Page 4 of For a Price

We ride it all the way to the floor Roman Volkova works on—the thirteenth.

The doors slide open to reveal an ominously silent floor.

“C’mon, his office is this way.”

We push the cart down the hall lined with private offices and conference rooms. The lights are off in each one, the chairs empty, and the computers untouched like everything else in this large building.

JC parks the cart outside the office, then grabs the vacuum. Tapping his knuckles against the slightly ajar door, he says, “Building cleaners. Can we come in to vacuum?”

No answer.

JC glances back at me. I shrug, unsure what he’s expecting me to do.

He knocks again. “We’re going to walk in to vacuum.”

One gentle nudge of the door later, it falls open to reveal no one’s inside.

But the light’s on and the laptop on the desk is propped open, with a serene ocean waves screensaver playing across the screen.

“Damn it,” I sigh. “I thought you said he’d be here.”

“He was… is! Somewhere. Give it a sec.”

“I don’t see anyone.” I throw my arms up in the air, on the verge of announcing my exit.

“Shut up, Kat. You always have to be a drama queen. The guy’s here. We just gotta wait for him to show.”

“What guy to show where?”

The third voice comes out of seemingly nowhere.

It’s thick and harsh on the ears. A primal element that’s entrenched in an unmistakable Russian accent.

JC and I freeze. Our eyes slowly shift to the doorway of the office where a man that can only be described asswolestands.

He’s dressed perfectly in a neat white dress shirt and dark gray slacks.

But neither piece of clothing can hide what lies beneath—a physique rippling with muscle, so broad and tall that it feels like he’s blocking the entire doorway.

When I try to swallow down my shock, I make a pitiful little gulp noise.

That’s one huge dude you don’t fuck with.

Fur-like facial hair decorates the sharp angles of his jawline, his eyes blazing like sapphires set on fire.

Definitely not a dude to fuck with.

JC agrees. He swears under his breath. “You’re not… you’re not Roman Volkova.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twists slightly in what’s the beginnings of a nasty smirk. “But I am, mudak?*. Roman Volkova. And who the fuck are you?”

* Mudak -asshole

CHAPTER 3

Katerina

“I’m… we’re…”JC stammers. He’s paled like he’s about to spit up the contents of his stomach. “We’re the cleaning crew. Mind if we vacuum?”

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