Page 82 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

That stops her. She expected me to dress it up as security, proximity, guard discipline, or any of the words men use when they want control to sound useful. I give her none of them.

Behind her, the tray waits on the counter. Buns split open. Mustard cooling beside onions. Pickles arranged with criminal optimism. A small, ridiculous rebellion, abandoned between two people who don’t know how to stand near each other without turning the whole room dangerous.

“Kirill is still walking because I moved him instead of breaking his jaw,” I say.

Her hands curl into fists. “That’s not romantic.”

“No.” I move one step closer and keep my hands at my sides. “Romance isn’t what I was built for.”

Cara’s throat works once. “Then what were you built for?”

I look at her, at the anger in her face and the hurt she refuses to give a name.

“Protecting the people who matter.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. I stop before I touch her.

“I won’t lie to you about jealousy,” I say. “Don’t ask me to be civilized about fear.”

For once, Cara has no clean answer.

18

CARA

Dmitri’s truth follows me from the kitchenette. He said jealousy, then fear, and he didn’t bury either one under guards and protocol. He didn’t blame Sergei, Yuri, Kirill, or the hot dogs.

He looked at me across mustard, onions, and ruined buns, and admitted the part most men would hide. I should treat that like another trap, but my body isn’t cooperating.

When I reach my rooms, my hands are shaking. My mouth remembers how close he came to touching me, and my brain keeps replaying his voice. After ten minutes, the room starts getting on my nerves. The lamps are bright, the curtains look heavy, and every polished surface shows me a face I don’t want to study.

I step into the corridor. No one stops me. From the doorway, I can see light coming from Dmitri’s temporary office.

I need work. Work makes sense. Fields, times, routes, and names stay where I put them. Files don’t stare at me, and spreadsheets don’t stand in doorways admitting jealousy with that face.

I cross to his office.

Sergei stands outside the open door. Inside, Yuri is bent over the monitor, pointing at something on the screen while Dmitri stands beside the table.

“The hot dog incident has been logged, patched, and emotionally unresolved,” I say from the doorway. “I’d like to return to finding the men ruining my life.”

Yuri looks from me to Dmitri and says nothing.

Dmitri lifts his chin toward the chair. “Sit.”

I walk in and take the chair near the terminal.

Dmitri takes the seat near the worktable. He doesn’t come close, and I know he’s doing it because of what happened in the kitchenette. It doesn’t make this easier, so I pretend not to notice.

Yuri checks the monitor, then nods. “You can work.”

“Evan Mercer files,” I say.

Yuri pulls up the packet. “Halden Rowe Compliance Services. Finance operations, mid-level access, vendor review windows, payment holds, and beneficiary confirmations.”

“Boring,” I say.

“Mostly.”