Page 41 of Vengeful Embers

“Now you have me helping you,” Konstantin points out. “Trust me, I have a lot more reach than Gavriil.”

“Okay,” I agree. “Like I said. It’s already over.”

“Does he know that?”

“Yes.”

“What about the baby?” Konstantin asks. “Are you keeping it?”

“What kind of question is that?” I’m instantly on the defence. “Of course I am.”

“What’s Gavriil's involvement going to be?”

“I’ve made it clear, I don’t want help from him,” I tell him.

“Good.” Konstantin’s voice is soft. “If you need help. Any time of the day or night, Tara, you can call.”

“Thanks.” I clear my throat as a lump forms and tears gather in my eyes. “That is kind of you.”

I have no idea why I just opened up to the man. A man who, for all intents and purposes, was following me. If he knows Gavriil, it means he probably knew where the toilet was that first night. And the park; he’d probably followed me there and then a chance meeting in Moscow?

All these things scream to me that he’s been sent to follow me. Which means Irina’s brother has heard the rumors and thinksI’m having an affair with Gavriil. But something inside me, the same thing that drove me to message him in the first place, trusts him.

“You should get some rest,” Konstantin suggests, snapping me from my thoughts. “I’ll call you tomorrow to find out how you are.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But you don’t have to check in.”

“I want to,” Konstantin says. “Goodnight, Tara.”

“Good night.”

I hang up, take a bath, and eat. Then I climb into bed and pull out the box.

The photo of Anya Novikov is still inside.

I flick on my blacklight to read the message on the back again, but I find the edges of the photo shimmer. A faint outline appears—an X marked on what looks like a map.

My breath catches.

A map?

Holy shit.

What the hell have I found?

13

RUSLAN

Moscow’s sky presses heavy over the city, gray and wet and pissed off—kind of like me. I sit at a private corner table in one of the city’s most exclusive five-star hotels, trying to make it through lunch with a woman whose idea of negotiation involves a deep neckline, breathy sighs, and a not-so-subtle foot brushing against mine under the table.

Valentina is beautiful in that too-polished, high-maintenance way that always sets off warning bells. Her dress clings to her surgically enhanced curves. Her lips curve into a smile that says she’s not here for the lobster bisque or to discuss her very serious case.

“Ruslan,” she says, my name like a promise. “You’re far more uptight than I remember.”

I sip my bourbon, swirling the amber liquid before swallowing it. “I’m professional. There’s a difference.”

“But we’re not in your office. And I didn’t come here just to talk about my case.” She leans forward, her silk blouse slipping just enough to offer a clear view of the double D's her husband paidfor. “I came here to talk about fucking you. It’s been years since we fucked last and you were such a God in bed.”

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