Page 128 of Cruel Demands

“Arkady is coming. Pack your bags. One bag. Pack one bag. I will be there shortly.”

A hard knock lands against the front door before he even finishes speaking. Anya jumps. “Who is that?” she shrieks, her blue eyes wide. She grabs me.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, and when she unlocks the door, Arkady enters with a gun already drawn. She screams, but I shake my head at her. She relaxes visibly as he moves through the apartment, checking around corners and clearing each room.

“Arkady’s here. But Mikhail, Anya still lives here, she could be fucking killed, I can’t just leave her here!” I’m fully screaming, tears running down my neck. Anya reaches to hug me, but I push her back, like turning down the radio to look at the road. I need to focus.

“He does not want her, Taylor,” he says to soothe me. And it’s sick that him promising someone wants to kill me, not my roommate, soothes me, but it does.

Mikhail arrives eleven minutes later with two other men I do not recognize. Arkady meets him at the door, says something quietly, then gives a short nod toward the hallway. The men move through the apartment again before one of them returns and confirms that no one else is inside.

Mikhail’s gaze moves over me, then Anya. His hand closes briefly around the back of my neck. The touch is not gentle enough to be comfort and not controlling enough to be restraint. It is only proof to himself that I am here.

“Are either of you hurt?” he asks. I shake my head, but I am hurt. My pride is hurt, and I’m terrified, and I feel guilty I put my friend in this position. Mikhail turns back to me. “You are coming with me.”

I look around the ruined apartment. This morning, I refused because I believed his fear was another method of control. Now someone working for Orlov has held my mother’s photograph in his hands. “Only temporarily,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And I’m keeping my job.”

“We will discuss that.”

“No. We won’t.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I need the money.”

“You do not. And you cannot. He knows where you work.”

“Yes. With you. You can keep me safe.”

“You know that I cannot take you home with me from work. If you work for me, we cannot be seen in a relationship.”

“I need the money.”

“Stop saying that.”

“But I do. I send it home.”

“I know.”

“Oh, right. I forgot investigation is apparently your love language.”

His gaze sharpens at the word. I regret it immediately and continue steamrolling him, hoping my chatter will make him forget my use of it. “Then you know that my parents are behind on the restaurant. My dad keeps covering payroll with credit cards, and every month I send home whatever I can because they’re trying not to lose it.”

“I will buy the restaurant.”

For several seconds, I cannot speak. “What?”

“I will purchase it. Problem solved.”

“You cannot buy a restaurant just because I need to⁠—”

“Yes, I can.”

“Well. But. You shouldn’t.”

“It solves the problem.”

“It makes other worse problems.”