Maksim knows exactly what I’m doing, and he has worn the same shoes.

Two men carry in a secure terminal while Mrs. Wentworth directs them as if she’s commanding armies with better shoes. Lidiya passes with a tray of empty dishes, sees me, and doesn’t pause. Good staff learn fast. Better staff learn what not to see.

I notice Cara’s tray comes out empty.

Elena’s words return with annoying precision. “One steady pair of eyes that cares whether she eats.”

I don’t like that Elena was right. After Boston, I told myself there were clean categories. Want. Grief. Need. Revenge. Duty. Cara has ruined that twice now. Last night, she kissed me first. She asked for honesty with her hands on my chest and anger in her mouth. I gave her control where it mattered because I know the difference between taking and being chosen.

She chose me for an hour. She kept the name from me anyway. Now that name sits between us, and I want it out.

Voices move down the corridor. Sergei appears first, shoulders squared. Cara walks beside him in black trousers and a simple cream sweater that doesn’t look simple on her. The soft fabric fits her breasts, follows her waist, and holds my attention before I can move it away. She has twisted her hair up, but pieces have fallen free around her face, and one loose strand brushes her throat when she turns. Bad place to look. Worse place to want my mouth.

The staff notices her. A maid with folded towels glances once, then looks away. Two guards at the north-wing arch adjust their stance. A young runner with files steps aside before Sergei asks. Yesterday, Cara was the woman upstairs. Today, she’s being escorted to work.

Cara notices the change. I see it in the small lift of her chin.

Sergei says something in Russian, the scar by his chin pulling slightly when he speaks.

Cara raises her hand a little. “I understood none of that, but your tone said good morning.”

Sergei’s mouth moves, almost a smile. “I said you’re trouble.”

“That’s very specific, and probably fair. How do you say that in Russian?”

“Prokaznitsa,” he says.

Cara repeats it badly.

Sergei gives her the smallest correction, and she tries again with doomed confidence, then breaks off, laughing.

“That might be the first thing about this country I understand,” she says.