Page 72 of Cruel Demands

I glance down at the sealed tab. “Am I supposed to have access to this?”

“Not ordinarily.”

“That was not the answer I wanted.”

“You asked the wrong question.”

“What is the right question?”

“Whether I trust you.”

Outside his office, phones ring. Someone laughs near the central desk. Inside, Mikhail sits perfectly still, watching me like I have walked into a room with a sleeping animal and started poking it with a stick.

I step inside and close the door halfway. Not all the way. His eyes flick toward the gap. He says nothing. I take a deep breath. “This is exactly what I asked you not to do.”

“I’m giving you work.”

“You’re giving me work above my position.”

“Yes.”

“Work that people will notice.”

“Yes.”

“Work that makes it look like I’m getting special access to you.”

His gaze drifts over my face. “You are.”

My stomach tightens. “That is not funny.”

“I’m not telling a joke.”

“No, you’re doing that thing where you say something outrageous in a calm voice and expect everyone to accept it because you’re terrifying.”

“Does it work?”

“Yes. That’s why it’s annoying.”

This time, he does smile. A real one. Small and brief and devastating. I hate that too. I put the folder on his desk. “Give this to someone else.”

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You keep finding reasons to bring me into this office.”

“Because you’re useful.”

“You have an entire staff of useful people.”

“None of them are you.” The sentence lands between us, quiet and heavy. I look at the darkened glass wall, at the people moving beyond it as shadows, and then back at him.

“I’m not interested in a relationship with you.”

For a second, he only looks at me. Then he leans back in his chair. His eyes move over my face slowly. “Being close to a politician could help you, you know.”