“You touched everything.” I glance at her gloved hand resting on the edge of the table.
Her mouth opens, ready to argue. Then she sees the faint smirk on my face and falters. “You think this is funny?”
“No. I think it’s reckless.” I stop directly in front of her, blocking the way to the door. “And reckless gets people buried in these woods.”
She stiffens, chin lifting. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Medvedev?”
I let the silence stretch until it hums. “No. I’m warning you.”
Her lips part, a sharp intake of breath. “You don’t intimidate me.”
That’s a lie that almost makes me laugh. I step closer until her back brushes the cold concrete wall. The flashlight trembles in her grip, scattering light across my chest, the open collar of my shirt, the glint of the tattoo at my throat. I don’t try to hide it now, not like I do with everyone else—a careless decision made when I was younger. For some reason, Roxanne always seems to seek it out when she thinks I’m not watching.
“Then why,” I murmur, “are you shaking?”
“I’m not.” But the denial cracks halfway through.
I reach up and cover the flashlight with my hand, pressing it down so we’re cast in near-darkness. My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You walk into my territory, into my bunker, and tell me you’re not afraid?”
“I told you—I was curious.”
“You don’t know what kind of curiosity gets men killed.”
“I’m not a man.”
That earns her a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. You’re worse.”
Her breath catches, and I can see the pulse at her throat. She straightens as the wall bites into her back. She’s trembling, but it isn’t fear anymore. It’s something else. Something that feels a hell of a lot like heat. I breathe in her warm, spicy scent. It's familiar somehow and makes my chest tighten. For a split second, I’m somewhere else—a dark room, music low and slow, a flash of white satin beneath my hands. A body arching into mine. The memory flickers and dies, leaving nothing, but the ghost of it.
I clear my throat, forcing the past back where it belongs. “You shouldn’t test me, Roxy.”
Her eyes flash. “Then stop treating me like a criminal.”
“Maybe I don’t know yet if you are one.”
That stings her, I can tell. Her spine straightens, and her voice comes out sharp. “You think I’m stupid enough to stealfrom you? Or spy on you? I’m not one of your men, Makari. I work with spreadsheets, not guns.”
I move closer, until there’s barely an inch between us. “And yet, here you are…in my bunker… with my weapons.”
The sound of her breath hitching goes straight to my gut. I shouldn’t be reacting like this—not to defiance, not to danger—but the sight of her pressed against the wall, chin tilted in defiance, is enough to make me forget why I came down here in the first place.
“I’m beginning to think,” I say slowly, “you enjoy getting caught.”
“That’s not?—”
“Don’t lie.” My hand finds the wall beside her head, palm flat against the concrete. She flinches but doesn’t move away. “You like the thrill of it. Testing boundaries. Seeing how close you can get before someone notices.”
Her mouth curves, faintly defiant. “And what happens when someone notices?”
I shouldn’t, but I lean in until my breath brushes her ear. “That depends on who catches you.”
The shiver that runs through her is unmistakable. She turns her head slightly, eyes glinting in the dim light. “And what are you going to do, Mr. Medvedev? Fire me?”
I let out a low growl of laughter. “Firing you would be too easy.”
Her pulse jumps. “Then what?”
“Keep you close.”
