I turn my gaze to Mikel. “Then we make Arkady desperate enough to make a mistake.”
His expression tightens. He understands what desperation does to men like Arkady. It makes them reckless. It makes them loud and predictable.
“And Ivan?” Mikel adds carefully.
“Ivan is still a tool in Arkady’s mind,” I answer. “That keeps Arkady blind.”
Mikel nods once. He doesn’t push.
I lean back against the seat and let my head rest briefly against the leather, my hand tightening once around the edge of the armrest before I force it to loosen.
Rowan is out there, and every instinct in my body wants to burn straight through whatever stands between us. But I’ve seen what happens when men move too fast. I’ve seen what a single misplaced bullet does. And I won’t gamble her life on my anger.
Arkady believes he’s testing my power. He isn’t. He’s testing my restraint. And restraint is the only reason he’s still alive. For now.
5
ROWAN
For a few seconds, Lila doesn’t move. One hand clamps around her upper arm, her fingers pressing into the fabric like she’s bracing against something only she can feel. Her breathing comes uneven, shallow at first, then too deep, like she keeps trying to regulate it and keeps overshooting. Each attempt makes it worse, not better.
The office tilts, not dramatically, just enough that I don’t trust my balance. I reach back and lower myself into the metal chair, my fingers curling around the edge until the cold stings my skin.
Half-brother.
Disbelief hits first. Then something heavier. Not hysteria or panic. A clean, burning anger that moves straight through the shock and replaces it.
“You’re telling me,” I say, my voice low, “that the man who kidnapped me is your brother?”
Lila’s eyes don’t leave mine this time. There’s no deflection in them now. No scrambling. Just an exhausted surrender.
“He’s my half-brother,” she repeats quietly.
My lungs momentarily forget how to work. I draw in the air, but it feels like there isn’t enough of it in the room.
“You told me he was your boyfriend.”
“I know,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t argue or try to justify it, and that almost makes it worse.
The fluorescent light hums overhead, and the air feels too warm now.
“You lied to me.” It doesn’t come out accusing. It comes out stunned.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she whispers.
I don’t answer right away. I look at her, really look at her, and it feels like I’m seeing two versions of the same person layered over each other. The best friend who used to show up with coffee on my worst shifts. And the woman who handed my schedule to the man who had me dragged across a warehouse floor.
Something tightens low in my chest. Not just anger. Hurt. So deep that it makes breathing difficult.
“You start with the truth,” I tell her, and I don’t try to soften it.
Lila stares at me. Her lips part like she’s about to argue, then close again. She draws in a breath and drops her eyes to the floor as if the concrete is easier to face than I am.
“I didn’t have another way,” she whispers.
Her voice thins, but it doesn’t collapse. It’s not weakness. It’s shame. The kind that comes from admitting you chose wrong and knowing you can’t undo it. She swallows, still staring at the floor.
