Page 183 of Sexting His Assistant

My chest tightens.

The song moves around us. Other couples turn, laugh, smile, lean close. From a distance, we must look like any two guests dancing under soft lights, but my pulse is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat.

“Misha came to me for help,” Roman says.

I stare at him.

For a second, I forget to move, and he has to guide me through the next step.

“That is a lie,” I say.

“No.”

“My brother would never go to you.”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“He’s a desperate man,” he says in the maddeningly calm voice of his.

“My brother is not desperate.”

Roman’s expression says he disagrees and is polite enough not to say it.

That scares me more than I want to admit.

“What did he ask you for?” I demand.

“I won’t tell you that here.”

“Then why come to me at all?”

“Because your life is in danger.”

The room seems to slow. For one second, all I hear is the music and the rush of blood in my ears.

“My life,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“From Luka?”

“No,” he says. “at least I don’t think so.” I don’t like his answer, as if there’s a tiny sliver of possibility, he might hurt me.

“Then from who?”

“Not here.”

I laugh once, but it comes out wrong. “That’s very convenient.”

“It’s careful.”

“Because Luka’s watching?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. That makes me colder.