Page 136 of Sexting His Assistant

“Yours.”

Misha steps closer, but not enough to crowd me. His voice lowers.

“Dangerous people are after him. What happened in the garage was proof enough.”

“Those men weren’t shooting at me,” I say.

“No. But you were there.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is if the bullet doesn’t care.”

The room goes silent.

Misha’s face softens a little, but the fear stays in his eyes.

“I don’t want you caught in the middle of his life,” he says. “I don’t want to get a call because someone wanted to hurt him and found you instead. I don’t want you standing beside him when the next man decides a garage, a car, an office, a street is a good place to send a message.”

Next man.

The words catch.

“Next man?” I ask.

His expression closes. He knows way more than he’s telling me.

Maybe about the attack. Maybe about Luka. Maybe about the car that dropped him outside. Maybe about why he wants to sleep on my couch when his apartment has mood lighting and probably a towel warmer.

“Misha,” I say quietly. “What is going on?”

“Nothing you need to carry.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“No,” I say. “It’s the only one you’re giving me.”

His eyes flick toward the door.

Then the window.

Then back to me.

Jumpy. Still jumpy.

My throat tightens. “Are you in trouble?”

He gives a short laugh, but it has no humor in it. “I’ve been in trouble since before you learned multiplication.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Misha.”

He looks at me then, and for a second, he doesn’t look like my big brother who bullies me about scarves and job applications. He looks like a man standing in front of a door he cannot close fast enough.