Page 34 of Preferential Treatment

She went into her bedroom and dumped all the bags on the bed. Pulling out her phone, she sent a quick message to her mom: Tell Angel she doesn’t owe me anything.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

His fixation on Kate Pasternak was becoming a problem.

The sight of her crying had been burned into his brain, and it kept cropping up at inopportune moments. Every time, he was overcome with the urge to call her, to see her, just to make sure she wasn’t crying.

And if she was… then what? Panic again? Buy her more ice cream? He wasn’t emotionally equipped to comfort another person, but Kate’s tears had gotten under his skin like acid and now he couldn’t stop wondering why she’d been crying. Maybe it had been hormones, like she claimed, but still, something had to have been the catalyst. Was it something he’d done?

“—sent him the numbers, and he agreed with Roberts. It’s not worth the risk. So, obviously, the decision is yours, but the reports are all pretty conclusive.”

Mikhail pulled his phone away from his ear for a second, suddenly aware that he’d sat through an entire conversation without absorbing a single word, distracted by thoughts of the sorceress he’d mistakenly sold his soul to. He suppressed a growl of frustration and brought the phone back to his ear.

“We’ll discuss it more when I get back from Shanghai. I have to let you go, we’re about to land.”

They were about to do no such thing. His jet was still somewhere over Siberia. The far eastern reaches of his fatherland. His hand went to his throat, loosening his tie so that he could reach into his collar and pull out the silver chain he always wore. He gripped the Marian medallion, stroking his thumb pensively over the engraved surface. The warmth of the metal, the familiar feel, soothed his agitated mind. He stared out the window, seeing nothing but cloud cover below, and night sky above.

His phone buzzed and he reached for it, dropping the medal as soon as he recognized the name on the screen—??????. Knyazhna.

Have you been good today?

Mikhail glanced at his watch, still set to Chicago time. It was seven in the morning there. The corner of his lip crooked up into an unintentional smile. Was this the equivalent of a “good morning” text?

Of course I have. I’m always good.

Her reply was immediate: I think you know that I need proof.

Suppressing a smile, he got up and went to the lavatory at the back of the jet. Inside, he flipped his tie over his shoulder and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it open and tugged up his undershirt, revealing the smudged message written across his abdomen in permanent marker: Property of Kate. She’d written it on him after more than an hour of increasingly torturous edging in which she’d sat primly in his office chair while he knelt before her, and commanded him to stroke himself—stopping him every time he got close to coming. When she’d finally let him come, the shattering pleasure had nearly killed him. He’d been slumped against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe while Kate uncapped a marker and labeled him as hers.

“Don’t wash this off,” she’d commanded silkily. “Or there’ll be consequences.”

And then, like two civilized human beings who hadn’t just made each other sweaty and sticky, they’d sat down for a few rounds of chess. Mikhail had won all three. The exact traits that made Kate so natural at taking control were her fatal flaws when it came to chess. Too aggressive, too impatient, too bold.

She was perfect.

The sight of her mark on his skin, the reminder of her ownership, sent a hot bolt of arousal straight to his groin. At the same time, something softer, heavier, thicker, pushed against the inside of his sternum. He pressed a hand there, frowning. He had perfect blood pressure and good cholesterol levels. And besides, heart attacks were supposed to hurt.

His phone screen lit up with another message from Kate. If I don’t see proof in the next five minutes, I’ll have no choice but to punish you.

That heavy feeling lingered in his chest, but he ignored it, opening the camera on his phone to send Kate a picture of her handiwork.

Good boy, she replied. He could hear the smirk in her voice, even in text.

Three days in Shanghai, then two in Tokyo, then back to Chicago. Just five. Five days until he could see her again. It was too long. Could he convince her to quit her job and take a full-time salary to travel with him? He’d have to give her some kind of job title that she could use on a resume. Their arrangement would eventually end, as all things did, and she’d need to find other work. Something related to her field.

He already had a personal assistant, who also had her own assistant. His homes were overseen by a household manager who supervised the personal chef, groundskeepers, and housekeeping staff. On the business side of things, he had two executive assistants who were supported by their own army of staff as well. What position could he possibly invent that wasn’t already covered by all those roles?

“Sarah?” Mikhail said as he returned to his seat.

His personal assistant, Sarah Engels, was seated on the other side of the aisle, with her laptop open on the lacquered table in front of her. She was only in her late twenties, but she was brutally efficient, entirely unsentimental, and could be trusted to help cover up mass murder—not that he’d put the last one to the test.

She looked up at the sound of her name. “Yes?”

“What kind of support staff could be added to my current team?”

She frowned. “Are you unhappy with somebody’s performance?”

“No. I want to add a role. In addition to what I already have.”

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