Page 9 of Unspoken

"Sure. Thanks for having me," I say, carefully memorizing my surroundings.

"I've heard you're the silent type," the man supplies. "Good. We appreciate discretion here."

"Discretion keeps you breathing," I reply, voice stripped down to the bare essentials.

Vlad chuckles—a crack in his stoic facade revealing the hint of an emotion behind it. "Indeed. Which brings us to why you're here. I’m sure you know who I am."

"Yes, Mr. Solovey."

Something a lot like a smile appears on the man’s lips. "Just call me Vlad. Mr. Solovey was my father." He clears his throat. "May he rest in peace."

"Understood."

"So, back to the reason why I’m looking for a bodyguard with your skill set." He pauses as if to give me a second to prepare. "My brother, Alexander—he needs protection."

The job offer—or at least I think that’s what it is—hangs between us, as loaded as the quiet that follows.

Slowly, I shift my gaze to the kid, Alexander, who pauses whatever he’s doing on his phone and stares daggers at me, his expression telling me he'd rather be somewhere else right now.

"Protection from what?" I ask Vlad, though part of me already knows the answer will be as insubstantial as smoke. Plus, I shouldn’t have asked this. I usually don’t, but something sets off my danger senses.

"From threats you don't need details about," Vlad answers smoothly. "Just know that your job is to ensure he is not harmed."

More silence stretches taut across the room, like a silk thread waiting to snap. Alexander leans back against the couch, resting his phone in his lap and crossing his arms on his chest. I take him in—the sweep of blond hair styled with calculated carelessness, the sculptural line of his jaw, full pouty lips, a small beauty mark on his left cheek, and those eyes. So green. And not just any green, but the vivid, turbulent hue of the sea before a storm. They hold the sort of anger that could ignite wildfires, yet beneath it lurks something else… Sadness perhaps, deep and uncharted.

There’s a brushwork of shadows and light playing across his features. His posture is all angles, just like Vlad’s, but he’s leaner and I’d say seemingly more fragile, with a whole lot of youthful defiance. He’s cornered and too proud to show his true self.

"Alexander has had an... unfortunate incident," Vlad's voice rolls through the space, thick with understatement.

I'm no stranger to euphemisms. I expect something shocking to come out of Vlad's mouth.

"Attempt on his life," he clarifies without missing a beat, as if discussing the weather rather than an assassination.

"Who's after him?" I probe, needing to gauge the size of the trouble I’m stepping into.

Vlad's gaze hardens, a signal that I've tread into territory marked private. "As I have mentioned earlier, politics is not your concern. All you need to know is that they are after my brother to get to me, so keeping him safe while I am not around is your priority."

I nod, filing away the non-answer. Babysitting it is then. "Got it," I say curtly.

Lethargic disdain underscores his every move when Alexander shuffles on the couch and finally speaks. "Brilliant," he sneers. The word is sarcasm incarnate. "Because some hired muscle is going to stop a bloody hitman."

I’m slightly surprised by his crisp British accent. He doesn’t sound anything like his older brother. His words are clipped in places and drawn out in others. It's all heady with sophistication, pooling around us with tangible hostility.

"Let's not, Sasha," Vlad grits out.

Alexander—Sasha—rolls his eyes.

I do my best not to react to this clearly juvenile gesture, but the blond-haired creature that is Vlad’s younger brother makes it very difficult for some reason.

"Care to wager, brother?" Alexander supplies with a chuckle. His voice is acid dipped in honey. "How long before this one scurries off?" He doesn’t look at me when he says it as if I’m not here.

I've seen cynicism before, worn it myself like second skin, but Alexander Solovey wields it like a blade meant to drawblood. His arms are still crossed, body language screaming insubordination, a fortress with walls too high and thick.

"Hvatit, Sasha," Vlad spits out sharply.

The meaning–foreign and harsh–is lost on me.

"This prat won’t last two weeks." Sasha scoffs with a predatory smile. "Bet you hundred quid, big bro, huh?" Before he turns to look at Vlad, his eyes pause—very briefly—on me as if sizing me up.

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