“Spasibo,” he’d said, voice steady. “You did what I couldn’t.”
He never held it against me. Never once used it as leverage, never turned on me. Not when Nikolai pushed. Not when others thought I couldn’t lead.
Loyal to the bone.
Loyal tome.
My jaw flexes. I shove my hands into my pockets before I decide to break them on a wall.
Vaska wouldn’t hurt what’s mine.
He wouldn’t put a blade to her just to see how she bleeds. He wouldn’t put his hands on her throat and call it fun.
He wouldn’t touch her.
He wouldn’t—
My feet are already on his porch.
There’s a light on inside, strip of it glowing at the base of the door. Curtains drawn. The cameras above the eaves follow me as I climb the steps.
I don’t knock.
My hand closes around the handle, and I crank it hard. The lock gives with a sharp, satisfying protest as I shoulder through the door.
The house smells like oil, leather, and steel. I step into the living room, every nerve wired for blood.
He’s there.
Waiting.
Vaska’s sprawled in a chair like he has all the time in the world, one ankle resting on his knee, elbow hooked over the back. There’s that damn knife in his hand, lazy between his fingers, spinning slow.
He smiles when he sees me. A sharp, knowing curl of his mouth.
“Took you long enough,” he drawls.
My gaze cuts to the knife, then back to his face. He’s not surprised. Not even close.
Fucking Katya.
Of course she warned him.
“Ask what you want.”
I don’t answer right away. I study him.
“What happened?” I demand.
Vaska leans back, studying me with that analytical stare that makes most men confess before he even asks a question.
“We sparred,” he says simply. “She’s quick. Smart. Has good instincts.” He pauses, twirling the blade once more. “She drew blood.”
My chest tightens with something like pride. “She what?”
“Not much.” He shows me his forearm where a thin red line is still visible—shallow, healing. “Just enough to make a point.”
“And then?”
