My jaw tightened. His eyes lit up because he’d landed a hit and he knew it.
“She’s not for me,” I said.
He shrugged. “She wasn’t for me either, apparently. Didn’t stop her.”
“She’s vulnerable.”
“Not last night, she wasn’t.”
I stared him down. “I swear to God, Viktor.”
He just laughed, not fazed in the slightest, like the threat of fratricide was nothing more than breakfast conversation.
“Relax,” he said, finally standing. “I didn’t screw up the mission. I didn’t break her. She’s tougher than both of us combined. And she’s not stupid. She’s not going to fall in love with me.”
“That is not the concern.” I was really trying to stay calm.
He cocked his head. “Then what is?”
I pressed my lips together.
He waited.
“I don’t want her compromised,” I said at last. “She’s idealistic. Loyal to the wrong people for the right reasons. If she gets attached?—”
“To me?” he cut in.
“To anyone,” I corrected. “Including me. And you.”
He paused, genuinely thinking for once.
Then he shrugged again. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“No,” I said softly. “She doesn’t.”
He sobered slightly, and for a moment—just one—his expression matched mine. Concern. Calculation. A hint of protective possessiveness.
Then he ruined it.
“If you’re so interested,” he said, “stop sulking and make a move. You’re not that old, big brother.”
I stared at him.
He grinned and walked toward the door. “Anyway, I’m starving. Call me if you need me to teach you how to flirt, Mikha.”
“Get out,” I snarled.
He winked and left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The moment the door closed behind Viktor, the room felt too large and too quiet, the way hotel suites always do after someone loud exits and leaves the air unsettled.
I walked over and lowered myself into the chair by the window, elbows braced on my knees, and let the irritation smolder through my chest like a coal that refused to go cold. I told myself I was angry because he’d jeopardized a lucrative business deal. Because he’d blurred lines that should have remained absolutely clear. But the truth crawled under my skin with far more persistence than I liked; he’d touched something that had caught my interest too.
Katerina Volkov.
That girl had eyes too green for her own good, bright with ideals she hadn’t yet had beaten out of her. It was intoxicating watching someone still young enough to believe change was possible, but old enough to understand violence was the only language some regimes spoke. She carried herself like she was already halfway through a revolution, shoulders squared, spine straight, jaw set as if daring anyone to knock her off her path.
