Page 32 of One For my Enemy

“All because I pointed out the obvious? Dimitri is alive, you’re being unusually petty, and this is fucking silk,” he informed her, gesturing brusquely to the garment. “Not to mention the whisky itself was a gift.”

“Hand slipped,” she said, taking a sip, but at his look of irritation, she sighed, waving another hand to smooth the spill from the fabric. “Such a fussy little fae you are.”

“This,” he said, “is hardly asking nicely.”

“Please, Bridge. You have no interest in my niceties.”

“Well, then perhaps you should leave.”

“Without getting what I came for? Bridge, you underestimate me yet again.”

They paused, warily sipping from their respective glasses as each considered their position.

“You came without your muscle,” Bryn noted, gesturing less-than-politely to the lack of Ivan beside her. “I was really starting to warm to him.”

“Were you?” She sipped her glass, biding her time. “Funny. He loathes you.”

“Ah, so you left him behind so we could be alone? I knew it,” Bryn said, tongue slipping blithely between his lips. “Say the word, Marya, and that husband of yours could be easily discarded.”

“Please.” Marya leaned back against the sofa, shaking her head. “Sex would never satisfy you, Bridge. We both know it’s power or nothing.”

“Something we have in common, isn’t it?” he asked, and then, salaciously, “Try me and find out.”

She eyed her glass, making a show of considering its illumination. “Would it get me answers?”

“About the Fedorovs, or about something else? The realms of the living and the dead, perhaps? Yes and yes, I’m afraid,” Bryn sighed facetiously, dialing up his most treacherous charm. “Don’t tell a soul, Marya Antonova, but I confess, I’m a glutton for pillow talk. You’d have all the answers you needed, and a few that you’d wish to take back.”

He smiled at her, effortlessly serpentine, and she raised her glass to her lips.

“Tempting as that is,” she said, after permitting the whisky to settle on her tongue, “I’m going to have to decline.”

“Pesky wedding vows again, is it?”

“That,” she said, setting down her glass, “and I know easier ways to make you talk.”

She crooked a finger, prompting Bryn towards her with a lurch, and removed his glass from his hand, watching the brief shadow of frustration on his face as he was forced to acknowledge, yet again, which of the two of them possessed the more persuasive powers.

“You didn’t want your muscle overhearing, did you?” Bryn asked her, cheeks reddening as he struggled to lean away from her clutches and couldn’t. “That’s what this is about. You have questions you didn’t want anyone else to hear.”

Marya didn’t consider the remark worth addressing.

“You’re sure,” she said instead. “You’re sure it was Dimitri?”

When he didn’t answer, she slid her thumb along his throat, sending a shudder of warning up his spine.

“I said it was the Fedorovs,” Bryn gritted unwillingly, and she touched him again, soothingly this time; a reward for good behavior. “That’s all the information I have to give.”

He almost certainly knew more, but Marya could see it would cost her more than she was currently willing to pay to uncover it. “Always with the tricky wording,” she sighed, releasing him to rise to her feet. “I suppose I’ll have to find out for myself, won’t I? If you won’t be any help, that is.”

He leaned back with narrowed eyes, saying nothing, and privately, Marya lamented that their little talks so rarely ended in mutual satisfaction.

“What do you think you’ll learn from them, pray tell?” Bryn asked her gruffly, watching her carefully pick up her coat and turn towards the exit. “From what I hear, the Fedorov brothers want you dead. Your mother and sisters, too, but you most of all.”

Marya shrugged. It was hardly a novel threat, and certainly nothing she hadn’t expected to hear. “You’re nothing until somebody wants you dead, Bridge, remember that,” she informed him, pulling her coat over her shoulders. “Until then, you’ve done absolutely nothing worth a damn.”

“Bleak,” remarked Bryn, and Marya smoothed her hair, sparing him a parting glance.

“That’s the world we live in, Bridge,” she said, and drained what remained of her whisky.

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