Patient.
Infuriating.
I could fight him on this. I could dig my heels in and refuse. I could throw his card across the room and storm out.
But I'm naked.
And tired.
And his hand is still covering my mouth.
I nod.
Once.
His hand drops.
"Good girl."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He presses a kiss to my forehead. Soft. Gentle. Completely at odds with the conversation we just had. "Now get dressed."
Dmitri
The Mercedes pulls through the gates of the Baganov estate at half past one.
Yuri parks in the circular drive, but I wave him off before he can open my door. I need the walk. Need the air. Need something to clear the fog that's settled in my skull since leaving Vittoria this morning.
She took the card.
Eventually.
After arguing. After biting my hand. After glaring at me with those dark eyes that make me want to pin her down and fuck the defiance right out of her.
But she took it.
I loosen my tie as I walk toward the main entrance. The afternoon sun beats down on the manicured grounds, warming the back of my neck. Spring is finally winning its war against winter. The gardens are starting to bloom—tulips and daffodils pushing through soil that was frozen solid just weeks ago.
Movement catches my eye.
Near the rose bushes.
I stop.
A figure kneels in the dirt, hands buried in mulch. Dark skin. Lean frame. The same kid who sat zip-tied to a chair in my warehouse three weeks ago.
Drake.
He looks up as I approach. Scrambles to his feet. Wipes his palms on the knees of his jeans, leaving streaks of dirt across the denim.
"Mr. Baganov." He ducks his head. "I didn't hear you pull up."
"You were busy." I nod toward the rose bushes. "What are you doing?"
"Weeding." He gestures at the flower bed. "Mrs. Pavlov said the roses needed attention. Something about the roots getting choked out."
Mrs. Pavlov.
