Page 94 of Cruel Demands

“No.” The answer comes too quickly.

My stomach tightens. “Then what is it?”

“Not your concern.”

I laugh once, mostly because I’m uncomfortable. “That phrase always makes things sound significantly more concerning.”

His mouth almost moves. Almost. Then it’s gone. He folds the page once and slips it inside his jacket. “It was placed in the wrong folder.”

“By who?”

“I will find out.”

Something about the way he says it makes me feel sorry for whoever did it. He looks at the clock, then at my coat hanging beside the door. “It’s late.”

“I have another twenty records.”

“They will exist tomorrow.”

“So will I.”

His gaze settles on me, and I immediately regret the phrasing. His eyes travel over my face in a way that makes the memory of his locked office door come rushing back with humiliating clarity.

“That is the intention,” he says.

Heat climbs into my cheeks. I close the spreadsheet harder than necessary. “Fine.”

I gather my things. As I pull on my coat, I look back at him. “Are you going to tell me anything?”

“No.”

“Very reassuring.”

“You are safe.”

I pause. Something about the words bothers me more than if he had said nothing. “I didn’t ask if I was safe.”

“I know.”

I stare at him. He opens his office door for me. “Go home, Taylor.”

The cold hits hard enough to clear my head when I step outside. For half a block, I consider going back. Not because I want to see the page again. Because leaving feels like admitting there was something on it worth being afraid of. I keep walking.

By the time I reach the apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself it was nothing. A misplaced logistics page. A transport company. A district name. Six something. Mikhail being secretive is hardly new.

This explanation survives until I open the front door and hear Petyr laughing in my kitchen.

I stop with one boot still on the hallway mat. Anya appears around the corner holding a bottle of vodka and wearing the guilty expression of someone caught feeding a stray animal after being specifically told not to. “You’re home,” she says brightly.

“I live here.”

“He was already with me when I came back,” she says quickly.

Petyr leans back in one of our kitchen chairs so I can see him through the doorway. He has made himself comfortable, his coat hanging from the back of the chair and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. “I brought food,” he says.

I look at the containers scattered across the table. Food is the one thing that might warm my cold heart right now. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I saw it. I hang my coat and walk into the kitchen. There’s nowhere to sit without joining them, so I pick up a container and eat from it while leaning my hip against the counter. Petyr smiles faintly, as if this proves something. I pour myself a shot of vodka. Anya raises an eyebrow.

“Do not.”