Page 187 of Sexting His Assistant

“You’re protecting something.”

Her mouth closes.

I don’t like blind spots. I’ve built my life eliminating them.

I look toward the far side of the ballroom again.

Karpov is gone.

Nina’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re doing it again.”

I look back at her.

She’s standing stiffly in that black dress, hair neat, mouth tight, eyes bright with temper. The photographers are gone now, but people are still watching in the casual way society watches anything that might become a story. I’m making this worse. I know that, but the knowledge does not settle my temper.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Going cold.”

“I’m thinking.”

“No, you’re deciding who to punish.”

That’s uncomfortably accurate. I say nothing.

She shakes her head. “You know what? Fine. If you’re going to act like this, I’ll go home alone.”

“No.” It comes out too loud and several people look at us.

Nina’s face turns red. “Don’t ever raise your voice at me.”

“You’re not leaving alone.”

“I can call a cab.”

“No.”

“My own car?”

“No.”

“I can ask hotel security⁠—”

“No.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m not your prisoner.”

The sentence snaps something in me back into place.

For a moment, all I see is her in the garage, concrete dust in her hair, her hand slick with my blood, her face pale while bullets hit the car door above us. Then I see her in the elevator lobby tonight, shy in the dress, fingers cool in mine. Then I see Roman Karpov’s hand at her waist on the dance floor.

I’ve been reacting to all of it like a man protecting territory.

That’s not what she needs from me.

I force myself to breathe.

My shoulder aches. The noise in the room presses against the inside of my skull. Every man on my security detail looks questionable to me. Every guest could be watching for Roman. Every exit feels too far. I want to clear the building, put Nina in my car, lock down my own people, and start ripping apart the names one by one until somebody tells me who the fuck is responsible.