Page 44 of Emerald Malice

“Who said you could go in there?!” I rush into the bedroom with every intention of kicking his ass straight out of it.

He’s standing in the corner of the room, squinting up at a patch of ceiling that’s covered in a rather artistic constellation of black and green spots.

“Uh… my landlord said he’d take care of that.”

He made said claim six months ago when I complained about it, but so far, nothing has actually been done. Not that Andrey needs to know that.

“Do I need to speak to your landlord?”

“No!” I cry quickly. “I’ll do it.”

He casts one last dark look at my twin bed before he goes back to the living room.

Shura has drained his glass of water and is now hovering awkwardly between the kitchen and the living room. “Everything okay, ‘Drey?”

The nickname makes me smile. Andrey is so not a “’Drey.” Especially now, with that calculating scowl on his face. If I were less tired, I’d be more concerned about what he’s planning.

Andrey barely glances at either one of us as he makes for the door. “No. But it will be.”

He disappears without so much as a parting goodbye.

“Is he always so ominous or am I just special?” I ask. Shura’s gaunt face cracks into a small, tempered smile. I’m so surprised I applaud. “Wow! You can smile.”

He ignores that and leans against the counter. “You were right: there’s not enough room in here to swing a cat.”

“Thankfully, I don’t have a cat.”

He eyes the pile of books by the couch. “Surprising.”

Scowling, I walk over to my lumpy orange couch and fall into it with a grateful exhale. “Tell me: do all Andrey’s employees have to pass some sort of Broody, Sarcastic Asshole Test to be hired?”

“Wouldn’t know.” Shura meanders around the sofa. “I’m not an employee.”

“What are you then?”

“His right hand vor. And his friend,” he tacks on at the end.

“What’s a vor?”

“Like a lieutenant. Sort of.”

“Ah.” I throw him a sloppy salute. “Aye-aye to that. And he’s assigned you to me, no less. I must be important then, huh?”

I’m only joking—probably because I might just burst into tears if I don’t laugh—but Shura’s face is serious. “You’re carrying the heir of the Kuznetsov Bratva. Of course you’re important.”

My heart does this weird little jump. “Okay, next vocabulary question: did you just say ‘heir’?”

He just nods.

I shove myself upright. “Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not carrying an heir.” I can barely say the word without cringing. “I’m carrying a baby. A baby who's gonna have a normal childhood and a normal life. Free of expectations and pressures and weird Russian titles from the guys who will not be following him around everywhere.”

Shura crosses his arms. “It’s a beautiful idea?—”

“It’s not an idea; it’s what’s gonna happen,” I insist. “’Drey might be used to throwing his weight around and getting his way with you guys. But that’s not gonna happen with me. I’m done being a pushover.” I stab my chest with my index finger. “This former pushover will now push back!”

His skepticism disappears behind a careful smile. “If you say so.”

I can’t tell if he’s impressed or laughing at me. But I’m done parsing these stone-faced assholes for some semblance of human emotions. Sighing, I abandon my metaphorical soap box for my hosting cap. “You can sit down, you know.”

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