Something hot and dangerous coils in my stomach. “What if they’re your men?”
“Especiallyif they’re my men.” His eyes hold mine. “You don’t let anyone touch you, Beda.”
The possessiveness in his voice confuses and terrifies me.
I tuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans, feeling the cold metal press against my spine. The leather jacket fits perfectly when I shrug it on.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I follow him out of the bedroom, down a hallway I barely remember from last night. The townhouse is bigger than I thought—multiple rooms, high ceilings, the kind of space that whispers money without shouting it.
We pass a kitchen that smells like coffee and something delicious. He grabs a breakfast sandwich half covered in parchment paper and takes a bite before handing it to me. “Eat in the car.”
Chapter 19
Maksim
Exile, my club, is silent during the day; just the hum of refrigeration, the faint echo of old bass caught in the walls, and the metallic scent of spilled vodka that never fully leaves the floorboards. A place meant for shadows and noise now feels too bright, too exposed.
My men are already here when we walk in.
Ayla moves beside me, her chin lifted, eyes taking in everything. She walks like someone waiting for the next hit. Likeme.
I shouldn’t have brought her.
I know that.
But when she said:You go, I go,something primitive in me woke up and agreed before logic had a chance to breathe.
She heads to the bar at my nod, climbs onto a stool, and settles in. She drapes her arms across the back of the bar, shoulders open, posture loose, legs spread, casual but ready, like she could spring off the stool if she needed to.
She watches the room the way I do—eyes half-lidded, unreadable, tracking exits and angles without turning her head. Absorbing everything. Every voice. Every shift in the air.
The men notice.
Their gazes drag across her like heat. And every time one of them looks too long, something cold slides down my spine.
I step into the center of the room, Vaska at my shoulder.
Business. That’s why we’re here. Not… this.
I start speaking—Russian, for her sake and mine, don’t know if I trust her completely. Plus she doesn’t need to hear any of this. Arms shipments. Money transfers. The usual shit.
But their fucking eyes never leave her.
Even as I talk, I can feel their attention snag on her—again and again, like men staring at a fire they shouldn’t get close to. One taps his cigaretteon the table. Another leans forward a little too far. The sound of a chair scraping is too sharp.
My jaw clenches.
Finally one of them—Mikhailov, jerks his chin in her direction.
“Pochemu ona zdes’?”
Why is she here?
I don’t look back at her. I don’t give them the satisfaction.
“Potomu chto ya yeyo privol.”
