Page 5 of His Contract Queen

I can almost hear the gears turning on his end—the faint recalibration as he slots the name into whatever mental map he keeps of every player in Moscow and beyond.

“I might,” he answers carefully. “Why?”

“Curiosity.” The lie slips out smoothly.

He’ll know it’s a lie. He always does. But there’s no reason for him to push, and even less reason for me to give him the truth. All four of us keep our personal lives sealed off for a reason. Intermingling gets messy fast. Attachments become weakness, and weakness becomes a blade someone else can turn against you.

Besides, there’s no reason for Sokolov to care enough to dig deeper. He has his own obsession—Alina.

Katerina Borchin means nothing to him.

Or she should be nothing.

“What interest does the Iron Pact have with Borchin?” he asks.

I sigh at him. “The Pactdoesn’t. I was hoping that you might have crossed paths with him. Professionally or otherwise.”

“I haven’t,” he says simply.

“Hmm.” I let the sound drag out, low in my throat. “Unfortunate.”

“For whom?” he asks immediately, his voice carrying the faintest hint of curiosity.

I scoff at him. “None of your business, Sokolov. Hasn’t anyone ever told you to mind your manners?”

“And yet here you are, calling me for a favor.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it, the gesture automatic. “It isn’t a favor. It’s an information exchange.”

“And what, exactly, would we be exchanging?” he counters smoothly. “You have nothing to offer me.”

“A favor,” I reply blandly.

He lets out a low laugh, genuinely amused. Bastard. “Again, you have nothing to offer me. What good would a favor do?”

This is why I can’t stand this man.

Every conversation with him feels like stepping into a ring where the rules keep changing and he’s the only one who knows them. He never gives an inch without taking three in return, and he does it all with that bored, almost polite tone that makes you want to put a fist through the wall just to hear something real.

I lean back in the chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and force my voice to stay level. “I’ll… have your back when it comes to Viktor Morozov’s daughter. Keeping her at your estate. If Malyshko brings it to the table to debate again, I’ll be on your side.”

“Malyshko’s already given me his stamp of approval.”

“What?” I snap. The word snaps out before I can catch it.

How the hell did that happen?

He sounds bored when he replies, “Yes. We had quite the dinner discussion a few weeks ago. He’s come to understand that what’s mine isn’t to be touched.”

For a long moment, I have nothing to say.

My mind is racing, turning over every possible deal that must have happened behind closed doors. Nikolai Malyshko—of all people—gave him the green light to keep a woman whom we all once judged to be a liability.

Approved of a weakness so blatantly obvious, it should have been a death sentence. The man who once executed his own father now looks the other way while Sasha keeps Viktor Morozov’s daughter in his house like she’s some kind of…pet.

How?

What possible leverage could Sokolov have used against him?