Chapter 4
Ilya
“Her boss asked her out today,” Misha tells me.
My jaw clenches. So does my hand around the phone.
He takes pleasure in playing this game. In pushing me closer to my edge, waiting, watching for that moment I’ll tip over and fall.
I stroke my hand over black fur, the familiar rumble of his purr doing the impossible. It calms me, just a little.
Remarkable.
“Did you put a bullet between his eyes?” I ask dryly, continuing to stroke the cat as I stand next to a bed that isn’t mine. The cat lifts his paws, one after the other, kneading the pilled bedspread as long claws sink into the material.
My eyes drift from the cat to her nightstand. Resting on the water damaged surface is a well-used book she’s clearly checked out from the local library, if the large barcode taped to the front, is any indication. The cover boasts a man with tattoos and an expensive suit. But it’s the promise of a mafia romance that has my grin hitching. I lift the book, flipping to the back.
My brow rises. A forced marriage, Little Blue.Interesting.
And ironic, considering everything I am, and everything I intend to do to her.
“No, I didn’t kill him.” Misha’s laugh rumbles through the phone line. I put the book back.
“Good,” I mutter, turning to award the small black creature with a scratch under his chin. In the last week, I’ve found that he likes these. “I’d have to find a way to revive him so I could kill him again myself.”
The idea of any man asking my woman on a date has something hot, unfamiliar, and persistent twisting violently in my gut. I don’t like it.
I’ve never been a man to deal well with things I don’t like.
“You’re not interested in her answer?” Misha taunts.
I pull my hand from the cat, fisting it. The freshly split skin on my knuckles pulls tight, but I revel in the pain. It is a reminder I remind myself of daily. Only a fool would dare think they are untouchable, incapable of feeling. Of pain.
A truly intelligent man understands that he feels. Possibly even feeling more than most. But he knows the absolute importance of appearing indifferent. Callous. Untouched. A void.
I’ve played the part so long, sometimes, I think I am unfeeling.
I’d thought maybe I’d forgotten how to truly feel, until I saw her. Wanted her.
Craved her.
My attention turns to Misha. Just the thought of her agreeing to a date with another man… “If she said yes, he won’t be long for this world.”
He laughs at the deadly calm of my voice. He’s one of few who would dare. “She said no.”
Pleasure rumbles in my chest. “Good girl.”
“She refused him.” Misha hoots. “But only because she’s seeing someone else.”
I freeze. What?
The fucker is grinning, I can hear it through the line. He’s enjoying this—me—obsessed—losing my fucking mind—over a woman.
A woman who clearly needs to learn who she belongs to before bodies begin dropping, and the whole of New York City goes up in flames.
Fucking Hell.
“Find out who he is.”
“So you can kill him?” Misha isn’t asking because he cares. He’s asking because he finds it exasperatingly hilarious that I care.
Idiot.
“I want his name within the next thirty minutes.” It’s the first time my Russian accent slips out. I’ve perfected an American accent that never slips, unless I will it to slip. The little siren is driving me to the brink of insanity.
This won’t do.
Misha’s laugh is loud and grating. It brings me back to the conversation at hand as I glare at the soggy water stain in the corner of her roof. I scowl.
Misha has watched me tear the beating heart from other men’s chests without breaking a sweat—without blinking an eye—and yet he has the balls to laugh. At me.
I force my gaze from the water stain to the black cat that weaves between my legs.
“Misha,” my voice is low with warning.
He takes pity on me. “I think she was lying.”
My heart skips in my chest. It’s an odd, unexpected, but not entirely bad feeling. “About there being a man in her life?”
“Yes.” My friend is suddenly serious.
“Why?” Why would she lie about that?
“A hunch.”
“Look into it,” I command coolly.
“Been looking into her all week. There’s been no sign of another man. If he existed, we would know.”
“Mmm.” I eye the animal that seems to lack all sense of self-preservation as it stretches up on my leg. I’d made nice with the thing so it would let me slip in while she slept without me needing to—dispose of it.
I hadn’t expected it to grow on me.
But this—this is taking our relationship too far, too fast.
“Where are you?” I ask Misha as I move away from the cat.
“About six people behind her. She’s on the subway.”
“On her way here?”
“I would assume.”
My chest feels—well, it feels. “She has not seen you?”
“The woman is shamefully oblivious. I’ve been her shadow for a week, and she hasn’t made eye-contact with me once.” The disapproval in his voice can’t be missed. “Not once, Ilya. She is a hazard to herself.”
“Hmm.” I don’t like that.
“She’s the perfect prey,” Misha continues.
I loose a growl. “She is my prey.”
The cat eyes me through curious yellow eyes. Then he turns and hops into his tree of carpet and twine. Smart cat.
“Yes. Well, you’ll have to give your prey a lesson in watching her back.”
“I will protect her.”
Misha sighs, his disagreement loud. “She should at least know to scan her surroundings.”
I pull open her fridge, knowing that I will find it next to empty. If I could have filled it with groceries without drawing attention to myself, I would have.
I slam the door closed, pissed off at the half empty carton of eggs, jar of blueberry jam, tub of margarine, and bag of salad marked thirty percent off. The lettuce is wilting.
And who eats blueberry jam? Everyone knows the red jam is far superior.
Crazy, infatuating woman.
“How far are you?”
“Ten minutes, tops.” Misha sighs. He makes no secret of his feelings for public transportation. But he goes where she goes until I’ve decided what I’m doing with her.
I flick open a cupboard—the one with the cans of cat food. It’s near to bursting.
The moment yellow eyes lock on the open cupboard, the black ball of fur is darting to close the space between us. I appraise the cat.
She practically starves herself, but he eats like a king.
I cock my head at the now howling animal.
She loves him.
“We take her tonight.” I’ve made up my mind. “Tell Boris to buy one of those cages to put small animals in.”
“Finally.” Misha sighs in relief that is not long lasted. “Wait. What? A cage? You’re bringing her cat?”
“Yes.” She loves him.
“Ilyaaaa.” He lengthens my name. “What are you doing? You don’t like cats.”
“This one isn’t so bad.”
This time, when Misha laughs, I find myself smiling, too.