Page 81 of The Bratva Betrayal

Artem

I'm three sets into deadlifts when Misha finds me.

The gym is the one space in this apartment that's actually mine. No couch for uninvited guests. No kitchen counter for women who make me insane. Just weight and effort, and nothing that talks back.

Misha leans in the doorway and sighs.

I know that sigh.

I pull the bar off the floor, hold it, and set it down. Strip a plate. Do it again.

"She doesn't want to rush it," he conveys evenly. "That's what she told me. Needs more time. It's too fast." He comes in, drops onto the bench I'm not using, elbows on his knees. He looks sulky, which on Misha is a rare enough look that I'd find it interesting if I cared. "She didn't even mention the roses I bought her."

I pull the bar.

"Not once. She sat in here for an hour and didn't say a word about them." He spreads his hands, confused. "Two hundred and forty roses, Artem."

"Yep."

"Two hundred and forty. Do you know how much that cost me?"

He’s an idiot.

I know she hates roses.

He doesn't know her at all.

He knows what she lets him see, which is a carefully managed fraction of who she is, and he's never been curious enough to look for the rest. That's the difference between Misha and me, I suppose. He's content with the surface of things.

Not my problem.

Except it keeps feeling like my problem.

"She'll come around," Misha mutters more to himself than to me. "Benedikt pushed the timeline. It was fast. She just needs to get used to it."

"Or maybe she just doesn't want to marry you."

He looks at me, then scowls. "Helpful. Thanks."

"I'm not here to make you feel better."

"Yeah. I know." He rolls his shoulders. "Benedikt thinks it's the right move. Colin Gallagher's reach on the eastern corridor alone⁠—"

"She was on your laptop," I divulge evenly. "First week you brought her around. I saw her going through your files."

"She was probably just…" he trails off, and I watch him land on the easiest explanation. "Using it and looking something up. Big deal."

"She was going through your files, not browsing. Looking for something specific, and trying not to leave a trace."

The room goes quiet for a beat.

"You don't like her," he conveys evenly, as if that will sway him one way or another.

"Not the point. She's a mafia princess⁠—"

"It kind of is. You've had a problem with her since day one, and now you're telling me she's a spy based on the one time you saw her on my laptop."

He's not an idiot.