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My hand brushes her forearm as we walk. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers.
For one dangerous second, I want to take her hand and keep it there.
I stop myself.
Not here.
Not with half the courtroom still watching, and Yuri’s men somewhere in the shadows. They already have their eyes on Matilda, thinking that she’s nothing more than Mikhail’s defense attorney.
Then, as we step outside, something catches my attention. A man comes around the side of the building, wearing a coat he didn’t have in the courtroom. Semiyon.
He doesn’t look at us immediately. His gaze sweeps the steps, searching. He can only be looking for us. Every muscle in my upper body goes tense, teeth aching in my jaw as I try to contain my rage.
This is the man who had Kevin beaten almost to death. The man who left Matilda’s mother, left Matilda, and came up to my territory to wreak havoc.
He’s disgusting, untrustworthy, nothing more than an errand boy who should be buried in a hole somewhere in the Adirondacks.
Matilda follows my stare, her body bumping against mine as we both slow. Instinctively, I reach out, a hand grazing her lower back before brushing against the opposite hip.
Semiyon’s eyes move across the landing. Then they land on us.
More specifically, on her.
His expression changes to recognition.
Suddenly the noise around us seems to disappear. The screened entrance is behind us; the crowd is spreading toward the parked cars. I lift my phone, wanting Arthur beside me now.
There’s no weapon on me today. I feel bare, tense, and exposed.
Semiyon moves before I can say anything.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice cuts across the landing, loud enough that several heads turn.
I step between him and Matty without thinking.
“Walk away.”
His eyes flash with fury. “You think you can play games with me? How the fuck did you find her?”
“I don’t think about you at all, Semiyon. And your master wanted to play games, so I made sure we had the best defense attorney in New York.”
He takes a step forward, eyes flicking to Matilda, or trying to. She’s tucked behind me, short enough even in heels that she can’t quite see over my shoulders unless she wants to. And judging by the way her fingers are digging into my obliques, she does not want to.
I hold my ground.
Behind me, I hear Art’s footsteps. One of his men reaches Matilda first, taking her gently but firmly by the arm.
“Go,” I tell her, my fingers grazing her wrist reassuringly.
She hesitates.
“Vasily—”
“Now.”
She understands. She lets herself be escorted toward the car, and I keep my eyes on her until the other soldier falls into position beside her. Both rear doors close before I turn away.
Safe.
