Page 64 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

ALEX

Sharon's face goes pale when I present the options. She looks between Marla and me, her hands twisting together nervously. The fear is obvious despite her attempt to hide it behind a forced smile.

"I'll be your spy," Sharon says quietly.

"Absolutely not." Marla's voice cuts through the room like a blade. She stands up, her blue eyes blazing with fury. "You're not using my best friend as bait."

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. My button-down is still wrinkled from earlier, the sleeves rolled to my elbows. I watch Marla's anger build, her cheeks flushing red as she steps closer.

"You can't just manipulate people through fear," she continues, her voice rising. "Sharon works at that club because she needs the money, not because she wants to spy for the Russian mafia. You're putting her in danger."

"She's already in danger," I say calmly. "She overheard information about Arina. She came here to warn us." I pause to give her a pointed look. "She's your close friend. That makes her involved whether we want her to be or not."

"That's bullshit." Marla's hands clench into fists at her sides. Her red hair falls loose around her shoulders, still messy from bed. She starts pacing the small bedroom, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She's wearing her robe, and I can see the marks Nick and Russ left on her skin earlier. The sight stirs something possessive in my chest that I push down immediately.

"This is insane," Marla says, her voice shaking with emotion. "You can't just force people into your world because it's convenient. Sharon has a life. She has bills to pay and a job she needs. You're asking her to risk everything."

"I'm asking her to pay attention.” I attempt to reassure her. "To listen to conversations she'd overhear anyway. To report anything unusual."

I straighten from the doorframe, my patience thinning. "The alternative is she stays here, locked in the cabin with you."

Marla opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. Her breathing is heavy, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks like she wants to hit me, and part of me respects the fire in her eyes even as I recognize the futility of her anger.

Sharon clears her throat from where she's still sitting on the bed. "Marla, it's okay. I want to help."

"Sharon, no." Marla turns to her friend, desperation creeping into her voice. "You don't have to do this."

"I know." Sharon stands, smoothing down her jeans nervously. "But Alex is right. I'm already involved. And if I can help keep you safe, I want to."

The resignation in Sharon's voice tells me she understands the reality of the situation even if Marla doesn't want to accept it. Sharon is terrified. I can see it in the way her hands shake slightly and how she won't quite meet anyone's eyes directly. But she's also smart enough to recognize that cooperation is safer than resistance.

Russ appears in the doorway behind me, his blond hair still damp from the shower he took in Marla's bathroom. He assesses the tension in the room immediately.

"Sharon," he says, his voice gentler than mine. "We're not going to let anything happen to you. You'll have protection at the club. If anything feels wrong, you leave immediately and call us."

The reassurance seems to help. Sharon's shoulders relax slightly, and she nods.

Nick joins us, his dark hair pulled back and his green eyes sharp as he looks at Sharon. "Don't ask questions. Don't draw attention. Just listen and observe. If you hear anything about Arina, the warehouse attack, or anyone asking about Marla, you contact us immediately."

"Okay," Sharon says quietly.

Marla looks like she wants to argue more, but the fight has drained out of her. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, her hands covering her face. I can see the exhaustion in every line of her body.

Russ walks Sharon out to her car, speaking to her in low tones. Nick follows them, likely giving additional instructions about security protocols. I stay in the bedroom doorway, watching Marla.

When the front door closes and the sound of Sharon's car fades down the driveway, the cottage becomes unnaturally quiet. The isolation of this place hits me again. Miles from town, surrounded by dense woods, no neighbors within shouting distance. It's peaceful in a way that feels dangerous.

Marla doesn't look at me. She stands from the bed and walks past me into the main room, her movements stiff with residual anger. I follow, watching as she settles at her desk near the window. Her laptop sits open, surrounded by notebooks and scattered papers. She pulls up a document and starts typing, her fingers moving quickly across the keys.

I recognize the tactic immediately. She's pretending I don't exist. I snort and shake my head. The futile and childish response is laughable, but I don't blame her. Her world was jerked out from beneath her, and she needs some way to feel like she has some control over her life.

I move through the cottage slowly, taking in details I missed earlier when we were focused on other things. The living room is small but comfortable, with a worn couch and mismatched chairs arranged around a stone fireplace. Bookshelves line one wall, packed with novels and reference books. Framed photographs sit on the mantle, mostly landscapes and nature shots. No family photos.

The kitchen is outdated but clean, with white cabinets and laminate countertops that have seen better days. A small table sits beneath the window, just big enough for two people. I check the back door, testing the lock. It's flimsy, and could be kicked in with minimal effort.

I move to the windows, examining each one methodically. Most have simple latches that wouldn't stop a determined intruder. The glass is single-pane, easy to break. The cottage has charm, but it has almost no security. I mentally shake my head. Does she actually feel safe here?

Marla continues typing, her back rigid as she ignores my inspection. I can feel her awareness of me even though she refuses to acknowledge my presence. The tension between us hasn't dissipated; it's just shifted into something colder.