Page 80 of The Beast of Moscow

“Not my shirt—not yours, either. Probably someone’s ... like the man who lives here. I already dislike him enough; he really doesn’t need a reason for me to kill him.”

All at once, the bathroom went quiet.

She didn’t even breathe.

“I will cut off,” he murmured under his breath. “If you want to go down that route.”

He swore he heard her swallow.

“You barely even kissed me. Now you’re worried about whose clothes I might be wearing?”

“Barely, Vera?”

“Well—”

“Barely?”

Because he remembered that differently.

“Fine,” she grumbled, her heels squeaking as she turned on the spot. “I’ll go change.”

“Bring back vodka from the bar in the kitchen!”

“You don’t need to drink!”

“Woman, I didn’t ask you what I goddamn well needed,” he shouted back.

Too late, though.

Vera was already gone.

He let it slide.

Mostly because he was trying to ignore the fact that his dick was hard again. Maybe he could drink that problem away.

Right, he thought. Good fucking luck.

Why did she have to be sassy?

Vaslav always liked a combative woman.

They gave the best lays.

*

By the time Vera returned to the bedroom, Vaslav had left the bathroom and found a more comfortable seat in the corner of the master bedroom. He’d hated the space the moment he walked into it—all bright white with tall, painted pillory at each four corners of the bed. Even the cushions on the bed, with the head of it facing large windows that could be opened to view the street and tower in the distance, were a crisp, fluffy white.

Pierre Aubert clearly liked the color. The entire apartment was designed with white or yellow as focus tones for the major spaces.

Vaslav would rather burn the place to the ground.

The only good thing about the room was the size, the fact it had an attached bathroom, and the heavy drapes framing each window that could block out all light once shut. But with the sky dark outside, he didn’t want the curtains closed.

What would be the point?

“Any better?” Vera asked.

Massaging his thumb firmly into his left temple, he didn’t even open his eyes to watch her enter the space. Instead, he’d listened to the soft pat-pat of her footsteps leading her across the hardwood floor to where he sat in the leather bucket chair.