Page 96 of Marked By the Mob

Is that what Emma thinks, though? That we’re just using her? That everything between us is manipulation and strategy?

I should walk away. Should give them privacy and pretend I didn’t hear any of this. But I can’t move. Can’t stop listening for Emma’s response.

“I know what they are,” Emma says finally, her voice quiet. “But they’ve protected me. They’ve helped me investigate the mole. They gave both of us a choice when they didn’t have to.”

“Because it serves their purposes,” Krystal says. “Emma, please. I’m just trying to keep you safe. Don’t fall for them. Don’t let yourself believe this is something it’s not.”

40

EMMA

I wake to sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows and the immediate awareness that I’m alone in the massive bed. My hand slides across the cool sheets where Rurik usually sleeps, finding nothing but empty space. Eduard’s side is the same. Even Artur’s spot near the edge is vacant.

They left without waking me.

The thought shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but Krystal’s words from last night echo in my mind with uncomfortable clarity.They’re only using you. Men like that don’t fall in love. They collect assets.

I sit up slowly, my shoulder protesting the movement. The bullet graze throbs beneath the fresh bandage Eduard changed before we went to bed last night. Or before I pretended to go to bed, anyway.

I’d lain there in the darkness, listening to their breathing and feeling the warmth of their bodies on either side of me, and wondered if any of it was real. If the way Rurik looks at me means anything beyond strategic value. If Eduard’s gentletouches are genuine or just part of keeping me compliant. If Artur’s teasing and possessiveness is affection or ownership.

I know they knew I was faking sleep. The way Rurik’s breathing never quite settled into the deep rhythm of unconsciousness. How Eduard’s hand rested on my hip but didn’t pull me closer the way he usually does. The absence of Artur’s usual commentary about my stubbornness or the way I hog the blankets.

They let me pretend because they knew I needed space to think.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, testing my balance. The room spins slightly, probably from the pain medication Eduard insisted I take last night, but I push through it. I need answers, and I’m not going to get them lying in bed feeling sorry for myself.

The bathroom mirror shows exactly what I expect. Dark circles under my eyes from too little sleep. Hair falling loose from the braid I didn’t bother redoing before bed. The bandage on my shoulder visible beneath the thin tank top I slept in. I look like hell, which matches how I feel.

I shower quickly, careful to keep the bandage dry, then dress in jeans and a fitted black sweater that doesn’t press too hard against the wound. My hands shake slightly as I pull my hair back into a fresh braid, and I have to force myself to breathe slowly, evenly.

This is ridiculous. I’m an FBI agent. I’ve interrogated murderers and traffickers without breaking a sweat. I’ve gone undercover in situations that could have gotten me killed. I’ve faced down armed suspects and walked away.

But asking three Bratva bosses if they actually care about me or if I’m just a useful tool? That terrifies me more than any of it.

I find them in the smaller dining room, seated around the table with coffee and what looks like the remains of breakfast. They look up when I enter, the way their eyes track my movement across the room making my pulse quicken despite my determination to stay calm.

Rurik’s pale blue gaze is steady and assessing. Eduard’s gray eyes are warm but cautious. Artur’s dark eyes hold that familiar mix of amusement and disapproval.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Artur says, his voice carrying that teasing edge I’ve come to expect.

I don’t say anything, only nod.

Eduard stands and moves to pour me coffee, his hand brushing mine as he passes me the cup. The touch is brief but deliberate, and I feel the warmth of it spread through my chest.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks quietly.

“Fine.” I take a sip of coffee, using the moment to gather my courage. “I need to ask you something.”

Rurik sets down his cup with deliberate care. “Ask.”

The word is simple, direct, and somehow makes this harder. I force myself to meet his eyes. “Am I just a means to an end for you? All of you?”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke on. Eduard’s hand stills on the coffee pot. Artur’s crooked grin vanishes. Rurik’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his pale eyes.

“What brought this on?” Eduard asks carefully.

“Just answer the question.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Am I here because you actually want me or because I’m useful? Because I can help unite your families and give you FBI tactics and intelligence?”