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A few of the women near the drinks table watch him with interest.

One of them looks at his left hand. No ring.

I notice. Then I hate that I notice.

Nikolai doesn’t seem to notice any of them. Or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care. His eyes keep moving back to Anya, checking where she is, who is near her, how close she is to the doors. He speaks to Sergei once, very quietly, and Sergei nods before stepping outside again.

For a while, I try to keep myself busy.

I help Mrs. Harrington’s staff pass out plates. I pick up two fallen party hats. I stop one child from walking directly into a tray of cupcakes. I don’t look at Nikolai more than necessary.

Kirill steps away again a few minutes later.

I notice because I am watching everyone too closely now, mostly out of guilt. He moves toward the side hallway with his phone already in his hand, speaking quietly enough that I cannot hear the words.

At first, I assume he is reporting to Nikolai.

Then he stops near the tall windows overlooking the small back courtyard.

He doesn’t just look out.

He checks the lock first, then the frame, then the gap between the curtain and the wall. After that, he turns slightly and looks toward the hallway that leads deeper into the house. His eyes move over the corners, the doors, the ceiling camera near the archway.

Like he is searching for an opening.

Or making sure there is one.

A weird feeling moves through me.

Kirill is not exactly friendly, but he has been careful with Anya since we arrived. He is also the kind of man who makes everyone else in the room look underqualified for danger. He should make me feel safer.

Instead, watching him now makes the back of my neck prickle.

Then he turns his head, and I see his profile in the light from the window. Broad shoulders, dark suit, serious face, one hand braced against the frame while he listens to whoever is on the call.

His collar is open at the throat, and he keeps touching the back of his neck like he is uncomfortable, but the room is not that warm. Not warm enough for a man built like a refrigerator to look bothered by it.

He says something in Russian, quietly.

Then he looks up.

Not at the decorations. At the ceiling.

His gaze follows the edge of the room until it stops near the corner above the bookshelf. I follow it before I can stop myself and spot the tiny black dome tucked near the molding.

CCTV.

Kirill sees it too.

His face doesn’t change, but his body does. Just slightly. He shifts his position, angling himself so he is no longer directly beneath it, then says something else into the phone.

I look away before he catches me staring.

Maybe this is normal security behavior. Maybe men like Kirill inspect windows and cameras the way other people check whether there is enough ice. After all, he’s just doing his job.

I leave him alone and go back to the party.

When I glance toward the play area again, I stop.