I’m the one losing my damned mind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MIKHAIL
My eyes are burning.
I’ve been staring at the same spread of logistics manifests for four hours, and the numbers are starting to blur into a mess of black ink. A few days have passed since the sauna, and the house has felt like a pressure cooker. Irina is avoiding me, and I’m spending every waking second trying to figure out why I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked when she finally dropped that towel.
I’m a fucking finished man.
I haven't slept. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her skin. I hear her begging. It’s making me a goddamn wreck.
I lean back, rubbing the bridge of my nose, when something on the screen catches my eye. It’s a small discrepancy in the security logs for Warehouse Seven.
Seven is a mid-sized hub near the North Docks. We use it for steel and heavy machinery overflow. But according to the internal manifest, the security codes were accessed forty-eight hours ago using a legacy string—a backdoor code that Artyom and I retired three years ago. There’s no work order. No signature.
My jaw tightens. I reach for the secure line and punch in Artyom’s number.
"Mikhail," Artyom answers on the second ring. He sounds as tired as I feel.
"Warehouse Seven," I say. I don’t bother with a greeting. "The log shows an override forty-eight hours ago. A legacy code. Did you authorize a shift?"
There’s a long silence. I can hear the sound of a pen tapping against a desk. "No," Artyom says, his voice flat. "Seven is supposed to be empty until the Italian shipment hits next week. Why?"
"Because someone is moving things," I growl. I stand up, the chair screeching against the floor. "Someone who still has the old guard’s bypass codes. They’re using the North Docks, Artyom. A district we haven't touched in years."
"Boris?"
"I have no fucking clue," I mutter. I think about my father’s face, the way he’s been looking at Artyom lately—like he’s waiting for him to trip. "I’m going to check it out."
"Careful. We have that dinner with the Petrovs and Vladimir tonight. Don't be late. And don't go in there looking for a reason to kill someone."
"I'm always looking for a reason," I say and hang up.
I check my watch. We’re supposed to leave for my father’s estate in two hours. I don’t trust leaving Irina here with just a handful of guards, not when even the air in the city is starting to feel like a setup. If someone is moving behind our backs, she’s safer with me.
I head toward the bedroom. I find her standing by the bed, staring at a silk dress. She’s in a thin, pale slip that barely reaches her mid-thigh, and the sight of her bare legs makes my pulse kick.
She looks up when I walk in. Her eyes narrow as she takes in my tactical jacket and the gun holstered at my hip.
"Change," I say. My voice is rough.
She arches an eyebrow. "I spent an hour picking this out. Unless your father’s dinner party is taking place in a trench, I’m wearing the dress."
I don’t argue. I step into her space, my shadow covering her. She smells like that scent of hers that’s been driving me insane. I grab her by the waist and pull her flush against me. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin through the thin silk of her slip.
"We’re making a stop first," I say, my voice dropping. I let my thumb graze the curve of her hip, right over that silver scar. I feel her hitch, her breath hitching against my chest. "Warehouse Seven. There’s a problem with the books, and I’m closing the ledger. You’re coming with me."
"I’m not your shadow," she snaps, but she doesn't pull away.
"You are whatever I say you are,dorogaya.” I growl. I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her even closer until I can feel the damp heat between her legs pressing against my thigh. "Until I know what’s in that building, you stay where I can see you. Five minutes. Change and let’s get going."
She glares at me, her eyes flashing with that stubborn fire. She shoves my chest, but it’s weak. "You're a lunatic."
Ten minutes later, we’re in the Aston Martin. I’m weaving through traffic, my foot heavy on the gas. Irina is in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her jaw set. She’s wearing black leggings and a fitted jacket, and the way the fabric pulls over her thighs is a constant distraction.
"You're driving like someone is chasing us," she says.
