Chapter 4 （continued）
Lev
Ican’t stop watching her.
I can’t stop thinking about her. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I watch her on the security feeds from my office, tracking her movements through the house.
She cleans—adequately, nothing Sofia would complain about—but every chance she gets, she's cataloging.
Memorizing camera positions. Testing locked doors when she thinks no one's watching.
Lingering too long near keypads, eyes tracking the sequences when staff enter codes.
Really amateur. Any professional would know to be subtler.
But that's what makes it interesting. She's not trained. She's desperate. And desperation makes people ready to die rather than fail. And whoever sent her has fully weaponized her desperation.
A genius puppet master.
Last night at 2 AM, she tried my office door. Stood there for three minutes working up the courage, hand on the knob, before walking away when she heard Daniel doing his rounds. The hallway camera caught her face—pure terror mixed with determination.
What are you looking for, little mouse?
I pull up the rest of the week's footage. She's been asking questions. Casual ones that would seem innocent to anyone not looking for patterns. Asks Sofia about my schedule. Asks Daniel which cars I prefer. Asks Elena which rooms I use most often.
Classic reconnaissance. Building a profile. Gathering intelligence.
For who?
Mikhail's report sits on my desk. Phone records for both her devices. The smartphone shows nothing suspicious—calls to her mother, her friend Natasha Markov (Dmitri's daughter, interesting), and a few local numbers. Normal.
But the burner phone has one number. Just one. Called her three times in the past seventy-two hours. Incoming only. No outgoing calls. No texts.
The number's a dead end. Routed through multiple proxies, untraceable without resources I'd need to call in favors for. Which means whoever's running her has money and connections.
The Italians? Someone testing my defenses?
I should kill her. Clean, simple, problem solved.
But I don't.
Because she's also genuinely good with Mila.
I switch to yesterday's footage. Valerie in the sunroom, braiding my daughter's hair while Mila talks. Actually talks—more words in thirty minutes than I've heard from her in weeks. And Mila's smiling. Not the careful, guarded expression she gives everyone else. A real smile.
When was the last time I made her smile like that?
Never.
The thought settles in my chest like broken glass.
I'm her father. I'd die for her. Kill for her. Burn the world down to keep her safe. But I can't make her smile. Can't make her feel safe enough to just be a child, instead of a haunted little ghost, cataloguing threats.
Valerie does it without trying, and that complicates everything.
I really need to get my act together; I have other things to do than thinking about a potential spy maid.
Three days after the bathroom incident, I find her in the west corridor, arms full of fresh linens from the supply closet. She doesn't see me at first. Too focused on not dropping the stack of sheets that reaches her chin.
I step out from the intersecting hallway directly into her path.
She freezes. The linens wobble, but she catches them, and her eyes go wide when she realizes who's blocking her way.
"Mr. Volkov." Her voice comes out thin. Shaky. "I didn't see you there—I was just—"
"Just what?" I don't move. Don't give her space to pass. Just stand there and watch her pulse hammer in her throat.
"Getting linens. For the guest rooms. Sofia asked me to—"
"I didn't ask what you're doing." I take a step closer. She takes one back, her spine hitting the wall.
Her breath quickens. I can see her chest rising and falling faster under the stack of linens, see her eyes dart to the nearest exit—twenty feet away, might as well be a mile—and then back to me.
"You seem nervous, Valerie."
"I'm not—" Her voice breaks. "I'm just trying to do my job."
"Are you?" I tilt my head slightly, studying her. The way her pupils dilate. The way her lips part as if she can't get enough air. The way her body goes rigid, but she doesn't run. "Because it seems like you've been trying to do something else entirely."
"I'm not doing anything else." The lie is immediate. Automatic.
I reach out slowly—giving her time to see it coming—and pluck the top sheet from her stack. She flinches but doesn't drop the rest.
"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt?" I let the sheet unfold between us, examining it like it's fascinating. "Why does your pulse race every time I'm near? Why do you jump at shadows?"
"I don't—"
"You do." I drop the sheet. It puddles on the floor between us. "And I'm trying to decide if it's guilt or fear."
Her eyes drop to the sheet, then back to my face. "Please, I need to—Sofia's waiting—"
"Sofia can wait." I take the last step, eliminating the space between us entirely. She's pressed against the wall now, linens clutched to her chest like armor. "Look at me."
She doesn't want to. I can see it in how her eyes try to focus anywhere else—the floor, the ceiling, the discarded sheet. But eventually, she looks up.
And there it is. That flash of something underneath the terror. Just for a second. Something sharp and defiant before the fear swallows it whole.
There you are.
"Good girl," I murmur. "Now tell me what you're really doing in my house."
"Cleaning. Working. I already told you—"
I lean closer, one hand coming up to rest on the wall beside her head. Not touching her. Not yet. Just caging her in. "Liar."
Her breath hitches, and I notice other things. The way her nipples have tightened against her uniform, visible even through the fabric and the linens. The flush spreading across her chest and up her throat. The way she presses her thighs together like she's trying to hide something.
Arousal.
She wants me. Doesn't want to want me. Horrified by it, perhaps. But her body doesn't lie.
"I'm not lying." But her voice wavers. Unconvincing.
"You're terrible at it." I let my eyes drop deliberately to her mouth, then back up. "But that's alright. I enjoy puzzles."
"I'm not a puzzle." She's shaking now. Small tremors running through her whole body. "I'm just—"
"Just what? A girl who ended up in my bathroom by accident? A girl who asks too many questions about my schedule? A girl with a burner phone hidden in her bag?"
The color drains from her face. "I don't know what—"
"Don't." My voice drops lower. Dangerous. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you don't understand what I'm saying."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again like a fish drowning in air.
"Who sent you?" I ask quietly.
"No one."
"Try again."
"I'm just a maid who needed a job—"
"And I'm just a man who enjoys watching liars squirm.
" I lean close enough that my breath ghosts across her face.
"But I'm getting bored of this game, Valerie.
So here's what's going to happen. You're going to keep doing whatever it is you're doing.
And I'm going to keep watching. And eventually, you'll slip. Make a mistake. And when you do—"
I let the threat hang there. Unfinished. More terrifying for what I'm not saying.
"I'm not—" Her voice breaks completely. "Please, I'm not doing anything, I swear—"
"Shh." I reach up with my free hand and brush my thumb across her cheekbone. She flinches but has nowhere to go. "The more you lie, the more interested I become. And you don't want my interest, little mouse. Trust me."
I push off the wall and step back, giving her space to breathe.
She gasps like she's been underwater, clutching the linens tighter.
"Pick up the sheet," I tell her. "And get back to work."
She scrambles to obey, dropping to her knees to gather the fallen linen with shaking hands. When she stands, she won't meet my eyes.
"Valerie."
She freezes.
"Next time I corner you, try not to look quite so aroused. It's distracting."
The flush on her face deepens to crimson, and she flees down the corridor without another word.
I watch her go, satisfaction curling in my chest.
Fear I can work with. Fear mixed with unwanted attraction? That's leverage.
But I'm still no closer to understanding where that flash of darkness came from. The moment in the bathroom when she stopped being a terrified mouse and became something cold and sharp.
I need to see it again.
And I will.
It's just a matter of time and pressure.
I corner her again two days later. Kitchen this time, late at night when she's getting water.
She sees me enter and her hand jerks, water sloshing over the rim of her glass.
"Can't sleep?" I ask conversationally.
"I—no. Just thirsty."
"Mmm." I move to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of vodka from the back. Her eyes track my movements. "Want some? Helps with insomnia."
"I don't drink."
"Liar." I pour two fingers into a glass. "Everyone drinks. It's just a question of how much and why."
She doesn't answer. Just stands there clutching her water glass like a lifeline.
I cross to her slowly. She backs up until her hips hit the counter.
"You're scared of me." Not a question. Observation.
"No, I'm—"
"Yes, you are." I take a drink, never breaking eye contact. "And you should be. But that's not why your hands are shaking right now."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." I set my glass down on the counter beside her, close enough that my arm brushes hers. She jerks away from the contact. "Your body knows even if your mind won't admit it yet."
"I should go—"
"Stay." Not a request. An order.
She stays. Frozen in place. Prey instinct overriding flight response.
"Tell me something, Valerie." I turn to face her fully, one hand coming up to rest on the counter behind her. Caging her again. "When you close your eyes at night, what do you see?"
"I don't—"
"The gun? The way I looked at you? The moment you thought you were going to die?"
Her breath catches, and tears gather in her eyes.