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“No.”
“I see.”
He drags a thumb over my lip, no doubt smearing my lipstick. “Go wash your face.” He almost sounds angry.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like you as someone else.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I slip around him and hurry to the room.
“Mina.”
I turn in the door.
His frosted gaze is piercing. “You’d tell me if you went to Budapest for a different reason, wouldn’t you?”
The air leaves my lungs, my chest deflating. “You know why I went.” It takes great effort to keep a poker face with him. With other people, it’s second nature, but Yan can cut me open with a single look.
He studies me, missing nothing. “Just checking.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No. Go.”
Beyond grateful, I close the door on his invasive stare and take a few deep breaths. He doesn’t know. It’s only his suspicion. He can’t know.
Still, my hunger vanishes. Suddenly feeling depleted, I get rid of the disguise, clean everything, and put it back in the case. After washing my face, I go back to the lounge where a brooding Yan and Ilya sit on opposite sides of the table.
Yan pulls out the chair next to him. “Sit.”
I walk over and sit down as I’m ordered. Yan gets up and brings the pots from the stove to the table. Ignoring Ilya, he dishes up some for me before helping himself. When Yan digs into his food, Ilya grabs the serving spoon with a grunt. His gaze rests accusingly on his brother as he dumps a portion of rice and chicken on his plate.
Our meal takes place in strained silence. I’m pushing the food around on my plate, managing only a few bites.
“Not hungry?” Yan asks, glancing at my untouched food.
I shift in my seat. “No.”
Ilya huffs. “She must’ve lost her appetite when she came out of the room and saw you.”
Yan turns a steely gaze on Ilya. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
Leaning back, Ilya stretches out his legs. “You’re getting it anyway.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” Yan says through tight lips, “you’ll put a cork in it.”
“If you grow tired of his pretty face, you know where my room is,” Ilya says to me.
The crockery rattles as Yan slams a fist on the table. “I’m warning you.”
“Please, Ilya.” I lean over and touch his arm. “Cut it out.”
“You”—Yan’s tone is clipped as he glares at me—“don’t get to say anything.”
Ilya grins. “Touché.” He turns to me. “The truth is, I have a bigger dick.”
A glass of water falls over as Yan jumps to his feet.
Ilya is up, too. He rounds the table, putting himself in Yan’s way. “I took your beating because I deserved it. This time, I won’t let you win.”
“Yan! Ilya!” I push back my chair, almost stumbling in my rush to stand. “Stop it.”
Yan grabs the front of Ilya’s T-shirt in a fist. “Go for it, moron. Give it your best shot.”
Squeezing myself between the two men, I push on their chests. “Break it up. Focus. We have a fucking job to do.”
They still at that, and Yan lets Ilya go with a shove.
I’m responsible for this rift, and I feel awful, especially after what Ilya confided in me. “I’m sorry, Ilya. Really, I am.”
Even so, this fight isn’t about me. Not really. It’s about Yan’s rejection of his brother when he punished him for being nice to me, for trusting me. Ilya is just taking his frustration and the fact that Yan hurt his feelings out in the wrong way—the only way he knows, with his fists.
“Stop fucking apologizing to him,” Yan says.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ilya replies in a bitter tone. “What’s done is done.” He turns away from me, rejecting me in his own way, and walks to his room. The door slams behind him.
With shaking hands, I pick up the glass and wipe up the water with the napkins. Yan fetches paper towels from the kitchen and dries the spillage on the floor. We’re salvaging what’s left of the meal when Anton returns.
He watches us with his hands on his hips. “What happened?”
Yan only glances at the closed bedroom door.
Anton’s look is accusing as it settles on me.
“Go have a shower,” Yan tells me.
“The dishes—”
“Mina.” The way he says my name sends chills down my spine. “You’re pushing me too far.”
Dropping the dirty cutlery I was gathering, I go to the room, bristling. I’m tired of this. Who does he think he is to treat me like this?
I may be his prisoner, but I’m no one’s puppet.
I’m ready for him when he walks into the room. Eyeing me where I stand next to the bed, my arms crossed and every muscle in my body tight, he closes the door with a soft click.
My annoyance boils over. “Is this how it’s supposed to work?” Walking up to him, I poke his chest with a finger. “You order me around and tell me what to do?”
