Chapter 7
Seven
Kon
She's been awake for twenty minutes and she's already asked me fourteen questions.
I know because I've been counting. Each one lands like a small knife sliding between my ribs, finding the gaps in armor I didn't realize I'd left exposed. The woman is relentless. A force of nature wrapped in borrowed clothes that fit her curves in ways I'm actively trying not to notice.
I'm failing.
The next morning my kitchen smells like butter and garlic and the herbs I grow on the rooftop, scents that usually calm the restless thing inside me.
This morning they do nothing to quiet the tension coiling at the base of my spine, the ache that's settled into my shoulders from another sleepless night, the grit behind my eyes that no amount of coffee can wash away.
Every time she shifts on that barstool, every time her thigh peeks through the slit in her borrowed robe, my muscles coil tighter until I feel like a wire about to snap.
"Is this Russian coffee?" She peers into her cup like it might hold the secrets of the universe. "It tastes like it could wake the dead from two centuries ago."
I raise my mug and take a long swallow, letting the burn settle in my chest before I answer. "That's the point."
"Do you always drink it this strong, or is this a special occasion?"
"I always drink it this strong."
"Hmm." She takes another sip, grimaces, her nose scrunching in a way that has no business being that appealing, then takes another. "What's in the eggs?"
"Eggs."
She levels me with a flat look, one eyebrow arching. "Very helpful. What else?"
"Cheese. Herbs. A technique my grandmother perfected over sixty years of feeding people who asked too many questions."
Her lips twitch at that, a flash of amusement that transforms her entire face and makes my chest do something complicated I refuse to examine.
The morning light streaming through the massive windows catches the blue of her eyes and turns them to sapphires, bright and sharp and far too observant for my sanity.
She's wearing clothes from the closet I stocked for her.
Dark jeans that hug her hips, a soft sweater in charcoal gray that slips off one shoulder no matter how many times she tugs it back into place.
Her dark hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends, leaving wet spots on the fabric that darken the gray to almost black.
I want to peel that sweater over her head and see what she looks like in the morning light with nothing between us but skin.
Instead, I flip the omelette and shift my stance to ease the pressure behind my zipper, grateful for the counter between us hiding exactly how much she affects me.
"What time did you wake up?" She's still asking questions, still cataloging, still being exactly the journalist she warned me she was.
Her gaze drifts to the locked cabinet by the refrigerator, lingers there with obvious interest, then sweeps toward the living room.
"You cook every morning, don't you? And I counted six typewriters out there, but not a single computer. That's deliberate."
"Four-thirty. Every morning. Weapons." I nod toward the cabinet without looking up from the stove. "And five typewriters, not six. Computers don't have souls."
She processes the rapid-fire responses, her head tilting as she maps each answer to its question. Then she laughs, a genuine sound that hits me square in the chest and spreads warmth through places that have been cold for decades.
"Most people would have made me work for all of that and you just gave it to me."
"I'm efficient." I slide the omelette onto a plate. "You want to know something, ask."
"Good to know." She props her chin on her hand, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. "So why are you so cranky this morning?"
"I'm not cranky. I'm focused."
Her brows rise, curiosity flickering across her features. "Focused on what?"
On not throwing you over this counter and fucking you until neither of us can walk, much less ask another hundred questions.
I don't say that. I slide the omelette onto a plate and set it in front of her with more force than necessary. Silverware clatters against granite. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, just picks up her fork and takes a bite.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning dark against her cheeks.
Her throat works as she swallows, the delicate muscles moving beneath skin I want to mark with my teeth.
A soft sound escapes her, something between a moan and a sigh, and when her tongue darts out to catch a smear of butter glistening on her lower lip, my grip on the spatula tightens until my knuckles go white.
"This is incredible." She covers her mouth with her fingers as she speaks around the food, her eyes widening with genuine surprise. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother."
"The same one with the coffee?" She takes another bite, her free hand gesturing toward my mug.
"Da."
Her lips curve, a knowing smile tugging at the corners. "Russian grandmother. That explains the coffee strong enough to strip paint and the refusal to accept compliments."
She's trying to beat back the worry and the fear with the rambling. She's easy to read so I don't have a problem playing along.
Another laugh, low and warm. Another knife between my ribs. This woman is going to kill me, and she's not even trying.
I eat standing at the counter because sitting across from her feels too intimate, too domestic, too much like something I've never let myself want.
She doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn't comment.
She's too busy cataloging the kitchen, her eyes filing every detail, especially the full set of knives I keep freshly sharpened near the stove.
I swear she's making a mental note of them in case she might need them later.
I walk down the hall and come back with a leather satchel that puts a light in her eyes.
"Sloane said this nearly cost her everything. Make damn sure you sink your father. I promised I would pass along her message."
Her hands tremble as she takes the bag from me, fingers running over the worn leather like she's greeting an old friend. She clutches it against her chest and exhales, some of the tension draining from her shoulders.
"Thank you." The words come out thick, rough with emotion she's trying to swallow. "I thought I'd lost everything in here. Months of work. Evidence that—" She stops, shakes her head, presses her lips together. "Just... thank you."
I give her a short nod, uncomfortable with the gratitude shining in her eyes.
"Can I see her?" The question comes before I've even turned away, hope and desperation warring in her voice. "Sloane. Please. I need to know she's really okay. I need to see it for myself."
"Nyet."
"Kon—"
"She's healing. Under guard. Your uncle's men know who bought you last night.
Seamus will have opinions about his enemy owning the woman who can destroy him, and he will come for you.
Every contact you make is a thread he can pull.
" I hold her gaze, letting her see I won't bend on this.
"When Seamus is dealt with, you'll see her. Not before."
Her jaw tightens, frustration flickering hot in her eyes. For a moment I think she'll argue, push back the way she does with everything else. Instead, she hugs the bag tighter and gives me a single, clipped nod.
"Fine. But the second it's safe—"
"The second it's safe, I'll take you myself."
I pour more coffee and watch her eat and tell myself this is strategy. Keep her comfortable. Keep her talking. Extract the intelligence she promised in exchange for protection.
The lie tastes like grit in my mouth. I wanted to get close to her the second I saw her in the back alley getting snatched off the street. The fight in her spoke to something inside me I didn't know was still listening.
After breakfast, she follows me to my office like a shadow I didn't ask for but can't seem to shake.
I sit behind my desk and pull up security reports, the leather of my chair creaking as I settle into the familiar position.
She perches on the edge of the couch against the wall, legs crossed, that damn sweater slipping off her shoulder again to reveal a strip of creamy skin that catches the early afternoon light slanting through the windows.
I force my eyes back to the screen.
"Your encryption is outdated," she says after maybe five minutes of blessed silence.
My jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"The security protocols on your network. I can see the router blinking from here." She points to the small black box on the shelf, its green light pulsing steadily. "That model has a known vulnerability in the firmware. I could probably break through your firewall in twenty minutes."
"You couldn't."
"Want to bet?"
I look up. She's grinning at me, challenge bright in those blue eyes, and the urge to wipe that smug expression off her face wars with the urge to kiss her until she can't remember her own name.
"The security system was designed by Luca. He's the best in the business."
"I'm sure he is. But even the best miss things.
" She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on her knees, and the movement makes her sweater gape just enough to hint at the shadow of cleavage beneath.
"I'm just saying, if you want me to take a look, I could probably tighten things up.
Consider it a down payment on the intelligence I owe you. "
"You owe me more than encryption advice."
The words come out rougher than I intended, loaded with implications. Her grin fades, replaced by something more complex. Awareness mixed with heat.
"I know what I owe you." Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremble in her fingers where they grip her knees. "I made the offer. I intend to honor it."
"That's not what I meant."
She cocks a brow at me and I can already see the sass ready to flow off her tongue.
"Isn't it, Konstantin?"