Page 68 of Sexting His Assistant

He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and goes still.

Something immediate and alert passes through him so quickly I almost miss it. His shoulders straighten. His eyes harden. The brother in him vanishes, and another man takes his place. The one I’ve seen only rarely. The one who belongs to the same shadows Luka does.

Luka sees it too. “Who?” he asks.

Misha does not answer.

He stands too fast. “I need to take this.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

Terrible lie. And unlike me, Misha is usually good at them.

He’s already moving toward the door, phone pressed to his ear before he reaches it.

“Misha,” Luka says.

Misha pauses with his hand on the doorframe.

For a second, they look at each other, and something silent passes between them. Something old and coded, familiar enough that neither needs to explain it and alarming enough that my stomach tightens.

Then Misha says, “Stay in bed.”

Luka’s mouth barely moves. “Unlikely.”

“Try,” Misha says, and leaves.

The door shuts behind him.

I stare at it. Then I look at Luka. “What was that?”

Luka reaches for the bowl of broth. “A phone call.”

I give him a flat look. “Thank you. I thought perhaps a tiny ghost had screamed from his pocket.”

He picks up the spoon with his right hand. “You asked.”

“I asked what it was about.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“No.”

That stops me.

He looks almost bored, but the tension around his eyes gives him away. He is listening. Not to me. To the house. To footsteps beyond the door. To whatever shift Misha’s sudden departure has caused in the machinery of his world.

“You know more than nothing,” I say.

“I know he didn’t want to say it in front of you.”

“That seems to be everyone’s favorite activity tonight.”

“What?”