Page 29 of Prey of the Bratva

“It’s not.”

I searched his face, reading every microexpression and shift in his posture.

“Let me ask you something, Kliment. Why didn’t you let me die that night? Why did you come to save me when my death would have benefited your cause?” I moved closer, closing the distance between us. “The Chernykhs would have been devastated, and you would have gotten what you wanted without getting your hands dirty. So why did you save me?”

“You were more useful alive.”

I held his gaze, unimpressed. “That’s the answer you’re going with?”

“It’s the truth.”

“No,” I said softly. “It’s the version of the truth that makes you feel comfortable with yourself because even you know I am not supposed to be alive right now. At least not safe and soundand recovering in your goddamn safehouse like you are my savior and protector.”

Something in his posture slightly shifted, but it was enough for me to see.

“You’re deflecting my questions,” he said.

“You are ignoring mine.”

“I asked you a question first.”

“And I asked you one as well.”

Silence snapped tighter, making me feel more frustrated than usual. Our arguments had only been escalating with every passing day as if Kliment was running out of time before he was given answers. I could not blame him. If the roles were reversed, I might have done the same thing.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said.

“And you are making the mistake of thinking you are in control of this conversation.”

“I am.”

“You are not.”

His eyes darkened.

“I am the one who decides whether you walk out of here or not,” he said.

“And I’m the one who decides whether staying here benefits me,” I replied. “You are forgetting that I am choosing to stay here until I recover. I am not your prisoner or your prey.”

We stood there, inches apart, the air between us thick with something that had stopped being just tension days ago. We both could feel it even if neither of us commented on it. I had noticed his glances and the way he always asked thehousekeeper if I was eating. He must have noticed it, too, because I was doing a rather poor job at hiding it.

“You think your family would approve of what you are doing?” he asked suddenly, and I stilled.

“My family doesn’t need to approve of everything I do.”

“Especially this, since they don’t even know.”

“No.”

“You are hiding Bratva operations from them. How exactly do you think Iosif will react when he finds out?”

“I am protecting them from information they don’t need yet.”

“That’s not protection,” he said. “That’s control through personal narrative.”

That hit closer than I expected.

“Interesting,” I said slowly. “Coming from you.”