Page 158 of Mile High Ruin

My phone is in my pocket. I check it automatically.

No new message from Ethan. That should be reassuring.

Instead, the absence makes me nervous.

His health has been stable this week, or as stable as anything ever is with him, and we have talked almost every day. He keeps insisting I should stop worrying and enjoy Europe, which would be funny if I had actually come here voluntarily.

I haven’t told him the entire truth. That would just make him worry about me.

He doesn’t know about Vadim.

I definitely shouldn’t tell him about Vadim. Ethan would probably try to board a plane on principle, lymphoma or no lymphoma.

The thought makes my chest tighten.

I have to go home. Whatever is happening here, whatever is happening between me and Vadim, my brother is waiting for me, and his health doesn’t give me the luxury of pretending time is unlimited.

For the first few days, I told myself this was useful. Vadim wants me close, and closeness gives me leverage. If I can make him trust me enough, care enough, want me enough, then eventually I might be able to talk him into opening those gates without an escort or convincing him that keeping me here is doing more harm than good. It’s not a plan I’m particularly proud of, but neither is being held in a foreign country while my brother waits for me at home.

The problem is that lately the sex has stopped feeling like part of the plan.

There are moments when I still think about what I can get from him, what softened expression or well-timed touch might make him loosen his grip on me, but those thoughts usually vanish the second he kisses me. Then I’m not manipulating anyone. I’m climbing into his bed because I want to be there, staying afterward because I like the weight of his arm around me, and waking up irritated by how much I have started to recognize the man underneath all that control.

That’s considerably harder to justify.

I need Vadim to trust me enough to let me leave. I’m becoming less certain I want the price of that trust to be pretending none of this means anything to me.

I’m halfway across the terrace when I see Nadia.

She’s coming from the opposite direction, dressed already, hair pinned back neatly in a way that makes me feel even more obvious with my tangled hair and the same sweater I was wearing last night.

Her eyes move over me once. Then toward the wing containing Vadim’s room.

Her mouth tightens. There’s no mistaking the disgust on her face.

I almost say something.

Then she simply turns away and walks inside.

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter.

I continue down the steps.

That’s when I notice Camille.

She’s near the far edge of the garden. At first, nothing about that registers as unusual.

Then I realize the sun has barely risen and Camille has spent most mornings sleeping late because she has not been resting properly at night. She’s also not alone. Someone is standing with her near the hedge.

A man. I can’t see his face clearly from here because the foliage blocks most of him, but Camille is leaning closer as he speaks.

My pace slows. What the hell is she doing out here?

The man says something. Camille looks over her shoulder. I instinctively step behind one of the stone columns.

That feels ridiculous. Why am I hiding?

Camille is my friend. Or at least I thought she was.