♞Chapter Eighteen♞
Mikhail
I stand outside the café, half-hidden by the corner, watching her through the window.
She’s right there. Laptop open, fingers moving fast. That usual look of focus on her face, mouth set, brow tight.
The screen lights her up, and damn, she looks good.
She’s wearing red lipstick. That same shade I used to smudge with my mouth.
Now it stains a paper cup. She takes a sip, sets it down.
The mark’s there, vivid and perfect. I should be the one she marks. Not some fucking cup.
She closes the laptop. Shrugs into her coat. And I follow, of course I do. She doesn’t notice. The roles have flipped, my little shadow, now the one being watched. The stalked has become the stalker.
I trail her to the park. She sits, opens a brown paper bag, and starts tearing up bread for the birds.
She always had a soft spot for anything smaller than her.
The wind plays with her hair. It lifts and falls across her face, and all I can think about is how it would feel tangled around my fingers, how easy it’d be to pull her close.
I walk over and sit down beside her.
“Are you serious?” Her voice is clipped, tight with irritation. “Leave me alone,” she hisses.
I lean close, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I tried to let you go, I really did. But I'm not wired to forget you.”
She stiffens when I hover near her mouth, close but not quite touching. “I can’t stay away,” I say. She hesitates. Something flickers on her face, but then she pulls back, clears her throat, eyes hard. "The Bratva taught you how to lie real pretty," she snaps.
I straighten. “How do you know about the Bratva?”
“Your brother stopped by.”
Roman. That piece of shit.
“He told me about the forgery ring,” she says. “Said if I don’t help, the whole empire’s in trouble. Including you.”
“He had no right.” My voice scrapes out of me. If he touched her, if he even stood too close—
“I wouldn’t care if you dropped dead,” she continues nonchalantly. “So go ahead. Tell him I said no. Again.”
The words hit like a knife between the ribs.
And yet, she’s lying. I see it. In the way her lashes flutter. The way her hands clench in her lap. She’s trying so hard not to feel anything.
I don’t call her out on it. What would be the point? I let it go. For now. “Did he scare you?”
She falters. “What?”
I take her chin, lift it so she can’t look away. “Did. He. Scare. You.”
She yanks free. “No.”
Good. I breathe easier. Barely. “That’s what I needed to hear. Because he’s my brother. The Pakhan. I wouldn’t have killed him for this.” I pause. “But I would’ve made him regret it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why now? Why drag me back into all of this?”
“Because I don’t get to choose. I tried to keep you away from this life. From me. But I can’t breathe without you. I can’t.”
She draws in a breath, slow and shaky.
“I can’t promise to keep the dark away,” I tell her. “But I’ll keep it off you.”
I cup her face, let my thumb skim down her neck. Her pulse thuds beneath it.
“Don’t,” she whispers. There’s no fear in her.
Just frustration. Conflict. The same war I’m fighting.
I kiss her. She pushes at me. Fights it, teeth clenched, fists balled.
But I don’t let go. I kiss her like it’s the last thing keeping me upright.
She gives in, but not fully.When she pulls back, she’s furious.
I swipe my thumb across my mouth. “You’re the only thing keeping me from losing it completely. ”
I turn around and walk away. Because if I stayed? I’d take her right there on that bench.
And I wouldn’t give a single damn who saw.
***
The warehouse reeks. Sweat, rust, old oil.
That stale, metallic stink that clings to your clothes no matter how fast you walk out.
I spot Roman where I figured he’d be, barking orders at a couple guys.
But I’m not doing this with an audience.
I grab the back of his neck and shove him into one of the side rooms, slamming the door shut.
“Well, well. Look who finally showed up. What, no call first?” He chuckles.
I hit him with no warning.
His head jerks back. Lip splits. Blood’s sliding down his chin. And of course, he laughs. “Oh, so we’re doing this. Great.”
“You crossed a line,” I say, fist still clenched, shaking out the sting.
He grins, tongue swiping at the blood. “What line? Telling her the truth? You mad because she’s not your little secret anymore?”
My second punch lands harder. He stumbles this time, catches himself against the wall, still smiling like it’s a goddamn joke. “I never meant for it to go that far,” I grind out. “I was trying to keep her safe. From this. From you. From me.”
“That’s cute. Didn’t know you were such a coward. Hiding her away like she’s fragile. You think that makes you noble? Or is it that you don’t believe you can actually protect her?”
I shove him back against the wall, hard. I Grab the front of his shirt and hold him there. “You know I can.”
“Then what are you doing?” His smirk is gone now. “Why lie to her? Why pretend she’s not already neck-deep in this shit?”
“She’s not.”
“She is,” he fires back. “Long before you ever touched her. And the fact that you don’t see it? That’s the problem.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong, but the words don’t come. Because part of me knows he’s not.
“We need her.” He grumbles.
“No.”
“She’s good. And with how into you she is? She won’t talk.”
I lunge, but he catches my wrist. Doesn’t matter. I twist out of his grip. “This doesn’t touch her,” I snap. “She doesn’t get dragged into this filth. Not for any of us.”
He goes still, watching me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m insane or just stupid. He lets out this breath that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for years. “You’d pick her over me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Without thinking twice.”
Over him. Over myself. Over the Bratva.
He laughs, bitter and dry. Slams his fist into the desk, which groans under the hit. He leans on it, head low, shaking it once. “Then go fix it,” he mutters. “Win my future sister in law back.”
We lock eyes, and there’s this moment where neither of us says a thing. The kind of moment that says more than a dozen conversations ever could. He pulls me into this rough, one-armed hug. A subtle brotherly congratulations.