Page 135 of Emerald Malice

He’s wearing a pair of black shorts and matching black hand wraps as he bounces on the balls of his feet, circling the punching bag with a kind of brutal grace I’ve never seen before. When he unleashes his fists on the poor bag, threatening to rip it right off its hook, I think I’m watching poetry in motion.

Gingerly, I approach, marveling at the way his muscles ripple with every movement. He has muscles in places I didn’t even know you could have muscles.

Forget cool and calm—I’m officially hot and bothered. And who could even blame me? He’s perfection. I want to run a finger over the topography of his thighs, mapping them so future generations can know what a perfect specimen looked like.

And don’t even get me started on his?—

“Natalia?”

I freeze like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. My face is flaming, but I square my shoulders and meet his eyes. “We need to talk.”

Nice, approves my inner coach. Very stern. Very imposing.

“What’s this about?”

I should answer him, but my attention is fixed on a single drop of sweat sliding down the V-cut of his abs until it disappears below his waistband. Only when it’s gone do I blink back to his face, determined to keep things on track. “It’s about Misha.”

Andrey starts unwinding his hand wraps but his eyes stay trained on me. “Okay. What about him?”

Things have been reasonably calm between us ever since the whole suspension debacle. We haven’t slept together, but we haven’t fought, either. It’s been… nice. I don’t want to ruin a good thing, but I’m set on getting my way here. If that means another fight, then so be it.

“I want to keep him.”

So much for easing him into the idea. I’m just a big, dumb bull stomping around in Andrey’s china shop.

“You want to keep him?” The incredulity in his tone is exactly how I did not want this conversation to start.

Although, calling it a “hostage negotiation” at this stage might be more accurate.

“That came out wrong.” Taking a deep breath, I try again. “Do you know what that kid has been through?”

“Considering I put him through some of it, I have an idea.”

“He didn’t explicitly say so, but I’m pretty sure he was born into some sort of…” I lower my voice. “—human trafficking ring.”

I wait for some sort of reaction, but Andrey just keeps undoing his hand wraps, the long, sweaty loop of fabric piling up at his feet.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I press. “He mentioned his mother briefly, and I think… Andrey, I think she was sold?—”

“She was a prostitute.”

I jerk back, frowning at him. “Wait, how do you know?”

“The boy’s been in my home for months now. Did you really think I wasn’t digging into his background? Did you really think I wouldn’t want to find out everything there is to know about where he came from?”

“So… you know where his mother is?”

He shakes his head. “Dead, most likely.”

“Oh my.” My heart breaks for Misha. But then something strikes me. “Wait… does he know?”

“I’m not sure. Apparently, they were separated when he was only seven or eight.”

Seven or eight. It’s the same age I was when I lost my parents. I want to wrap Misha in a tight hug and never let him go.

“Why were they separated?”

“From what I understand, Star—we couldn’t find her birth name—was sold to the highest bidder at an auction years ago. The man who purchased her wasn’t interested in paying for her son as well.”

---