2. Cady
Cady
I don’t sleep well in other people’s beds.
I also don’t stay after.
But here I am, staring at a ceiling I don’t recognize, under sheets that smell like expensive detergent and bad decisions, with Misha Makarov’s arm slung heavy over my waist like he’s trying to claim something that was never on the table.
I’m awake before him. The man was piss drunk by eight last night, drinking way too much vodka, but at least he drank it in a glass, so I’ll give him that.
There’s a rhythm to breathing when someone’s asleep next to you. You learn it if you spend enough time in rooms that aren’t yours, around people who don’t know you’re watching. Misha breathes slow and deep, like the world has never once denied him anything.
Must be nice.
I turn my head, studying him without moving. He’s attractive in an effortless, dangerous way. Dark hair, a little messy, strong jaw and lips that are used to smiling, or smirking, or talking their way out of things.
Playboy is the word people use.
Predictable is the one I prefer.
Right now, he’s all about me. That part is real enough. The way his hand tightens around me in his sleep when I shift, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
He’s not wrong, because I will one day. He’ll grow tired of me first, or I’ll come clean and say I’ve become uninterested. There’ll be no hard feelings, because Misha moves like the wind.
I slip out from under his arm carefully, inch by inch. He stirs but doesn’t wake, and I’m standing by the time his hand falls flat against the mattress.
Free.
I grab a shirt from his dresser, pulling it over my head as I walk. His bedroom is what you’d expect from a man who has enough money to run a country.
Clean, modern, and expensive without trying too hard. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a view that probably impresses people who aren’t me, and a lack of personality. Because how do you paint a room when you sleep with a new woman every night?
Staple her panties to the wall?
My bag is where I left it, tucked near the chair as I kneel, unzip it quietly, and pull out my small notebook.
The pages are filled with pressed flowers, each one flattened carefully between thin sheets of paper. Dried petals and fragile stems are labeled neatly in the corner with small, precise handwriting.
Dates. Places. Names.
I flip past a few.
A pale yellow one from last spring. The day my father shook hands with a man he shouldn’t have trusted.
A deep red one with its edges curled. The day someone didn’t make it home.
And then… I pause.
A small white bloom, simple and unimpressive, is tucked between two pages as if it doesn’t belong with the rest.
No label yet.
My fingers hover over it for a second before I close the notebook.
“Running already?”
I roll my eyes as Misha’s voice comes out rough with sleep but amused enough that I’d try such a thing.
I zip my bag slowly, then stand, smoothing my hair back with my fingers.
“Relax.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “If I were leaving, you’d know.”
Misha’s propped up on one elbow, watching me with a lazy, confident smile that probably works on most girls.
It almost does on me.
Until I saw his brother.
“Yeah?” he says. “How’s that?”
“I wouldn’t bother being quiet.”
That earns me a laugh as he sits up fully and runs a hand through his hair. The sheets slide down his torso, revealing more of his muscular frame. Men like him are always built like they expect trouble.
Or invite it.
“Come back to bed,” he says like it’s a suggestion.
There’s value in staying. In keeping him interested and engaged. The more he likes me, the less he watches me. The more he talks.
There’s also power in not giving too much.
I walk back over anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed instead of climbing in, and trail my fingers lightly over his shoulder.
He leans into it like a cat, predictable again, and I let a small smile slip through.
“Breakfast.” He catches my wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it. “We’ll go out. There’s a place—”
“You’re trying too hard.”
He grins against my skin. “Is it working?”
I pull my hand back slowly, letting the moment stretch. “Maybe.”
Misha shifts closer, his hand finding my waist again, and pulls me toward him.
He’s warm, solid, and easy to fall into if I let myself.
I let him kiss me anyway. Softly at first, then deeper when I don’t pull away. It’s all very practiced and smooth, because he knows what he’s doing.
I know why I’m letting him do it. Information comes more easily when people think you’re distracted.
His attention slips when he thinks he’s won something, and that’s how he sleeps so peacefully at my side.
Dead to the world.
No clue that I broke into his laptop last night.
“Stay,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Get dressed.” I pull back just enough to break the rhythm. “You promised me breakfast.”
He sighs and grins. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I do.” He reaches for me again and pulls me into his lap, forcing me to straddle his hips. “Let me fuck you again, and I’ll give you everything you want, Caitlin.”
I wish he were real.
I wish any of this were.
But men like Misha give you just enough to keep you soft, keep you close, and keep you from asking the wrong questions.
My father perfected that long before I ever set foot in this house.
Affection when it’s earned. Silence when it’s not.
Approval dangled just out of reach like something I should be grateful to chase.
I learned young how to compete for it. How to be better, sharper, and more useful than the next person in the room. How to listen when I wasn’t meant to. How to smile when I already knew the answer.
How to make myself necessary. Necessary meant seen.
Being seen meant I mattered.
Even now, it hasn’t changed.
This—being here, playing nice, letting Misha think he’s got something he doesn’t—is just another version of the same game.
Only the stakes are higher.
If I’m wrong this time, it’s not just me losing his attention.
It’s my family.
It’s everything.
Misha’s hands slide up my thighs, grounding and insistent, pulling me back into the moment.
“You went quiet.” He brushes his mouth along my jaw.
I let out a soft breath, forcing myself back into the version of me he expects.
“Just thinking,” I say lightly.
“About?”
I meet his gaze, letting something softer slip in. Something believable. “You.”
He smiles like he believes it.
Of course he does. Men like him usually do.
I smile back just as easily, settling my hands against his shoulders like I’m where I want to be.
I’m already thinking three steps ahead.
It’s to save my family from ruin.
And, possibly, his from death.
—
The house is comfortably quiet when we head downstairs.
Everything about this place is oversized. High ceilings, wide hallways, and rooms that echo when you walk through them.
It’s intentional because Misha’s brother is paranoid and perfectly on the ready for someone to fuck up.
Families like his don’t just build homes. They build distance, layers, and places to disappear if they need to.
Protection.
Or at least the illusion of it.
However, I get none here because I feel him before I see him.
The subtle shift in the air lets me know someone dangerous is close.
Artem.
He’s in the kitchen when Misha and I turn the corner. Leaning back against the counter with one shoulder, looking at ease in a way that feels calculated.
He’s bigger than I remember.
It’s not just height, though he’s quite tall. It’s the way he fills the space without trying. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms, and veins faintly visible beneath his skin.
Solid.
He doesn’t just handle violence; he’s comfortable with it.
His dark hair is slightly messy and falls just enough to soften what is otherwise a very unforgiving face. Strong jaw, sharp lines, and nothing gentle about his features.
He’s focused right now, locked on me like he’s decided I’m a problem.
Good.
That makes this easier.
Misha is either oblivious or choosing to be because he walks right past Artem and heads for the counter like this is any other morning.
“You’re up early.” Misha casually reaches for something behind Artem.
Without responding, Artem reaches for the laptop sitting beside him and holds it out. “Watch the damn thing.”
Interesting.
I’m not surprised. If Artem wants to catch me red-handed doing something to betray the Volkov bratva, he wants to be the one who handles me.
I lean against the doorway and cross my arms like I didn’t notice the way his eyes flicked toward me when he said it.
Like I’m not the reason he’s saying it.
Misha lets out a quiet laugh, taking the laptop from him. “Relax. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” Artem’s voice is low and even. “You leave it sitting around like that again, it won’t be there when you get back.”
I’m not stupid enough to steal something from the Volkov bratva. Benedikt Volkov is savage. He built his family’s business, kept his head down, and handled it.
But there are stories that prove how merciless he is, and I don’t plan to discover if they’re true.
Like the dock job a few years back. A rival crew thought they could intercept one of his shipments. Guns, from what I heard. They unloaded half the crates before anyone realized something was wrong.
By morning, the docks were shut down because three bodies were hanging from the cranes.
Strung up high enough that anyone in the harbor could see them. Swaying in the wind like a warning sign no one could ignore. The rest of the crew was found scattered along the shoreline, dragged through gravel and saltwater, their hands ruined so badly that they’d never hold anything steady again.
No one touched a Volkov shipment after that.
Then there was a man in Boston who tried to skim from Benedikt’s books. He believed he was clever enough to hide it in numbers no one would check.
They found him in his office. Alive, which somehow made it worse.
His fingers were bent at angles they shouldn’t be, swollen and useless. One for every line he altered, they said.
He lived long enough to tell people why you don’t steal from Benedikt Volkov.
Then he disappeared.
Benedikt didn’t make a spectacle of it. No public display or grand warning.
Weeks later, pieces of that man started turning up. Not all at once; just enough that people started connecting the dots.
A hand found near one of his properties. A jacket someone recognized. A ring that used to mean something.
A trail.
Not messy or rushed.
Intentional.
He wanted everyone to understand that betrayal doesn’t end quickly. That’s the thing about Benedikt Volkov. He doesn’t just kill you.
He takes his time and makes sure everyone else remembers it.
After all of that, I’m probably standing in front of the man who did most of it.
His enforcer.
Artem Makarov.
Taller and broader than Misha, and bigger, too. Built like he doesn’t just expect violence; he is violence.
It’s sexy as hell but dangerous to want.
Not that I want him.
I wouldn’t mind being thrown around by him for a night, but I’m already in a relationship with his little brother.
He’s annoyingly attractive.
And completely off-limits.
Misha claps his hands once, breaking whatever just passed between us. “Okay, we’re getting breakfast.”
His hand finds mine easily, and I let him take it. I see Artem’s gaze drop briefly to where our hands are linked.
His expression doesn’t change, but something about him stills even more, like he’s locking that detail away for later.
Not my problem.
I won’t be around much longer.
“Try not to get yourself killed,” Artem deadpans.
“Love you, too,” Misha shoots back easily. “Don’t have a stroke while doing whatever Benedikt has you doing.”
“Just another mass murder. You know the usual.”
He has jokes.
Misha scoffs and guides us to the front door, and I feel the weight of Artem’s attention settle between my shoulder blades.
Outside, the air feels different, and I welcome it. It’s easier to breathe, or maybe it’s the absence of being scrutinized by Artem, but I’m not complaining.
Misha squeezes my hand, grinning like nothing just happened. “Hungry, babe?”
“Starving.” I lie because I lost most of my appetite in the kitchen.
“Don’t mind my brother. He’s always like that.”
“I don’t,” I reply honestly.
I slide into the passenger seat when he opens the door for me, giving him a small smile as I settle in. He eats it up just like I knew he would.
I let the smile fall as he rounds the car, just long enough to think.
The Volkov bratva isn’t careless, but Misha is a weak point. Loose habits. Open doors. Things left where they shouldn’t be.
Easy to slip through if you know what you’re doing.
Artem is the opposite of that.
He’s the lock.
If something is happening that could hurt my family, it won’t come from Misha.
It’ll come from Artem.
I glance back at the house as Misha starts the engine. For a second, I think I see movement in one of the windows. A shadow shifting just enough to be noticeable.
Watching.
I face forward again and cross my legs like I’m not already too deep in something I can’t walk away from.
Misha reaches over, brushing his thumb lightly along my knee. “You’re quiet.”
I turn my head toward him, letting my easy smile slip back into place. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Whether you’re worth the trouble.”
He laughs like I’m joking.
I’m not.
I knew this was not going to stay simple before I took this on. But now that I have Artem’s attention, things have gotten more complicated.
Because now, I have to play two brothers, and one of them isn’t stupid.
One of them is the enforcer of the Volkov bratva.
And that one will kill me without a second thought if he believes I’m a liability to his boss.
Brother’s girlfriend or not.