They Are Mine Too (They Are Mine Duet #2)

Chapter One

Juliet

Vitaly Volkov.

I swear to God, no man should be allowed a name that sexy.

Volkov.

Just saying it in my head makes my thighs press together.

It’s not a name for a baker. Not with that dangerous V.

That’s a name you carve into enemies.

A name you snarl before someone vanishes in the dead of night.

It’s the sort of name you find scrawled in blood on the wall behind a velvet rope.

Not frosted in sugar on a bakery window.

And then there’s his voice.

The first time I heard him speak, it was like being slapped and stroked at the same time.

Deep. Rough.

Brutalized by Russian winters and whatever else turns a voice to velvet-wrapped gravel.

He could read the phone book, and I’d end up needing new panties.

The last time I heard him, he was saying something utterly filthy, something that stuck in my head for days.

“Good morning, Mrs. Patel. Your usual?”

I nearly fucking creamed on the sidewalk.

So, naturally, I need him.

Need him to murmur filth into my ear.

Need that accent curling around my name while he fucks me six ways to Sunday on a pile of flour sacks.

I want to see if he can dirty up that pristine apron the way I dirty up sheets.

Focus, Juliet. You’re a professional. This is an investigation, not a honeymoon.

Two months. Two goddamn months of watching him in shifts with Callum.

We’ve cased him like the world’s thirstiest FBI unit, and I still don’t know what the hell he’s hiding.

No one with that name and that face just moves to a tiny town to make babushka bread.

Bratva? Ex-hitman? Assassin in disguise?

Honestly, I don’t care.

I just want to know if he’s more murder or more marriage material before I claim him.

It matters, you know?

You don’t just saunter up to a contract killer and ask for a cruller.

Or do you?

Me: You got eyes on him?

Callum: Yep. Having medovik and staring right at him. You’re gonna love this shit. Sweet like your ass.

I roll my eyes.

Callum’s a menace. A man who should never be put on speaker, never be allowed near a church, and never, under any circumstances, be your plus one to a company picnic.

But goddamn, I love him.

Am I jealous he gets to sit in the bakery, making eyes at Volkov, eating honey cake fed to him by hands the size of bear paws?

Yes. Yes, I am.

But also no.

I’m entering Vitaly’s domain.

This time, I’ll find something. This time, I’ll figure him out.

Because a man like Vitaly fucking Volkov is not just a baker.

He’s got a tall privacy fence. The kind that says, ‘I value my solitude,’ or possibly, ‘I need to keep my enemies from seeing where I bury the bodies.’

Either way, it’s convenient for me.

His doors?

Fortress-level secure.

His locks?

State-of-the-art.

His windows?

Practically an invitation.

The man leaves his bedroom window cracked open every night. Not even latched.

Like he wants me to slip inside.

Curl up in his sheets.

Breathe in his secrets.

That’s a dangerous thing to do in a world full of lunatics.

His windows are tall and wide, which is lucky, because I may be bendy, but I’m still soft in all the right places. Little windows would pose a problem for my curves.

And let’s be honest, if I got stuck crawling into my future husband’s house, it would be a real mood killer.

I hoist myself up with practiced ease.

Most windows are high enough it takes effort.

I’m not exactly tall.

But I manage.

I always manage.

The men in my life, him included, obviously, all have that perfect, intoxicating height.

Tall enough that I can press myself against their chests and breathe them in.

Tall enough that when they hold me, I feel small. Precious.

That’s exactly how I want to feel when I wrap myself around him.

But first I need to find out if he deserves me.

I shimmy through.

Drop silently onto his floor.

The scent of him hits me instantly.

Warm spice. Dark wood.

Something deeper, richer.

Unmistakably male.

Fuck.

It’s intoxicating.

I take a deep, greedy breath.

Let it settle into my bones.

A woman should know what her man smells like in the morning.

After all, I’ll be waking up here soon.

I beeline for the bed.

The sheets are smooth. Crisp.

He’s a makes his bed every morning type of man.

The pillow, though?

Soft. Molded to his head.

I lift it to my face and breathe.

God, I could live here.

Maybe I will.

Maybe I’ll tie him down, feed him pirozhki, and make him call me princess in that broken accent.

But I have work to do.

So I set it back gently. Wouldn’t want him to notice anything out of place.

Time to find the secrets.

I head straight for the dresser, yanking open drawers with the precision of a professional.

Socks. Boring.

Boxers. Big. Not boring.

T-shirts, neatly folded.

Infuriatingly normal.

Where the hell are the bloodstained passports? The burner phones? The cryptic notes that say things like ‘target neutralized’ or ‘meet me at the docks at midnight?’

Nothing. Just a well-dressed, beautifully tidy man.

I finger the hem of one of his shirts. Soft. A little worn. Fitted.

It’ll be perfect on me.

I strip out of my own and slide into his.

It’s huge.

Falls down to my mid-thigh, drowning me in his scent.

I want him to see me in nothing but this.

Maybe with flour in my hair and nothing but a promise between my legs.

I grab another shirt from the drawer and press it to my chest, imagining the weight of him instead.

Then I move to the closet.

Row after row of perfectly hung button-downs, pressed slacks, and neatly arranged ties.

I hate how fucking put-together he is.

I love it.

Not one thing out of place. Not a single illegal weapon tucked away. No safe full of secrets.

Just a very refined, very irritatingly normal man.

Maybe he’s too careful.

A perfectionist assassin.

Fine. I can work with that.

I stride into the bathroom, still wearing his shirt, and find his cologne.

A single bottle. Minimalist. Confident. Expensive.

I spritz my wrists and my neck because I’m a romantic, and there’s nothing like smelling like your man.

I keep looking, finding nothing.

Not in his bedroom, not in his closet, not in the very promising-looking nightstand drawer where I was half-hoping to find something scandalous like rope, or maybe even a gun with a scratched-off serial number.

But no.

I sigh and move to the office, and it’s immaculate.

Like frustratingly immaculate.

Everything in its place.

Not a single loose paper, not even a junk drawer full of tangled cords, dead batteries, and mysterious keys to unknown locks.

It makes me suspicious.

Not just because he’s a man, and men, even my perfect ones, always have at least one disaster zone in their living space, but because…

What the fuck is he hiding?

He eats like a man raised right, not like some savage animal with no sense of manners. I already knew that despite his name…

Volkov.

I whisper it under my breath as I trace my fingers over his neatly stacked receipts.

Flour.

Flour.

More flour.

I exhale sharply, flipping through them.

It’s fancy fucking flour, imported from places I don’t even recognize. Better than the kind Elliot and I use.

But still.

It’s flour.

No coded messages. No suspicious orders. No weird anomalies in the ledger.

Just carbs.

I sit in his desk chair, scowling at his disgustingly organized existence.

Nothing locked. Nothing suspicious.

I open his contacts book, expecting… I don’t even know what.

The Bratva payroll?

A secret hit list?

Nope.

Bank contacts. Contractors. Suppliers.

I’m disgusted.

I roll the leather book between my hands and groan.

“This is bullshit,” I say.

I flip to a section at the back. Immigration papers.

I lean in, my pulse kicking up.

Finally, something worth digging into.

Permanent resident.

I snap a quick photo of his sponsor information.

Oksana Ivanov.

A woman. Engaged. Not listed as a spouse after entry.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I return everything exactly as I found it, because I was raised right.

Then, I make my way to the kitchen, because there is one place left where he might be hiding something.

The fridge.

The crisper drawer, specifically.

Because let’s be honest, if someone breaks into a house, it’s not to make a fucking salad.

I yank it open, ready to find something scandalous: cash, fake passports, maybe a knife with dried blood on it.

Instead?

Perfectly fresh vegetables.

I sigh.

Not a single moldy cucumber. Not a single half-rotten bag of lettuce shoved to the back like some kind of afterthought.

Disgustingly housebroken.

I’m half-ready to give up when my eyes land on something in the fridge door.

Strawberry milk.

I inhale sharply.

Oh. Oh, that’s perfect.

It’s not chocolate. It’s strawberry.

He’s so fucking unique.

A little thrill runs through me as I grab the carton.

I pour myself just a little because this is a special occasion.

And then I see them.

Fresh pirozhki.

My heart melts.

Callum brought me one from the bakery last week. I already know I love them.

I steal one immediately.

The dough is soft. Slightly sweet.

Buttery perfection.

The filling?

Rich. Velvety.

Hints of honey and spiced fruit.

It melts in my mouth.

Like a bite of home I never knew I needed.

I wash it down with the strawberry milk.

Jesus Christ.

I’m so fucking in love.

The flavors dance together, the cool, creamy milk cutting through the pastry in a way that makes me want to sit on his lap and let him feed me like a spoiled little princess.

Fuck.

Why didn’t he leave anything for me to find?

This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

I clean my glass. Lemon dish soap.

Classic. Clean. Simple.

I set everything back just right.

And then, irritation settles in.

Time’s up and I’ve found nothing.

Again.

No dirt. No clues. No sign of anything but a heartbreakingly perfect man with secrets locked up tight and a body I want to climb like a fucking tree.

I sit in his chair.

Wearing his shirt.

Smelling like his cologne.

Eating his pastry.

And I know. I just know.

I’ll burn the world to have him.

But I don’t know how to begin.