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“Wait.” Fighting back tears, I fix my gaze on him as he stops paces from the door. “I can’t make it back to my room alone,” I admit. “And you can hold your grudge if you want and insult me if that soothes whatever pride of yours you think I damaged—”
His lips spring apart, but I keep talking.
“Just know that I’m too tired to hate you. In fact, I don’t hate you. And I refuse to be your punching bag.”
He grinds his teeth, smothering whatever words are fighting to escape his throat. Or perhaps he’s chewing on them, ensuring each one is loaded with lethal, biting candor.
“You don’t hate me, huh? So then why do you flinch every fucking time I touch you? In the bath,” he adds as my eyebrows furrow. Then he puffs up confidently, ready to challenge a lie or excuse.
I recall my shock at how he maneuvered the rag, and the confession spills from me before I can censor it. “I…I didn’t expect you to be gentle.”
Faced with the truth, he deflates, frowning. I don’t know how long we stay like that, watching each other in silence.
Mischa senses someone approaching first. He’s already standing by the desk, his arms crossed, when one of his men enters the room.
“Pakhan, I…” The man trails off, spotting me.
“You can speak,” Mischa commands. “What is it?”
The man casts me another furtive glance but then sighs before clearing his throat. “You wanted to know if anyone might oppose you at the next gathering after what happened with Nikolaus?”
Mischa tilts his head at full attention. “And?”
“Your position seems solid. Nearly everyone responded to our inquiries with full support—”
“Good,” Mischa says, nodding.
“But…” The man rocks back and forth on his heels. “Gabriel Medvedev and Sergei Vasilev haven’t responded. Yet.”
“Oh?” Something icy flits across Mischa’s gaze. “Now I know why Vanya sent you in his place.”
“Pakhan—”
“Enough,” Mischa snaps. “Inquire again, and this time, you come tomedirectly with their answers. Especially Sergei’s.”
The man nods and races off.
“And you…” Mischa addresses me, his eyes downcast. He rubs his chin, thinking. “You really want to prove your worth to me?”
“And I haven’t already?”
He seems to mull it over. Then he shakes his head. Apparently, I haven’t.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“You,” he says simply. The candor in his tone makes my body deflate of anger. “I want your loyalty, Little Rose. Are you willing to stand beside me if I ask you to?”
He’s deliberately vague—not that it makes a difference. In his world, I have few options but him.
Or Sergei.
I fight to school my expression as I consider the possibility for even a second. Would I dare trust a man I don’t know? A man whose only tie to me is through a woman who I’m beginning to realize I never understood at all?
It takes me just seconds to settle on an answer.
“I don’t have a choice.”
Mischa cocks an eyebrow, but for once, I sense that he’s more intrigued than angered. “Oh, but you do, Little Rose. You know you do. But I don’t want your answer now. In fact, I don’t think I want you to say a damn thing. I want you to show me.”
