“You don’t get to throw yourself into danger on an empty stomach.”
“I’m not throwing myself anywhere,” I mutter.
“You’re going to a place full of men who would slit your throat if they figured out what you really are.” His voice stays low, calm. “That counts as danger.”
A tense beat passes between us.
This is our rhythm now. Me pushing, him absorbing, both of us circling something neither of us names.
Finally he sighs and reaches for the apple again.
“Fine. At least take this.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s not optional.”
I take it, because fighting him over an apple is ridiculous. The second I do, his shoulders loosen.
Damn him for being right.
Infiltrating the underworld isn’t as glamorous as you would think it is. It’s smoke-filled rooms and men who laugh too loudly, back rooms where money exchanges hands,coded phrases slip between drinks, pretending to be someone unimportant until they forget you’re listening.
Tonight my job is simple: sit at the bar of the club we’ve been frequenting, listen for the right names, pass the information to Damian when I get out.
I’m too far in this shit to know that nothing is ever that simple in the underworld.
Moscow feels colder after midnight, as if the darkness pulls the temperature down with it. I’m halfway down the block when I sense someone following.
It’s not the footsteps that give it away, but my instincts.
I pivot to see Damian standing at the base of the stairwell, hands in his pockets, expression flat.
“You’re following me,” I say.
“No.”
He walks past me, down the sidewalk. “I happen to be going in a similar direction.”
“Coincidence,” I utter sardonically.
He has the gall to look at me, straight-faced. “Exactly.”
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
“You’re terrible at walking alone in the dark in a city full of people who want to kill you.”
“And you’re supposed to be staying off the radar.”
His expression is flat. “I am off the radar.”
“You’re six foot three. You have cheekbones that could start a dictatorship. You are not off anything.”
His mouth twitches. “Did you just compliment my cheekbones?”
Great fucking going, Harper.
I ignore him and walk faster. He stays a few paces behind—close enough to intervene, far enough not to compromise my cover.
