Page 43 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, I let myself believe this could be something real, something lasting. And if I were someone else, maybe it could be. But even in the afterglow, I know she’s far too good for me and the darkness I bring with me.
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and brush my lips over her cheek. Her skin is still warm and flushed, but she looks at me with guarded anticipation. She knows what comes next, and there’s almost disappointment in her eyes.
I kiss her one more time, slow and lingering, hoping it’ll erase whatever tug-of-war is playing out in her mind.
“I have to go back to my office,” I murmur reluctantly, reaching over the bed to pick up the shirt I threw to the floor. “There’s something I need to handle.”
She nods, her gaze slipping away from mine as she sits up and pulls the blanket tighter around herself.
“Okay.” Her voice is soft, and she doesn’t fight or ask me to stay.
I move around the room quietly, grabbing the rest of my clothes and getting dressed without rushing, though every second I linger, I want to crawl back into bed with her.
My body feels magnetized to her, and I know I’ll only feel whole when I’m buried deep inside her. But real life is knocking, and I can’t put it off any longer. This has been perfect, extraordinary, but it also wasn’t in my plans for the day.
She watches me, unmoving, and for a moment, it feels like she’s seeing more than I want her to. Like she’s looking through the layers I keep carefully stacked between myself and the world.
I lean in, brushing a soft kiss against her lips.
“Get some rest,malyshka,” I tell her, wishing again that I could crawl back into bed and hold her for the rest of the night.
She smiles back at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
When I leave, I close the door gently behind me and walk down the hall, every step heavier than the last. My mind is already snapping back into work mode, specifically onto the report Sasha left for me earlier. But even with everything going on, I can’t stop replaying the look on Nicole’s face. She’d looked distant at the end, like she was already building a wall between us.
There’s something deeper in the way she looked at me just now, like part of her wants to get closer while the other part is already halfway out the door. I hate the thought that any part of her regrets what we’ve done. I can’t bear for her to see this as a mistake.
Until now, Nicole’s been the least complicated part of my day. Maybe sleeping with her again has complicated things more, or maybe I just finally let myself acknowledge exactly how much I want her.
18
SERGEI
By the time I step into my office, I’ve put all thoughts of Nicole behind me. Compartmentalizing is the only way I survive days like this. Nicole’s a puzzle for later; right now, I need to focus on work. Otherwise, important things could slip through the cracks.
I cross to my desk, undo my cuff links, and settle in front of the computer. The monitor flickers to life with a low hum, spilling a secure thread of emails and alerts across the screen. Shipment schedules, payment verifications, and security logs embedded in lines of sensitive data scroll across the screen. I skim the files, my eyes narrowing when I reach an entry flagged in red.
Shipment Delay
A delay isn’t unusual; most are out of anyone’s control. But in the wake of the attack, the timing feels wrong and suspicious. I open the email to read the report.
Two vans were rerouted after the drivers suspected they were being tailed. One driver reported a drone shadowing his route near the East River drop zone. Another said a black SUV idleda few blocks from the warehouse, cutting across his route. The vehicle was unmarked, but he swears he saw someone recording through the tinted window.
I lean back, fingers steepled under my chin as I think. It fits Semion’s pattern. He’s pulled this kind of shit before with other organizations. Before I can dwell on it, a sharp knock rattles the door.
“Come in,” I call, not looking up.
Sasha strides in without waiting for a second invitation. His coat hangs half-buttoned, tie loose, as though he abandoned whatever he was doing mid-stride. His jaw is clenched, and I know before he says a word that he’s pissed.
“You heard anything about Semion?” he asks.
I exhale slowly, then nod toward the couch. “Close the door. Sit.”
He obeys, albeit reluctantly. His foot drums against the hardwood, fingers twitching on his knee.
I study him for a beat before answering. “He’s been radio silent. He hasn’t claimed the attack.”
“That’s not good,” he says. “It’s been a week. You think they’re waiting for us to make the next move?”
