Page 50 of Unspoken

"Control." He's stalking toward me now, hands in pockets of his slacks, eyes filled with suppressed rage. "It keeps the unpredictability out. All pieces on the board have their place and their role."

"Control can shatter," I counter, my stance firm despite the creeping sense of unease. "And when it does, what then? Who will shield him from a bullet?"

"Your job is not to philosophize." Vlad's voice drops an octave, a low hum now ricocheting dully against the carpeted walls.

"Nor is it to babysit a grown man who's been sheltered to the point of danger," I shoot back, unwilling to yield an inch.

"You overstep your bounds. Do it again, and you are gone."

I realize there’s no way to persuade Vlad otherwise. If he’s decided something, then it’s going to be so until he changes his mind.

"Leave. Now," he orders, jutting his chin at the door. "I have business to attend to."

"Understood." I turn around. Sasha's safety won't be on my conscience if he ties my hands behind my back.

But somehow, I don’t believe that it’s true.

I stand on the terrace, eyes scanning the manicured garden below. Shadows flit between the trees, a silent dance of security personnel hidden from view. The sun is a traitor here, casting too much brightness after the last night's terror—a botched attempt on Sasha's life at the casino. My jaw tightens at the thought of Vlad denying Sasha the right to defend himself. It's like caging a lion and throwing away the key, expecting it not to bare its teeth when danger prowls close.

"Couldn't sleep, eh?"

I don't startle; I never do. But Sasha's voice—and that damn accent carrying the remnants of yesterday's adrenaline—sends a jolt through me. He’s the last person I want to see right now. Not because I despise him. I don’t. We haven’t really had a conversation about what transpired on the rooftop. And I don’t know how to talk about it without hurting him. But I guess I can’t avoid this for long.

When I glance over my shoulder, Sasha steps out onto the terrace with a croissant in hand. His green eyes immediately find mine and hold them in a gaze that’s both an accusation and a plea.

"Sleep is a luxury," I reply.

"Seems we're both bankrupt then." He gives a wry smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He walks up to the railing, leaning back against it, facing me. Our proximity is a reminder of the line we crossed, the kiss that could be our undoing.

"Logan," he starts, and even his voice holds edges, "I—"

"They’ll try again," I cut him off, not wanting to discuss the topic that’s on the tip of his tongue. My tone is harsher thanintended, but every syllable is a brick in the wall I need to keep between us for survival.

"Right."

"Vlad also doesn’t want you to go back to the range."

Sasha rolls his eyes. "Because being alive is more important than actually living." There's a bitterness there, a darkness I recognize in myself.

I look away, fixing my gaze on a rose bush. "He’s your brother. He knows best." I don’t believe it but I have to do what the man who pays me commands.

"Logan?" Sasha's voice cuts through the fog in my head, and I turn to find him biting into the croissant. Crumbs cascade down like tiny soldiers jumping from a ledge, some clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"You really didn’t sleep all night?" he asks, his eyes searching mine for something I'm not sure I have for him in this instant.

"Didn't even try." My tone is flat, but inside, my pulse suddenly thunders—a relentless drumbeat.

"Fucking sucks being a Solovey," Sasha admits, and there's an echo of our shared restlessness in the small space between us, and I wonder if he purposely positioned himself this close to me.

"Dark thoughts?" I probe.

"Yes," he whispers, and the vulnerability with which he speaks tugs at something deep within me.

I watch a crumb tremble on his lower lip, and before I realize it, I've closed the distance between us completely with one step. My finger brushes against his skin to remove the crumble, and a bolt of electricity arcs through me, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

I move back, my hand retreating as if scorched. "Sorry," I mutter, more to myself than him.

He continues to hold my gaze, those striking eyes sheltering a text of unspoken words. "There's nothing to apologize for."

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