Page 27 of Prey of the Bratva

“I don’t need to be creative,” he replied evenly. “I am going to ask it simply with no other pretense because I don’t have time for your little games. I just need you to answer.”

“And I need you to accept that I won’t answer. Live with it.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “This isn’t an optional question anymore, Misha.”

There it was. His name on my tongue again. I did not know what it was about the way he said my name, tinged with his Russian accent, that made it impossible for me not to ask him to say it again. A part of me simply wanted to hear him repeat it on loop. I shook my head, willing these thoughts to go away. None of it was helping. His proximity. The way he looked in his maroon Henley, which hugged his muscular body in ways that left nothing to the imagination. And the sound of his voice. His smooth, silky voice.

Focus, Misha.

“It is for me,” I said, gulping in saliva.

“You knowingly walked into something that could have killed you,” he said. “And you still haven’t explained why.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You do when your actions start affecting my world.”

That made something in me sharpen.

“Your world?” I echoed. “You mean the part where you are lying to your brothers and rearranging your operations to hide me?”

His expression didn’t change, but something colder settled behind his eyes. I knew I had hit a nerve with my question.

“Yes,” he said. “That part.”

I pushed off the counter slowly, ignoring the faint pull in my side.

“That sounds like a you problem,” I said, feeling like a child for something so immature.

“It became my problem the moment I had to clean up your mess, even if you refuse to acknowledge it.”

“My mess?” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You mean the situation I was handling before you decided to intervene? I don’t remember asking you to walk into that warehouse, gun in your hand, and shoot everyone in sight. I don’t remember asking you to save my life. And I definitely don’t remember you telling me exactly why you were following me that day.”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I was managing just fine!” I shouted, my voice rising.

“You were seconds away from dying,” Kliment replied, no hint of anger in his voice. He was calm and composed, still measured.

“But I didn’t. Did I?” I was beginning to make no sense, and Kliment knew that. But backing down from this argument meant agreeing to tell him the truth, and I wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet. Probably not ever. I hadn’t trusted my own brothers with this, and I definitely could not trust Kliment Romanov.

“Yes, you didn’t,” he sighed. “Because I stepped in.”

There it was. I tilted my head slightly, studying him.

“And now you think that gives you the right to interrogate me?”

“It gives me the right to understand what I’ve involved myself in, Misha. It gives me the right to know the truth about this whole situation. And I have every right to ask this from you!”

“You involved yourself in this, Kliment,” I corrected. “I didn’t ask you to. So don’t hold me accountable for the questions that you suddenly need answers to.”

My retort was met with silence, sharp and tense, that weighed heavily between us. Before I could determine what was happening, he moved. His movement was neither quick nor aggressive, but he still came closer.

“You think this is separate?” he asked quietly. “That whatever you’re doing exists outside of everything else? That you are removed from this world you are born into?”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”