8. Cady #2
“I agree that flooding her place with men makes this worse,” Artem says. “It draws attention, it escalates things, and it tells whoever sent that message that it landed how they wanted it to.”
Misha isn’t pleased. “So, what? We do nothing?”
“We do something useful,” Artem replies calmly. “Which means we don’t panic.”
The elevator hums as it climbs, and I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall—hair out of place, a thin line of red still visible along my cheek.
The doors open, and I step out first this time, crossing the hall to my door and unlocking it with steadier hands than I feel.
The familiar scent of roses greets me as I push it open, soft and fake, like everything else about this place.
Artem moves past me, scanning the room. His attention moves over everything—the windows, the layout, the blind spots—and I don’t miss a second of it.
What’d he do? Place another man in here to kill me?
“Get a first-aid kit,” Artem orders without looking at either one of us.
Misha moves like he’s suddenly remembered he’s my boyfriend as Artem turns around to look at me.
“Let me see it.” He nods toward my cheek.
“It’s nothing.”
He perks a brow before he closes the small distance between us. “Turn your head, Lisichka.”
“You touch me, and I’ll have you killed.”
His expression darkens. “Now we’re issuing threats?”
“How did you get here so fast?”
“I was in the area.” He reaches for my face, and I slap his hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure my bullet doesn’t miss.”
I expect him to keep playing the innocent act. To lead me down the path of security, and lead me to believe it was someone else.
I expect him to look appalled.
Instead, his lips curl upward at the corners, and the hairs on my arms stand in silent alarm.
A colder fear creeps up my spine. Men like Artem don’t bluff. They don’t posture for attention or waste energy pretending to be dangerous. They already know they are.
The worst part is the look in his eyes.
Complete calm.
Like the idea of putting a bullet through a woman—particularly one of Irish mob royalty—isn’t shocking to him.
Misha walks back into the room carrying a white first-aid box he probably found by opening every cabinet in my bathroom, unaware of the tension in the air.
“Found it.” He sets it on the marble counter. “Jesus, you two look miserable.”
Artem doesn’t take his eyes off me right away. “That’s because one of us got shot at.”
His eyes drop to the cut on my cheek.
I see him, and he’s not going to fool me.
Misha pops the kit open and looks lost. “Okay… what do we even use?”
Artem finally turns away from me, and I can tell he’s close to strangling his brother. That would make two of us. “Move.”
Misha steps aside without argument, confirming once again how worthless he is as Artem reaches into the kit, pulling things out with practiced ease.
“You act like I’m helpless,” Misha scoffs.
“You are.”
There’s no brotherly love to dull the edge of it, and Misha rolls his eyes like he’s heard it a thousand times.
He probably has.
Artem wets a gauze pad with antiseptic before looking back at me. “Sit down.”
“I can clean my face.”
“I know. You’re still not doing it.”
I want to refuse, but the sooner I abide by his bossiness, the sooner he’ll leave.
So, I sit on the counter stool.
He steps between my knees before I can think to close them. The smell of his cologne settles around me—something dark and clean underneath the faint trace of smoke—and I hate that I notice it.
“Hold still,” he demands quietly.
The gauze touches my cheek, and I tense on instinct. Not because he’s rough, but because he’s by me. He’s touching me. He smells amazing.
Artem doesn’t strike me as gentle, but the way he cleans the cut is careful enough. His hand steadies against my jaw while he works, fingers warm against my face, and I become painfully aware of every inch of contact.
Misha leans against the island, watching us with no sense of how to read a room. “You probably need stitches.”
“She doesn’t,” Artem answers before I can. “It’s shallow.”
“Still could scar.”
His thumb pauses against my jaw, his eyes lifting to mine for one brief second before he speaks again. “It won’t.”
Something knots in my stomach. I don’t know if it’s the confidence in his voice or the fact that he sounds irritated by the idea.
Misha sighs dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is such a fucking mess.”
Artem tosses the bloody gauze aside and reaches for another one. “That’s because you don’t think ahead.”
“Oh, here we fuckin’ go. Don’t start, Artem.”
“You brought an Irish mob princess into Volkov business.”
“I’m dating her, not trafficking mob secrets.”
Artem’s eyes flick to him. “Those are surprisingly close together in this world.”
Misha points toward me like I’m evidence in an argument. “Which is why she needs protection.”
Artem cleans another streak of blood from my cheek before answering. “The Volkov organization doesn’t assign men to babysit Irish royalty.”
“Babysit?” I repeat sharply. “I said I didn’t need your help.”
His eyes move back to mine. “Would you prefer surveillance?”
“Neither.”
“Unfortunately, those are the available options.”
Misha pushes off the counter. “Fine. Then I’ll stay here.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“What are you gonna do? Call me again?” Artem sets the gauze aside. “Besides, you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“When’s the last time you took a human life?”
Misha looks frustrated before his shoulders loosen again. “Then what? We just leave her alone?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“I prefer it,” I chime in, pulling my face away before Artem’s fingers wrap possessively around my jaw.
“I’ll stay with her.”
The words land heavily in the room.
Misha relaxes, which tells me everything I need to know about his judgment.
“Yeah.” He nods like this is the perfect solution. “That makes sense.”
I stare at Artem. “Absolutely not.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You don’t have much choice.”
“I have plenty.”
“No good ones.”
The arrogance in him should make me furious.
Instead, it makes me nervous.
Because underneath all that control is something sharper tonight, something deliberate.
He’s watching me too closely, speaking too carefully.
And suddenly, I understand something that makes my stomach twist.
This is where he wanted to end up.
Close to me.
Inside my space.
Watching.
Misha claps his hands together once, like the problem is solved. “Good. Done. Artem stays here a couple of nights until we figure out who sent the warning.”
Warning.
Not attack.
My warning.
“I didn’t agree to that,” I say coldly.
Artem looks at me again, his hazel eyes steady enough to feel invasive. He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“You don’t have to agree, Lisichka.” His voice is quiet enough that Misha can’t hear. “You just have to understand that I’m not asking. And I can’t wait to see all the little things you do when you’re alone. Because I’m not letting you out of my damn sight until I get what I want.”