Heat rushed up the back of my neck so fast I was surprised steam didn’t pour out of my ears. My mouth parted, but no sound came out. Andrei’s eyebrows shot up. Viktor grinned like Christmas had come early and there were a thousand presents under the tree.
And Mikhail just watched me, calm and completely in control, the manliest version of ‘checkmate’ I’d ever seen.
I shut my mouth and strode straight past him before my face gave me away more than it already had. My boots hit the marble in quick beats that sounded far too much like retreat.
I didn’t look back.
If I did, I’d either have to murder him or kiss him.
Possibly both.
I rounded the corner heading deeper into the house, shoulders stiff, my pride barely holding itself together. I heard Viktor whisper “Holy shit” behind me and Andrei murmuring “Think she’s gonna slap him or what?” but I didn’t slow down.
I needed distance.
I needed oxygen.
I needed a few seconds without Dragunov men breathing the same damn air I was, but mostly, I just needed to pretend that Mikhail Dragunov had not just turned me into a flustered, speechless idiot with one simple sentence.
It was mortifying.
Which meant it could never, ever happen again.
(Probably.)
CHAPTER 10
Dubai, two weeks ago…
Mikhail
The moment Katerina sailed out of the room, footsteps clicking loud and fast down the hallway, a hot and unwelcome sensation rolled through my blood. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t irritation either, but the kind of heat that settles low, tightens into a knot, and refuses to be drowned out by logic.
I didn’t follow her.
God help me, Iwantedto.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I turned on my heel and went to my room, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The silence inside the large, shadowed space was oppressive. The desert wind rustled against the balcony glass, the sound too soft to cut through the image of her face. I closed my eyes and relived the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes widened, and the way pride anddesire and fury battled together until she had no choice but to run.
I paced back and forth across the room, boots whispering over the deep carpeting on the floor, with slow, controlled steps that did nothing to quiet the storm under my ribcage.
This was ridiculous.
I didn’t get flustered.
I didn’t chase.
And I sure as hell didn’t lose composure over a woman who seemed to barely tolerate me.
But Katerina Volkov was not a simple woman.
I stopped at the minibar, unscrewed the cap on a crystal vodka bottle, and poured a generous shot into a glass. I downed it without hesitation. The burn hit hard enough to make my eyes sting, not from the alcohol—no, that went down like water—but from the frustration coiling through my every muscle.
I poured another. Then another.
None of it helped.
