9. Artem
Artem
Cold water hits me square in the chest, and I’m awake before it even fully registers.
My hand closes around the gun under my pillow. By the time my eyes open, the barrel is already aimed directly at Cady Gallagher.
She doesn’t scream or flinch.
She doesn’t look a bit surprised.
Morning light spills across her penthouse in pale gold through the massive windows behind her, catching in the red curls hanging loose over her shoulders while she stands there holding an empty glass like she hasn’t just woken a bratva enforcer by throwing water on him.
She’s barefoot.
Tiny black yoga shorts hug the curve of her hips, paired with a white cropped tank that shows a strip of skin above the waistband.
Casual. Completely comfortable.
Like she slept just fine after someone put a bullet through her car window yesterday.
Like she’s not standing three feet away from a loaded gun.
Blue eyes lock onto my hazel eyes with ease, and that pisses me off.
“You point guns at all your hosts?” she asks dryly.
My finger eases off the trigger. “You throw water on all your guests?”
“You’re not a guest.” Her eyes flick toward the weapon in my hand. “And if you were going to shoot me, standing this close would at least make sure you didn’t miss this time, right?”
I didn’t think she was the smartest person, but she’s smart enough to know who tried to scare her yesterday.
It wasn’t as though I was trying to hide it.
I lower the gun slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. “Still on that?”
“You got here awfully fast last night.”
“I told you. I was nearby.”
“Mhmm.” She sets the empty glass on the table beside the couch where I passed out sometime around four in the morning. “How convenient.”
I lean back against the cushions, studying her properly now that I’m awake enough to think clearly, and that turns out to be a mistake all on its own.
Because Christ.
Morning looks fucking good on her.
The shorts are tiny enough to make it hard not to notice the length of her legs, and the fitted tank does absolutely nothing to hide the curves underneath it. It’s like she’s walked straight out of some rich man’s fantasy.
Except there’s nothing soft about the way she carries herself.
Cady looks like trouble dressed up as temptation.
And she has to know it.
“You didn’t call your father,” I say finally.
Her expression shifts at the change in topic. “You checked my phone?”
“I didn’t need to.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re incredibly annoying.”
“You’re alive, though, right?”
My gaze drifts toward the small bandage on her cheek, where the glass cut her. It’s shallow. Nothing serious. But against her pale skin, the faint red line peeking out beneath the edge of the bandage stands out more than it should.
My intent wasn’t to kill her; only to scare her away from Misha.
I don’t think it’s working.
“You should be more concerned about someone taking a shot at you,” she tosses back.
“I’m not concerned.”
“Well, I am. Because the person who did it to me just slept on my couch.”
A laugh almost breaks loose from me.
My shirt sticks to my skin from the water she threw on me, and annoyance settles in.
“You done acting insane?” I ask.
“You pulled a gun on me.”
“You assaulted me in my sleep.”
She folds her arms across her chest, and the movement makes the situation worse because my attention catches on the swell of her breasts before I force it away again.
Everything about her is dangerous.
Not because she’s violent.
Because she distracts.
“I want you out,” she says.
I stand slowly from the couch, towering over her, and her chin lifts on instinct even though she has to tilt her head back to hold my gaze.
Most women step away from me when I get too close.
Cady plants her feet harder.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, “because your boyfriend asked me to stay.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses her face at the word boyfriend.
Interesting.
“You mean Misha asked his brother to babysit me because he panicked.”
“He cares.”
“He’s incompetent.”
That one nearly gets a smile out of me, but I peel my soaked shirt over my head and toss it onto the couch behind me, catching the second her eyes drop.
Not long. Barely a second.
But long enough.
Her throat moves when she swallows, and the air shifts.
I know what I look like. I know what women see when they look at me, and judging by her reaction, Cady Gallagher isn’t immune to it, either.
“I need a towel,” I say.
She steps around me, her shoulder brushing mine hard enough to feel intentional. “Go home and get one.”
I watch her disappear toward the kitchen before following a few seconds later, mostly because leaving her alone in another room feels stupid after yesterday.
And partly because I like watching her walk away from me.
The penthouse is quiet in the early morning light, all clean marble and oversized windows overlooking the city below. It still feels too staged to be personal, but there are pieces of her tucked into it.
Fresh flowers on the counter.
A stack of hardcover books near the sofa.
Pressed flowers drying beneath heavy glass frames near the dining room wall.
Controlled little glimpses of personality hidden beneath all the polish.
Cady moves through the kitchen, pulling fruit from the refrigerator while I lean against the island and watch her ignore me.
“You always stare at women this aggressively?” she asks without looking up.
“Only the suspicious ones.”
“That’s flattering.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She slices strawberries with more force than necessary. “You know, for someone who keeps threatening me, you spend an awful lot of time in my apartment.”
“You keep giving me reasons to.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
I bark out a quiet laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“No.” She glances at me. “I’d like you gone.”
I reach over and steal a strawberry from the cutting board.
She slaps my hand. “Don’t touch my food.”
I eat it anyway.
“Hostile this morning, Lisichka.”
“Because you’re still here.”
I take another piece, slower this time, eyes locked on hers while I do it.
The slap comes quicker, but before she can pull away, I catch her wrist.
Everything stills.
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.
Mine answers.
Her eyes lift slowly to mine, and there’s something different there now.
Awareness.
“You have enough yet?” I ask quietly.
Her brows pull together. “Enough of what?”
“This.” I step closer without releasing her wrist. “My warnings. The shooting. Me telling you to stay away from things that don’t concern you.” My gaze drops briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “You ready to stop dating my brother?”
Her breathing changes, just a sliver. “No.”
I tilt my head. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even like him.”
She makes a face. “Excuse me? You’re doing a very bad job at allegedly knowing everything.”
“I know enough.”
Her wrist twists once in my grip, testing me more than trying to escape, and I don’t let go.
“You think I’m scared of you,” she says.
“I think you should be.”
“I’m not.”
I step close enough to smell the faint floral scent on her skin, and to see the tiny freckles sprinkled across her nose.
Close enough to kiss her.
The thought hits hard and immediate.
Wrong brother.
Wrong woman.
Wrong everything.
“You should’ve picked me,” I say before I can stop myself, because I would love nothing more than to have had one night.
One night, with my lips all over her body to see how quickly I could get her to shut up and submit to me. To hear the sounds she would make over the lies she freely spills.
Her lips part, and I clench my teeth. “Why?”
Because you look at me like a challenge instead of a monster.
Because if you were mine for a night, I’d already know every secret you’re hiding.
“You’d have gotten closer to the information you wanted. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“What if it isn’t?”
I look down at her for a long second, my fingers still wrapped around her wrist while tension stretches between us.
“If you keep lying to me,” I say, “eventually, I’m going to stop being patient about it.”
“And if you keep threatening me,” she whispers back, “eventually, I’m going to stop letting you.”
I’d love to see how she’d manage that.
What is she going to do? Sic her dumbass brothers on me?
She should.
Any smart woman would.
But this woman handles herself. Misha has no idea what kind of woman he dragged into our lives.
Or maybe he does, and he’s just too distracted by the way she looks to care.
“Are we done?” she presses. “I need my hand back.”
“You done trying to hit me?”
“You deserve it.”
“Probably.”
The answer catches her off guard just enough to make her blink.
I let her wrist go slowly this time, watching the faint imprint of my fingers disappear from her skin before I lean back against the counter beside her.
“So.” I reach for another piece of fruit before she can stop me. “What are we doing today?”
“We?” She scoffs and reaches for her knife. “I don’t think so.”
“I do.”
Cady lets out a disbelieving laugh under her breath. “You can’t seriously think you’re going to follow me around all day.”
“I am.”
“You’re out of your mind.” She sets the knife down harder than necessary. “I’m not spending my day with the man who tried to kill me.”
“You’re still assuming that was me.”
“You admitted it.”
“I said I wouldn’t miss next time.”
“That’s not comforting, Artem.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
I watch her decide whether arguing with me is worth the energy.
It is.
For me, anyway.
“What do you think you’re accomplishing here?” Her eyes narrow into little slits. “You keep getting within two inches of me. What kind of information do you think you’re going to uncover now?”
My gaze drifts down her body once before returning to her face.
Plenty.
But that’s not the answer she’s looking for.
“Maybe I’m not looking for more information.”
She pops a questioning brow. “Then what are you doing?”
I push off the counter slowly, closing the distance between us again until the edge of the island presses lightly against her lower back.
Testing her reactions.
Her limits.
Seeing how close I can get before she pushes me away for real.
“Maybe,” I murmur, “I’m seeing how guilty you feel about dating my brother.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning… you don’t act very interested in Misha.”
The air changes again, but she still plays the sweet little Irish girl who was attracted to the playboy Russian.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t know anything about my relationship.”
“I know you look at me too long for someone happy with my brother.”
Cady crosses her arms beneath her chest, and the motion nearly destroys what’s left of my self-control this morning. “You’re unbelievably arrogant.”
“I’m observant.”
“And you think every woman wants you?”
“No.” I lean in close enough to smell the sweetness from the fruit on her fingertips mixed with her perfume. “Just the ones pretending they don’t.”
A flush creeps slowly up her throat before she turns away, grabs her bowl of fruit, and carries it toward the opposite side of the island.
“You are not coming with me today,” she says firmly.
“I am.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going shopping with a friend.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
She stabs her fork into a strawberry. “Go terrorize someone else.”
“I am terrorizing someone else.”
That earns me a glare. “Does that make you hard?”
She has no idea.
“Are you scared that I’m going to find out that you wear pink panties or something?”
“I think you’re bored.”
I wish.
Cady Gallagher walking into my life carries enough problems to keep me entertained for months.
“I think,” she continues matter-of-factly, “that you’re so used to everyone around you being terrified that you don’t know what to do with someone who isn’t.”
“That’s cute.”
“Is it?”
“You should be scared of me.”
“I’m not. And you will not ruin my day.”
“I am definitely going to ruin your day.”
“I’m going shopping. Not to a secret spy meeting.”
“Sounds fun.”
Her nostrils flare. “You are not coming.”
“Watch me.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re going to follow me into stores? I’m going to make you carry my bags.”
“Fat chance.”
“Then I’ll lose you.”
“Would love to see you try.”
“This is psychotic behavior.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
She turns away again, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “asshole” while I watch her pace.
Sunlight spills across her skin, highlighting her red curls while the city stretches behind her.
For one dangerous second, I stop focusing on what she might know or be hiding.
Instead, I think about bending her over this fucking island in the kitchen.
“You’re staring again,” she says without turning around.
“You wear tiny shorts around men and act surprised when they look?”
She glances over her shoulder. “I don’t mind them looking. It’s you I mind. I’m dating your brother. I’m fucking your brother. You don’t get to look.”
“I’m invested now.”
Her head rears back a little. “In what?”
My gaze locks onto hers again. “You.”