And then the smell hits me. It's an acrid mixture of cigar smoke and sweat, but there are light floral hints too, like a woman's perfume.
My stomach drops and a hot rush of jealousy floods through me so fast it makes my head spin. I shouldn't care—I have no right to care. He's not mine and I'm not his and whatever happened this morning in the bathroom was a moment of weakness that didn't mean anything.
But jealousy doesn't listen to logic. It burns through my chest and settles in my throat, sharp as bile, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from saying something as he passes the bed on his way to the bathroom. I can smell the alcohol on him now too,vodka or whiskey or whatever he's been drowning himself in for the past six hours.
He pauses for a second, looking down at me, and I keep my breathing slow and even like I'm still asleep. The bathroom door clicks shut and a moment later I hear the shower turn on.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark and try to make sense of what I'm feeling, but nothing makes sense anymore. I'm livid. Not just angry, enraged.
He went out tonight and got drunk and came back smelling like another woman. Maybe he slept with her. Maybe he just sat too close to her at a bar somewhere. Maybe it means nothing at all and I'm making something out of nothing because I'm tired and confused and my emotions are all over the place.
But the jealousy won't go away. It sits in my gut like a boulder, and I hate it, hate myself for feeling it, hate him for making me feel it.
One minute I can't stand him. He's loud and demanding and bossy, and he thinks he can order everyone around and get what he wants. It's arrogant and abusive and he acts like an entitled child.
And the next minute I want him so badly I can barely breathe. I think about his hands on my hips in the bathroom, his mouth on my neck, the way he said my name like it meant something to him. Then I think about the softness in his voice when he talks to Sasha, the way he's trying so hard to be better even when he keeps getting it wrong.
How did I let this happen? How did I let this man get under my skin so deeply that the thought of him touching someone else makes me want to scream? My eyes burn with tears and myentire body shakes with the rage I can't let out right now. It's like he has no consideration for anyone other than himself, and I'm left to deal with the emotional toll on my own.
The shower shuts off and I hear him moving around in the bathroom, and I make a decision before I can talk myself out of it.
I'm going to sit here and wait for him to walk out of that room and if he's been with another woman I'm going to slap him silly and teach him what a real man would do.
17
FYODOR
The hot water pounds my shoulders and runs down my back, steam rising up around me until I can barely see the tile walls. I stand there with my hands braced against the wall and let the heat work into my muscles while I think about the strip club and everything Rurik told me tonight. The vodka is still buzzing through my blood, blurring the edges of my thoughts, but the information is clear enough.
I have what I need now, and I'm ready to make a move to end this thing that's been hanging over my head for weeks. I just have to make sure Sasha and Noemi are safely tucked away somewhere before I do it. Somewhere Koslov's men can't find them, so they'll be protected if things go sideways.
Rurik says they're just a few weeks from being able to finalize the case and arrest Inessa. Which means just a few weeks left until my time is up and I'm labeled a failure. And I won't let that happen.
I shut off the water and stand there dripping for a minute, watching the steam swirl and fade in the cooling air. I'm bonetired in a way that sleep hasn't been able to fix for days. The vodka from earlier is still buzzing in my blood, making everything feel slightly off-kilter, and all I want to do is crawl into bed and pass out for a few hours before I have to think about any of this again.
I dry off and wrap a towel around my waist, running my fingers through my wet hair to push it back from my face. My reflection in the mirror looks like hell, dark circles under my eyes, stubble shadowing my jaw. I need rest and I need to stop thinking.
I open the bathroom door and steam spills out into the bedroom, and I stop dead when I see Noemi sitting up in bed watching me. Her hair is messy from sleep, but her eyes are sharp. She's wide awake like she's been waiting for me to come out. I didn't mean to wake her. The hotel security guard I paid off to keep an eye on them said the room went silent hours ago. When I covered her up only moments ago she seemed out cold.
"You're awake," I say.
"I've been awake since you stumbled in smelling like a bar and someone else's perfume."
The words sound accusatory, and I feel my jaw tighten. I'm too tired for this, too drunk and worn down to have whatever fight she's trying to start right now.
"Noemi—"
"Where were you tonight, Fyodor? And don't tell me it's none of my business."
"Working."
"Working," she repeats, letting the word hang there between us, dripping with disbelief. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"It's none of your business what I do or where I go." I run a hand through my dripping hair and move toward the dresser to find a pair of boxers.
"Did you—?" Her voice cracks and she covers it with anger. "Did you fuck someone else and then come back here to get in this bed with me?"
Her question enrages me but I control my tone as I turn my back on her to avoid shouting. Sasha is sleeping. I don't want to wake him up over something this petty.
