Losingher? Why the fuck would I think of it that way? She’s not mine to lose. She’s a means to an end. An insurance policy as I like to say.
Except I’d thrown myself over her without thinking and covered her body with mine. I made myself a goddamn human shield and exposed my own back to gunfire to keep her safe.
That’s not how you protect an insurance policy.
That’s how you protect someone you care about.
The realization makes me want to put my fist through a wall. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. This is why I’ve been maintaining distance, why I’ve been a dick during those dinners, and why I’ve been pushing her away.
Because if I let myself care about her—even a little—this all becomes infinitely more complicated.
And yesterday proved I’m already in too deep to pretend otherwise.
“God, I’m fucked,” I mutter to myself.
I scrub my hands over my face, exhaustion pulling at me. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and I can’t remember the last time I ate. Yesterday morning, maybe? The bullet graze on my arm throbs with every heartbeat, poorly bandaged and probably in need of proper medical attention. Dr. Petrov is going to have my head.
But I can’t rest. Not until I figure out who did this. Not until I know Vera is safe.
Vera is safe.
When did I start thinking of her safety as my primary concern?
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Roman.
All clear at the estate. Extra security in place. No suspicious activity.
I type back.
Keep everyone on high alert. Trust no one.
Even as I send it, I wonder… can I even trust Roman? He’s been with me for eight years. He’s loyal, efficient, and has never given me reason to doubt. But someone close gave up that information. Someone I would never suspect.
Trust no one.
The sun is starting to rise outside my window, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Another day. Another pile of problems to solve. Another step deeper into this mess I’ve created.
I need information. I need to figure out who knew what, who had access, who might have a motive to sabotage the peace.
And there’s only one person who can help me get intel on the Ashford side.
I pull out my phone and dial the estate.
“Mrs. Kozlov,” I say when she answers. “Tell my wife I need to see her. Have a car bring her to my office. Now.”
There’s a pause. Mrs. Kozlov is stunned by this. “Should I tell her why, Mr. Volkov?” she asks.
“No. Just tell her to come.” I hang up before she can ask more questions.
Forty minutes later, there’s a knock on my office door.
“Come in,” I bark, rubbing my eyes again. They feel like there’s sand in them. God, I’m so tired.
The door opens, and Vera enters.
She’s wearing a light cotton dress. It’s pale yellow with short sleeves and a modest neckline. It’s simple, probably something Mrs. Kozlov picked out, and it skims her frame in a way that shows she's lost weight. The color should make her look washed out, but instead it catches the morning light streaming through my window, making her skin look warmer. Softer.
Her hair is down today, falling in loose waves past her shoulders—that reddish-brown color shot through with copper and gold highlights from the sun.
