She's wearing a clean pair of jeans that hug her ass and those long legs and a sweater, her typical apparel. I'll have to see about getting her some more fashionable clothes later.
"We need to establish some rules," I say, my voice flat. Professional. The voice I use with soldiers and rivals. "You stay where I put you. You don't leave without my permission. You speak to no one about Montana, about the cabin, about anything that happened there. Understood?"
Her chin lifts, that stubborn fire I've come to know sparking in her eyes. "And if I refuse?"
"This isn't a negotiation, Lena."
"Everything is a negotiation." She steps into the room, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up in a way that makes my mouth go dry. "You can't just lock me away and expect me to be grateful."
"I can do whatever the fuck I want." The words come out harder than I intend, but I don't soften them. Can't. "You seem to be forgetting that there's still a price on your head. That every hour you're exposed, you're in danger."
"From you."
"From everyone." I close the distance between us in three strides. She doesn't back down, doesn't flinch, just stares up at me with those dark blue eyes that see too much. "The moment word gets out that I'm alive, people are going to start asking questions. And if anyone connects you to me before I can officially call off the hit, you're dead."
33
LENA
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in the unfamiliar bed at the safe house, staring at the ceiling while my mind races in circles like a trapped animal. Every creak of the house settling makes my heart jump. Every distant sound of traffic reminds me I'm not in my safe, cozy cabin anymore.
The man I fell in love with is gone, replaced by someone who wears expensive suits and gives orders like breathing. Someone who looks at me with those gold eyes and sees property instead of a person.
I must drift off eventually because pale morning light is filtering through the curtains when voices wake me. Male voices, low and urgent, coming from downstairs.
I slip out of bed and press my ear against the door. I can't make out words, just the rumble of conversation. Aleksandr's voice, deeper and more commanding than Sasha's ever was. Danil's rougher tone responding.
Planning. They're planning something.
I dress quickly in jeans and a sweater, then venture downstairs. They're in the kitchen, both men dressed in suits that probably cost more than my truck. Coffee steams from mugs on the counter, and they're bent over what looks like a map of the city.
They look up when I enter, and I catch the tail end of their conversation.
"Good, you're up," Aleksandr says. "It's time to leave."
He quickly folds the map and heads toward the door. Danil waits for me, saying nothing. I stare at him defiantly for a couple of minutes, then with a long-suffering sigh, stomp back to the bedroom and grab my purse.
When I return to the kitchen, he hands me a thermos filled with what I assume is coffee. "Won't be much longer until we get home," he says.
"Is that supposed to make me feel comfortable?"
He shrugs his massive shoulders. "At least you won't be stuck in a car with us."
Yeah, but where would I be 'kept' once we reach our destination? I don't say my thoughts out loud and follow Danil out to the car where Aleksandr is waiting.
"The men will have questions," Danil says about fifteen minutes after we get on the road. "A month is a long time to be gone without word."
"Then we give them a story they'll believe." Aleksandr's eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, and something flickers in their gold depths. "One that explains everything."
"What story?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.
"That I was with you. A romantic getaway." His tone leaves no room for argument.
"No," I say flatly.
"It wasn't a question." He doesn't even look back at me. "When we're around my men, you act like we're together. You look at me the right way. You play the part. That's the story."
"And if I refuse?"
