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“Be careful what you say to me,” I warn.
“Orwhat?”
We’re so close I can feel her words ghost across my lips. This is dangerous. I’m not used to feeling so out of sorts. I need to put distance between us, can’t let her get under my skin. There’s no doubt in my mind Alina’s doing this on purpose. She wants to see me riled up, but I’m not going to give in that easily.
“I’m a reasonable man,” I go on. “But even reasonable men have their limits.”
“Tell me,husband,” she bites out the word like a curse, “tell me what happens when you cross that line?”
“You really want to know?”
I lean in as close as I dare, my hands braced on either side of the door frame. I’m so close my mouth brushes against her earlobe, her warm breath stuttering across my cheek and down my neck.
“You’re right, I’m not your husband. Not really. Because if I was, I’d keep you in my bed where I’d fuck you day in and day out like all good husbands should.”
Alina’s breath hitches. It’s an intoxicating sound. “Why are you telling me this?” she rasps. I adore the way goosebumps break out down the back of her neck and along her slim shoulders.
“I’m telling you this because getting along with me comes with perks. I don’tneeda wife, Alina—”
Her eyes flick over to me, entranced by the sound of her name ripping from my lungs. I don’t think I’ve ever called her by her name before, but now that I have, it feels like magic on my tongue.
“I don’t want a wife,” I repeat, “but I can treat you like one in all the ways that matter. Your life could be easy with me. Even pleasurable. Wouldn’t that be so much nicer than fighting me all the time?”
“Is your ego really so big?” she scoffs.
I pause. I don’t know what’s come over me. How the fuck did we get here? Wasn’t I just irritated with her? When did things take such a heated turn?
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Right. Richard Eaton Jones—the rat bastard. I’ve got to deal with him sooner rather than later. I’m not pleased with the fact that he’s allowed himself into my office. He won’t find anything of use because I keep all my important documents under lock and key, but still. If he thinks he can walk into my office like he owns the damn place, he’s got another thing coming.
I’m going to have to put this strange head-to-head with Alina aside for now. I have more important matters to take care of.
When I step back, Alina is a sight to behold. She doesn’t look offended or startled. If anything, she looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle. Her whole face is red, her breathing ragged, her pupils wide. I didn’t mean to tease her. Or maybe I did, I really don’t know. I was so concerned about her getting under my skin that I subconsciously felt the need to get under hers first.
I took things too far. Those words should never have come out of my mouth. I don’t know what it is about Alina that makes me so desperately out of control.
I turn without another word, leaving her standing there alone.
This woman can’t get the better of me.
Chapter 7
Pyotr
Richard Eaton Jones is the scummiest man you will ever have the misfortune of meeting.
He calls himself a tech entrepreneur, rivaling innovators like Gates, Jobs, Zuckerberg, or my brothers and me when we all worked for CyberFort. In actuality, he’s nothing more than a rat.
Nobody has any proof, but I have it on good authority he’s stolen a patent or three, added a little sprinkle of showmanship, and sold his “inventions” at exorbitant prices. Now all he does is swoop in with his millions, buying out little tech startups here and there and selling them when he feels they’re no longer profitable. He’s the corporate world’s version of a house flipper.
I have zero respect for what he does. The man is without a sliver of intellect. The lights may be on, but no one’s home. He thinks if he can flash his cash, show up at exclusive press events, and be the loudest man in the room, that somehow means he’s the most important.
He couldn’t be more wrong. It’s as the old saying goes, confidence is quiet.
I find Richard in my office, leaning back leisurely in my executive chair with his feet up on my desk. He’s a greasy fellow, and I don’t mean that in a slimeball kind of way—though heisa slimeball. He’s literally greasy. His thinning black hair is coated in disgusting globs of gel. His combover is fooling no one, and his goatee is clearly dyed. He’s dressed in an Armani suit coupled with the fat gold chain around his neck. He looks like he belongs in a seventies gangster movie smoking a cigar.
“Get out,” I snap.
