Chapter 11
Lev
Ilast until dawn before I go back into my own bedroom.
It’s a fucking miracle I lasted this long.
I unlock the door as quietly as I can and step inside. The room is dim, curtains wide open, the bedside lamp switched off. For one ugly second, my gut goes hard because I think she’s escaped anyway. Then I see her.
In my bed, in my tee, curled on her side under my dark blue duvet like she has every right to be there.
I shut the door behind me and stand still, looking at her far longer than is reasonable. Her hair is spread over my pillow. One hand is tucked under her face. The other rests above the blanket, fingers slack. She’s out cold. Properly gone. Exhaustion finally dragged her under.
I move to the bathroom first.
Her clothes are in a heap on the counter. Her bra and knickers sit beside them, and I stop for half a beat because I’m only a man, not a saint, and imagining her naked in my bathroom does unpleasant things to my self-control.
“Fuck’s sake,” I say under my breath.
I drag my eyes away and force myself to focus. I pick up her clothes and dump them in the laundry hamper.
Pyotr can attempt to make them wearable again, but they might be beyond saving.
I make a mental note to have some stuff sent over.
Or better yet, go to her flat and get her own things.
I can scope out the situation there while I’m at it.
See if anyone has eyes on the place, waiting for her to show up.
When I step back into the bedroom, she hasn’t moved. I move closer anyway. Of course I do. I stop by the bed and look down at her. Sleeping, she looks softer. Less armed. It should make her easier to dismiss.
It does the opposite.
This woman has turned into a full-blown fucking problem in less than two days, and I still can’t summon an ounce of regret for bringing her here.
Her breathing shifts. “Are you here to kill me in my sleep?” she murmurs.
“No.”
“Then stop looming over me and go away.”
I stare down at her, eyes still closed. “Why aren’t you concerned I might be here to kill you?”
“If you are there isn’t much I can do to stop you. You are enormous. Besides, I survived the soup, so I’m guessing I get a reprieve.”
“A reprieve? From me killing you? You could say that, seeing as that isn’t on my agenda.”
“What is then?”
I move around the bed and climb on the other side.
That makes her eyes fly open. She pushes herself up at once, duvet clutched to her chest, green eyes wide and furious.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Using my bed,” I say, settling back against the headboard because I enjoy making her angry far more than I should.
Her stare could take skin off. “Go and use another one.”
“I did. It was irritating.”
“This is irritating.”
“You find me sleeping in my own bed irritating?”
Her hair is a mess from sleep. My tee hangs off one shoulder. The cut on her neck is a thin pink line now instead of the angry red from last night, and that should please me more than it does.
She shoves the duvet down enough to swing her legs over the side of the bed, putting distance between us, the only way she has right now.
“Careful,” I say. “You nearly slept through me coming in. You’re not exactly battle-ready.”
She turns on the edge of the mattress and glares at me. “Did you lock me in here all night and come back to mock me?”
“I came back to check you hadn’t climbed out a window.”
“They don’t open.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. I haven’t slept, I’m in yesterday’s suit pants, and my patience is hanging by a thread, but I’m still absurdly pleased she’s awake and mouthing off instead of cowering in my wardrobe again.
“You showered,” I say.
She glares. “You noticed because you were creeping around in the bathroom?”
“My bathroom,” I point out because she seems to have taken over everything. “I noticed because your filthy clothes were on my counter.”
“My clothes?” Her gaze cuts to the bathroom door and then back to me. “Where are they?”
“In the laundry hamper. Pyotr will do his best.”
“You touched my clothes.”
“You left them lying around like a slob. I moved them.”
“Slob?” she squeaks as if I just insulted everything about her. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard that a lot.”
She gets to her feet in one sharp movement. My tee drops to just above her knees. I look. I’m not blind, and I’m definitely not disciplined enough for this woman.
She catches it at once.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re looking.”
“That isn’t illegal.”
“It should be.”
A laugh nearly gets out of me. I keep it in because she’s a second from picking up something heavy again, and this time, I think she might use it. She’s well fed and rested. “If it helps, you look good in my clothes.”
“That doesn’t help at all.”
She scans the room as if she might find a hidden escape route if she stares hard enough. Then she turns on me again. “I need a phone.”
“No.”
“You can’t just say no. Mine died.”
“You aren’t getting one.”
Her teeth clench. “I need to call work.”
That is fair enough, and I still don’t like hearing it. “I’ll handle work.”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll tell them you won’t be in. My uncle owns it.”
That statement passes over her, and she stops. “Of course he does,” she mutters, turning away.
She starts pacing, bare legs flashing under my shirt, and I regret giving her enough sleep to restore full argumentative function.
No. That’s a lie. I like this version of her too much.
This is the version that caught my attention, who tried to pepper-spray me in the park.
This is the woman she really is, and the trauma response is something that happened to her. That doesn’t define her.
“I’m not having my job wrecked because you decided to abduct me,” she says. “You don’t get to just make calls on my behalf like I’m a child.”
“You also don’t get to stroll back into the club where a dead drop happened, and somebody tried to shoot you in the head.”
“I wasn’t the target.”
“You were once they realised where the drive had gone.”
She stops pacing and turns to face me fully. “Then explain it to me properly.”
I stare at her for a second. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk around it. You keep saying enough to scare me and not enough to actually let me understand the situation.” Her chin lifts. “If I’m trapped here, then tell me exactly why.”
I sit up a little straighter against the headboard. I’m about to give her what she wants, and Baron is likely going to send me to Siberia for it.
The trouble is, I don’t fucking care.
“Fine. A man in the club passed a USB drive to you by planting it in your apron pocket. He did it because he either got spooked or wanted to cut out the person he was meant to hand it to. I was there to identify that person and kill them.”
Her face drains a little, but she holds my stare. “You said that already.”
“I’m saying it properly now. The USB had information on Voronov operations. Shipments. Locations. Names. Enough to get men killed and businesses raided if it landed in the wrong hands.”
“And someone shot at me because they thought I had it.”
“Yes.”
“Do they know I don’t now?”
“Not for certain.”
She swallows hard. “What happened to it?”
“I destroyed it.”
It gets a sharp blink. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that they don’t know that. They want the information they were expecting, and now will go to any means to get it.”
She looks away for a second, processing. “So now I’m collateral.”
“Now you’re under my protection.”
Her head snaps back around. “Don’t dress it up. I’m your hostage.”
“You can call it whatever you want. It doesn’t change the fact that if you walk out of here without me, you might not make it to the end of the street.”
She turns away from me and drags both hands through her hair. My tee rides higher on her thighs. I look again, because apparently, I enjoy suffering.
“Stop doing that,” she says without turning.
“Doing what?”
“Existing at me.”
That nearly gets a smile out of me. “That sounds like a you problem.”
She spins back. “Everything about this is a me problem.”
“Not everything. The people trying to kill you are very much a me problem. They shot at me as well. That pisses me off, and the last person who tried to kill me ended up in a barrel at the bottom of the English Channel. So shut the fuck up that this is all about you.”
“What?” she gasps. “You… what?”
“You heard me. You want to know what you’re dealing with, Varvara?” I ask, getting to my feet. “This is it. In all its glorious Bratva beauty. Are you ready for it? Ready to fight it and me? Or are you going to shut the fuck up and let me work it out?”
She stares at me for one long second, and I can almost see the point where fear stops driving her and fury takes over instead.
“Don’t tell me to shut the fuck up.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it. “That’s what you took from all that?”
“That and the bit where you casually mentioned bodies in barrels like we’re discussing fucking weather.” Her voice shakes, but she keeps going. “You don’t get to snarl at me because your psychotic life spilt into mine.”
“My life saved yours.”
“My life didn’t ask for it.”
“So, you’d rather be dead?”
She frowns and bites the inside of her lip.
“Yeah, thought so.”
We stand there with the bed between us and enough tension in the room to power half of London. She’s angry, scared, half-dressed in my tee, and still somehow looking at me like she’d rather fight than bend.
Fuck me.
I want to pin that look down and keep it.
I shove that thought aside because now is not the time to indulge my worst instincts. “Somebody in my world used you. Somebody else tried to erase you for it. That means until I know who and why, you stay here.”
“And if I say no?”
“You can say no all day.”
She takes two steps towards me. “Why are you doing this? Really? I’m clearly an inconvenience to your work, your day. Why not just cut me loose and forget about me?”
I stare at her for a long time, wondering the same thing myself.