Page 99 of Cruel Demands

“And his nephew?” I ask, pacing.

“Let the police take him,” Arkady says simply.

“He may talk,” I point out.

“He will not live long enough. You know that.”

“Sorry,” Taylor squeaks.

Arkady and I turn to see her standing in the doorway of my office, the color drained from her face and a folder against her chest. I don’t know how long she has been standing there, and I don’t know when Taylor Hayes has become a blind spot for me.

Her gaze moves from me to Arkady, then to the photographs spread across my desk. She stops. After last night, she knows enough to understand immediately that she has walked into something she should not have.

“The revised benefit vendor summary needs your approval before noon.”

I know what she sees. The rage I have not yet forced from my face. I cannot force it from my voice either. It comes out like broken glass. “Leave it,” I tell her, and she flinches, looking down at the floor. “Get out. Close the door behind you. And knock next time.”

“Yes, Governor,” she murmurs. “I wasn’t being nosy.”

“You are always being nosy,” I say, almost calm again, her youthful innocence refreshing against a morning of dirt and corruption.

Taylor crosses the room cautiously and places the folder on the edge of my desk. Her eyes flick toward the photographs again, and I see the exact moment she recognizes my mother from the photographs in my home. Her expression changes. “That’s your⁠—”

“Yes.”

She looks at Arkady, then at me, then back at the photographs, connecting them. “Is this about Orlov?”

The room goes silent. Arkady looks at me, and my attention settles entirely on Taylor. She seems to realize a fraction too late that she has just stepped across a line. Of course she knows Orlov’s name. I watched her read it last night.

“What did you say?”

Her fingers tighten against the edge of the desk. “I said⁠—”

“I heard you,” I cut her off. Her mouth closes. “I was giving you a chance to take it back.”

I walk around the desk. Taylor stays where she is until I’m close enough that instinct finally wins and she takes a step backward. The office door is still partly open behind her. I reach past her and push it closed, and she takes another step with it until her shoulders meet the wood. Three days ago, she stood against this same door and looked at me with heat in her eyes. Now there is fear there. I brace my palm against the door beside her head. Not on her. Never on her. But the effect is immediate. Her green eyes widen.

“Whatever conclusions you are drawing from what you saw last night and what you heard this morning, stop. And you will not discuss Orlov with anyone. Not Viktoriya. Not Dima. Not your roommate. Not your friends. No one.”

“Mikhail—”

“Governor Korolev.”

Her lips part. I hear Arkady shift behind me.

“Say you understand.”

Taylor’s breath catches. Her pulse beats rapidly beneath the skin of her throat, and for one ugly second the part of me accustomed to fear recognizes it as compliance. I hate seeing it on her. “I understand, Governor Korolev.”

Arkady’s voice comes from behind me. “You are scaring her.”

“I can speak for myself,” Taylor says immediately. Her voice trembles only slightly. I look down at her, and she looks directly back. “Are you threatening me?”

The correct answer is no. The political answer is reassurance. I should step away, apologize for my temper, explain that a private family security matter has made me impatient, and send her back to her desk believing she misunderstood everything. Instead, the photographs of my mother are still visible over Taylor’s shoulder, and my restraint has been exhausted. “If I were threatening you,” I say, “you would not need to ask.”

The fear in her face deepens. I hate myself for causing it approximately one second after deciding I do not care. I step back. Taylor remains against the door for a moment. She stares at me, breathing hard, and then anger begins replacing fear. Good. I prefer her angry. Her gaze moves past me toward the photographs on my desk and narrows. “Your mother should change her routine.”

I stare at her. Taylor nods toward the photographs. “Whoever took those knew exactly where she would be.”