9. Rowan #3
It’s a mistake, a small one, but I know it the moment her gaze locks onto my mouth.
Her eyes linger just long enough to make heat crawl under my collar.
I see it in the slight change in her expression, the brief flare of awareness that she tries to bury under irritation.
She remembers the hallway the same way I do.
The almost-touch and my retreat, the space between us charged with something neither of us has been foolish enough to name out loud or try to replicate again.
Her eyes suddenly snap back to mine. “I’m not asking for state secrets.”
“That’s usually what people say right before asking for state secrets.”
Her pen lowers to the notebook. “Is it about the attack?”
I say nothing, and her gaze immediately sharpens. She’s getting too good at reading my silences. I turn away before the conversation can drag me further into whatever under current she seems determined to drag me under and drown me in. “Behave yourself.”
Before she has time to answer me, I swing the doors shut, waiting for them to click into place before speaking again. “If she leaves, stop her.”
Both guards nod at me. “Yes, sir.”
Only then do I push away from the door and continue down the hallway. I don’t notice how tight my jaw is clenched until I reach the kitchen and feel it aching.
Inside, the kitchen is hot and loud. The contrast from the hallway hits me hard, disorienting me for a split second. The head chef, Sergey, looks up from a tray of something glistening with butter and immediately frowns when he sees me as if I personally offend the sanctity of his workplace.
“Mr. Vasiliev,” he says.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. We’ve known each other too long to indulge in something that useless. “Water.”
He points with his knife toward the side refrigerator without looking.
I retrieve a bottle.
Dima, the curly-haired kitchen boy I’ve heard Sofia has apparently decided to befriend, sees me from the prep station and stiffens. He spins around to face in the other direction so fast that he nearly drops the pot of boiling liquid in his hand.
Interesting…
I make a note of it and leave.
Inside the garage, rows of black vehicles sit under harsh overhead lights, polished to perfection—SUVs, sedans, two armored transports. Ivan keeps enough variations to make every route a question and every convoy a gamble.
I choose one of the black SUVs near the center. Not one of the lead vehicles or the newest, but I’d rather not draw attention beyond the usual low-grade curiosity that follows our plates through Moscow traffic.
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, letting the low growl fill the silence as the engine block warms. For a moment I sit there with both hands on the wheel and my eyes forward, letting the familiar vibrations settle through my bones.
Driving alone is a luxury I don’t often get to indulge in.
For the next twenty minutes to the coroner’s office, there will be no lieutenants talking in my ear, no enforcers asking questions.
No Sofia breathing fire at me because she believes I am the enemy.
Just the machine under me, the road, and the city waiting beyond the gate.
I pull out of the garage slowly once I’m ready.
The SUV rolls down the interior drive, tires crunching over the smooth pavement.
The main gate comes into view when I get to the bottom of the hill, and tall black iron rails open without question.
The estate releases me into the road beyond, and for the first time all morning, my shoulders loosen.
The road away from the estate is narrow, lined with skeletal trees that are just beginning to get their leaves back from the harsh winter. I check the side mirrors out of habit to make sure no tail is following me.
I’m halfway down the road to the main outlet when the hair on my neck stands up.
It is old instinct, the animal that is always living under my skin that lifts its head when danger is near to snarl, that alerts me. Movement in the rearview catches my attention and within milliseconds, my hand snaps down to the gun at my hip, yanking it free as I slam on the brakes.
Tires bite into the cold asphalt and screech, causing the SUV to fishtail half a foot before traction grabs and the entire force of gravity bears down. The car rocks hard as it comes to a stop, my pulse already gone flat and deadly in my ears when I twist in the seat.
I keep my foot jammed to the brake pedal, letting the barrel track before my eyes finish catching up. A flash of blonde hair and wide blue eyes are what freeze me from pulling back on the trigger.
Curled against the rear door like a stowaway caught mid-escape, hands half-raised in the air and mouth open in a small, startled O, is Sofia.
“For the love of God,” she squeaks, “don’t shoot me!”
For three seconds, I cannot speak. That may not sound like much to an ordinary man, but to me, it is an eternity. Long enough to kill. Certainly long enough to die. The absurdity of what I’m seeing moves through my brain like molasses.
Sofia Kuznetsov is in my back seat.
Sofia, who was supposed to be in the library under guard, who apparently crawled into my vehicle without my knowledge because she clearly has some kind of death wish.
I lower the gun by inches, not because I am calm but because shooting Ivan’s niece would be heavily frowned upon. And perhaps earn me a bullet to the back of the skull.
“What,” I say softly, “the fuck are you doing in my car?”