“Fine.” The word came out rougher than intended.
“You don’t look fine. You look like you want to start a war.”
I forced myself to look away from Cassandra, to focus on my friend instead of the woman who’d been fucking with my head for two weeks straight. “Rafael’s assistant. She’s a problem.”
“Cassandra Miller?” Kirill’s eyebrows rose. “What kind of problem?”
“The kind that goes through confidential files when her boss isn’t looking. The kind that has access codes she shouldn’t have and uses them when she thinks no one’s watching.” I poured another vodka, needing something to do with my hands that didn’t involve crossing the club and removing every man’s eyes from her exposed skin. “I hate her.”
Kirill had the audacity to laugh. Actually laugh, like I’d told the funniest joke he’d heard all year. Then he turned tolook at Cassandra, studying her with the analytical precision that made him one of the best intelligence officers in our organization.
When he turned back, his expression was knowing in a way that made me immediately defensive.
“You don’t hate her,” he declared with absolute certainty.
“The fuck I don’t—”
“Your face lit up like a firecracker when she walked in.” He gestured with his glass, vodka sloshing slightly. “You’ve been watching her like she’s the only person in this entire club, and not with the expression of someone conducting surveillance. That’s something else entirely.”
“That’s bullshit.” But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. Knew that Kirill had seen something I’d been refusing to acknowledge to myself.
“Is it?” He leaned back, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. “When’s the last time a woman got under your skin like this? When’s the last time you gave a shit about someone being ‘careless and exposed’ instead of just documenting it for later use?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Couldn’t remember the last time a woman had occupied this much space in my thoughts, couldn’t remember ever feeling this particular combination of frustration and fascination and something darker I refused to name.
Across the club, Cassandra laughed again at something her bartender friend said, and the sound carried over the music like a fucking beacon. I watched some asshole in an expensive suit approach her, watched her body language shift subtly—still friendly but with barriers suddenly in place.
Good. At least she had some sense of self-preservation.
The guy said something, and she smiled—polite, distant, absolutely not interested. He persisted, moving closer, and I was halfway out of my seat before I realized what I was doing.
Kirill’s hand on my arm stopped me. “Easy, brother. She’s handling it.”
He was right. Cassandra had leaned in to say something that made the guy’s expression shift from confident to embarrassed, and he retreated quickly. She turned back to the bar without a second glance, like she’d dealt with and dismissed more dangerous things than a drunk businessman with delusions of charm.
“See?” Kirill said quietly. “She doesn’t need you to protect her. So why do you want to?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Why did I care if random men approached her in a club? Why did it bother me that she was here, relaxed and laughing, when I’d spent two weeks watching her betray Rafael in carefully calculated increments?
She should have been the enemy. The problem to solve. The security risk to eliminate.
Instead, she was the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.
***
An hour later, Cassandra left the club with her bartender friend and another girl I didn’t recognize. I watched them walk out into the Chicago night, their laughter trailing behind them like smoke.
The tension in my chest loosened immediately, and I let out a breath ’I’d been holding.
“There it is,” Kirill said softly, his tone knowing and slightly amused. “Relief.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were scared she’d leave with someone else. That she’d go home with one of those men who’ve been watchingher all night. That’s why you’re relaxed now—because she left alone.”
His words hit like physical blows, each one landing with accuracy that made me want to break something. Preferably his face, but Kirill was my best friend and probably right, which made it worse.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but the words carried no conviction.
