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Andrei nods in confirmation. “Travis Jacobs.”
“You broke his nose.”
“I wish I’d done more.”
There’s a bite to Andrei’s voice that makes me flinch. “I don’t see what’s?—”
“Keep looking.”
I set down the photo from the party and pick up another one. This time, it’s a side-shot of Mikhail dragging me away from my father’s grave. Someone zoomed in to take this one from a distance; Mikhail and I were completely alone when this happened. The next image in the row is of me walking down the street behind Mikhail, dirt and grass stains on my knees from the moment before. After that, I see a picture taken from behind, my hair in a messy braid, the ocean sunset in the background.
“Have you been following me?” I frown up at Andrei. He’s too busy to do it himself, so he must have paid someone. “Why would you?—”
“I wouldn’t.” He presses his lips together tightly. “I don’t need to pay anyone for that. I have these two to keep an eye on you.” He nods towards Ezra and Mikhail. “They’ll do it for free.”
“Gladly,” Mikhail immediately chimes in. “I’ll always watch over you, malyshka.”
“Then what is—” I lean further over the table to view the photographs in sequence. Andrei has organized them in what appears to be chronological order, from the moment I entered the city up until last night. The final photograph in the lineup is of Andrei and me getting into his SUV before driving home.
I pick up that final photograph, and the one beneath it falls to the floor. Andrei picks it up for me and hands it over, his face a blank mask as I turn the photo face up.
Andrei and I are centered within the frame, lips locked in one hell of a make-out. Andrei has me pinned against the SUV, one of his hands on my hips, the other gripping my throat. Whoever took this made sure to capture our lip-lock—zoomed the camera waaay the hell in, and took the photo at an angle. It’s almost like they’re looking up at us from below . . .
The flimsy film slips from my fingertips, and it floats down on top of the others like an innocent little piece of paper.
But nothing about these photographs screams innocence.
“Who took these?” I look between all three of my men. None of them look away from me, but none of them answer, either.
Annoyance ripples beneath my skin. Of all the times for them to keep quiet, they have to choose now. “I asked you a question.” I clench my fists and return each of their scowls with one of my own. “For once, you damn well better answer. Who took these photos?”
If they say my grandmother, I might scream. There’s no way in hell she would be crawling behind a bush to sneak photos of me, and I doubt she’d pay someone to do it, either. If she can show up to the estate, flanked by four armed guards, I doubt she’d resort to clandestine operations if she wanted a fucking photo.
No one else knows I’m here, except?—
“We have been looking for boyfriend,” Ezra grunts, his dark eyes turning pitch black. “Liam West.” He spits the name past his lips. “He is fond of you.”
I could have told him that. “We were dating before I came here. We broke up a month ago.” I brush a frizzed curl behind my ear. Liam was an okay boyfriend. I don’t have much to compare him to, but he did alright where it counted. “But he’s harmless. He wouldn’t come all the way here just to, I don’t know, do whatever this is.” I gesture to the stacks of photos.
“You are being hunted,” Ezra growls, his muscles tightening.
“I think stalked is the technical term.” Mikhail glares at the photos. “I’m the only one allowed to watch you, malyshka, not some suka.”
“This is ridiculous. Liam wouldn’t—he couldn’t?—”
Andrei reaches inside his desk drawer and pulls out a box. Dropping it onto his desk, he pops off the lid and chucks it to the ground. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Valentina.” He dumps the box’s contents onto his desk, covering the neat rows of photographs with dozens of new ones. These aren’t nearly as pristine as the first batch; some are curled at the edges, others faded from age and light exposure.
I bite my lip as my heart hammers in my chest. I don’t want to know what’s on these . . . but I have to know.
One by one, I start flipping the photos over. The words moya zhena are scrawled across the back of each one, and my stomach churns as I start piecing the collection together.
These pictures were taken years ago. Some of them as long as five years ago, when I first left Harlin Heights and started my new life with Grandma. A few of them are newer—I recognize the company holiday party from last year, the day I won Employee of the Month and someone insisted I pose for a photo with the commemorative plaque, the night I stayed over at Liam’s house?—
Wait.
My hand freezes over that particular image. Then, I find another one. And another. A dozen of them scattered throughout the pile, all of me in Liam’s apartment in various stages of dress.
I’m naked in one of them, with a throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I look out over the cityscape. That was New Years Eve, almost a year ago. The fireworks in the distance give it away.
