Chapter 6
Makari
Ajarring rattle draws my attention. The gravel crunches as an SUV pulls slowly around the curve of the drive. It’s not one of ours. It’s a beat-up thing, pale blue, much too small for the estate roads, and dusted with the dull film of long-distance travel.
Crates line the gravel drive like soldiers, each marked with Ursa Arcane’s emblem. Sunlight bounces off the dark paint of the SUVs, glinting through the trees. The air smells of fuel, pine, and the river. It’s a good day for business.
I stand near the main warehouse with my sleeves rolled up, and the clipboard balanced in one hand. Dima and a half-dozen men move methodically through the shipment, checking seals, recording manifests, cross-referencing with the digital logs.
“What’s this?” I ask, glancing toward Dima, Paul’s replacement. He’s so much younger; in his early thirties, just a child to me, but one of the most competent men I’ve ever met. Paul chose his successor well.
He looks up from the clipboard. “Visitor, Boss. Lauren sent her for an interview.”
“Interview?” My brow lifts.
“Something about the position for your assistant?” Dima shrugs.
I didn’t approve any interviews today. And, as I’ve been telling Lauren for weeks, I don’t need an assistant. Though maybe the dark bags under my eyes say otherwise. Business never sleeps.
The car parks awkwardly near the trucks, clearly in the wrong place. For a moment, no one moves. Then the door opens, and she steps out.
Tall. Curvy. A dark blue blouse tucked into a black skirt that doesn’t quite belong on this gravel road.
The breeze blows through her hair revealing a deep auburn shade that flashes copper in the light.
She straightens, squares her shoulders, and surveys the activity around her like she’s walked into a cage of wolves and refuses to flinch.
There’s something familiar about the way she moves. Something that hits in the chest before I can name it. I watch her for a long moment, longer than I should, before setting the clipboard down.
Dima catches me looking and murmurs gruffly, “She’s already been cleared. Name is Roxanne Adler.”
The name doesn’t help, but there is something strangely familiar about her, and I say, “bring her to the office.”
She’s escorted through the warehouse by one of the guards, though she doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she looks impatient.
When the door opens and she steps inside, the first thing that strikes me is her eyes; gray and steady. Her posture is careful and proud, but there’s a spark under it. She crosses her arms over her chest. At least a part of her knows that she’s stepped into dangerous territory.
“Mr. Medvedev.” Her voice is smooth, but there’s grit underneath. “Thank you for seeing me.”
I take a moment to let my eyes drag from her head to her feet, letting her know that I’ll answer in my own time.
What I don’t expect is the distraction that looking at her causes, the little things I get caught on; the way her skirt clings to her luscious thighs.
The way her brows knit together, untrusting, yet unafraid.
“You came through the working side of the property,” I note. “Most people don’t make that mistake twice.”
“Then I’ll count myself lucky for surviving the first time. Your business does what, exactly?”
There’s that edge again. Light sarcasm, but deliberate. She’s testing how far she can push.
“Have a seat,” I tell her.
She sits. I don’t.
From my desk, I pull the folder the gate security sent up.
Her application, credentials, and background check.
Notes Lauren made during what I’m assuming was a phone interview, since her place of residence is listed as Boston.
Quite a drive from here. It’s all clean.
Too clean. No criminal history, no known affiliates, no debts. What was Lauren thinking?
Roxanne Adler, thirty-two. A BS in Energy Resource Management and Development, a four-year past with the DEEP. No money there, I’m sure. Single.
One more line catches my attention: Dependent: Andi Adler, age 5.
Andi. A son, and no sign of a father in the paperwork. It lodges somewhere in my mind before I move on.
I flip the file shut. “You understand Ursa Arcane isn’t exactly an ordinary company, Miss Adler.”
Her eyes narrow. “Of course.”
“What do you think we do here?”
She hesitates just long enough for me to see the flicker of calculation. “You specialize in luxury adventure and tourism. Heli-skiing, high-end hunting expeditions.”
Her eyes sweep quickly to the warehouse window and away.
“And?”
“And… maybe something in… shipping.”
Her throat bobs. So she’s sharp, then; she took note of things moving through the warehouse, even if she didn’t know what was in the crates. Another glance at her file and a note jotted by Lauren: Sister-in-law of David Lipovsky.
Ah.
Surely David wouldn’t be stupid enough to send someone untrustworthy, a whistleblower. Not when he’s hiding millions for me in offshore accounts and money laundering.
“You have a background in energy resources. What do you plan to do with that?”
Her brows knit again, not having expected the question. “Um… I’d like to get my master’s in land administration. Someday.”
A slight flush creeps up her neck from under her blouse. For a moment the world tilts. I shake my head surreptitiously, caught off guard by feeling unbalanced by the sight of a self-conscious woman?
Who is she?
“Ah. Did your brother-in-law happen to mention that my philanthropic branch has donated over ten million dollars to wildlife conservation and historical preservation in the last three years?”
There’s no surprise on her face, which means either Lipovsky told her or she did her own research. “It’s why I thought this might be a good fit.”
There’s a slight stress on ‘might.’ She’s still testing me out, as I am her. I can’t afford to bring the wrong person into Ursa, not with the expansion north.
I lean against the edge of the desk. “You’ve done your research.”
“I like to know who I’m working for.”
“And you’re comfortable with… everything you’ve heard?”
“That depends on what you mean by everything.”
There it is—the pulse under her words. A quiet challenge.
I circle behind her chair. The movement makes her straighten, just slightly. I catch the faint scent of something warm, like cinnamon and sugar. It stirs an image I can’t quite summon, something buried deep in time and smoke.
“You’re bold,” I say. “Most people walk in here trying not to breathe too loudly.”
“I’ve never been very good at holding my breath,” she says.
I almost smile. Almost.
“I appreciate your honesty,” I murmur, bracing my hands on the back of her chair, leaning close enough to feel her tension rise. “But tell me something, Miss Adler. You seem sharp enough to know Ursa Arcane doesn’t run on charity alone. What exactly are you willing to overlook?”
She turns her head slightly, and her profile is illuminated by the light.
There’s color in her cheeks now. “Whatever it is you do here, Mr. Medvedev,” she says quietly, “I assume you have your reasons. I don’t need to agree with them.
I just need to do my job—and I happen to believe your conservation work has real value.
So if I have to overlook certain details to help fund something good, then yes, I can live with that. ”
Her honesty is disarming. And irritating.
I move closer. My hands rest on either side of the chair, caging her in without touching. “You won’t overlook it,” I say softly. “You’ll be complicit in it.”
She looks up at me then, fully, and for a moment the room narrows to the space between us.
Something electric moves through it, subtle, but undeniable.
Her eyes drop briefly to my collar, to the faint edge of a tattoo that creeps above the line of my shirt.
An impulse decision from when I was twenty-one and reckless. I shift, pulling it higher.
“I’m aware of what that means,” she says, voice low.
Every instinct says she’s telling the truth. Every instinct also says I shouldn’t trust her.
Finally, I step back, putting distance between us. “Call me Mr. Medvedev,” I say. “We’ll see how long you last.”
Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “Understood, Mr. Medvedev.”
I turn to the window, the view of the river shimmering beyond the trees. Behind me, I can still feel her presence still; warm, steady, unsettlingly alive.
There’s something about her that presses against memory, something half-remembered and dangerous.
But I can’t place it.
Not yet.