Page 85 of Unforgiving Sinner (Starukhin Bratva)

I should’ve worn this dress to the wedding shower instead. Oh well, better now than never.

I stare at my reflection, appraising myself and wondering if I look more like that woman in the sketch. How will Nikolai treat me when he sees me in this? I scowl, knowing it won’t be any better. Carefully, I walk down the spiraling, floating treads in apair of kitten heels and see Dominika laying out a spread of cut fresh fruit and hot tea on the coffee table.

She looks up at me and arches an eyebrow. “Don’t look at your feet,” she says. “It won’t help you walk any better.”

I lift my chin high and sit on the edge of the couch in front of a cup of steaming green tea she’s poured for me.

“Better.” Dominika nods and then disappears down the hallway while I wait for Nikolai to return alone.

44

NIKOLAI

When I return home,Eden lies across the couch on her stomach, reading a book on Matisse. Her bare feet stick up in the air from a ridiculous peacock-green dress.

She doesn’t wear dresses like that—dresses that make her look this sexy.

It stops me from demanding to know why she’s here, waiting for me again. She glances over at me but says nothing. Her chin is balanced on one hand as she turns another page. I loosen my tie, feeling the heat dissipate from my body. This time I didn’t do the dirty work, letting Rurik dole out the lessons in his stoic, efficient style instead.

“What are you doing up?” I toss my tie onto the coffee table.

Eden keeps her eyes on the book. “I lost track of time.”

“You should be asleep,” I say severely.

She ignores me and flips another page. Her delicate fingers glide over the glossy surface as she takes more interest in the colorful illustration than in me.

I know she’s still angry with me, and I’m glad we have nothing to say to one another. I don’t feel like talking to her either. I pull my shirt out of my pants, unbuttoning the top button. I don’t want to look at her in that dress. The deep green accents her auburn hair, and the creased silk lies close to her slim curves. I can see the soft roundness of her breasts pushing up against the neckline.

I hate how tempting she looks in it.

Eden finally glances over at me and sends me a questioning look. “What?” she asks coyly.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to focus on something else. I need to be away from her right now. I can’t deal with this. So, I grab my tie and head toward my office. I glance back at Eden, and she quickly looks back down at the book.

She cares more than she lets on.

Something feels off as soon as I step into my office. I sense it, even though nothing looks misplaced. The valuable paintings are secured to the walls where they should be. I look up at the molding, and the tiny cameras flash a solitary light. I ignore the unease in my gut and go about my routine, unlocking the drawer in the first shelving unit where I store my laptop. I switch on the computer and a pop-up appears, displaying that the battery is low.

I pull open the desk drawer to retrieve the cord. I’m left-handed, but my pens have been placed neatly on the right side. My suspicion rises again when I notice the letters aren’t in chronological order.

I’ve told Dominika that the staff isn’t allowed to open any drawers in the penthouse unless it’s to get supplies or put away clothes.

My stomach twists as I grab an old datebook I kept, and familiar photos fall out on the desk. I tense as I lift one off the polished surface and examine a small thumbprint on the back made with charcoal.

I look at the sketch I have pinned to the wall—the sketch of Eden. The animal in me wants to rip it off the wall, but the artist in me stays my hand.

“Eden.” My voice is firm and controlled. “I need to talk to you in private.”

Moments later, she enters my office, her eyes wide with apprehension.

“Close the door,” I command, but my tone is calm and deadly, and I hate how much I sound like my father.

Eden obeys, turning her back to me. Her fingers tremble as she slowly pulls the doorknob toward her. The door clicks shut, sealing us in a caged space of privacy. Eden slowly turns to face me, and I watch her pulse quicken beneath the delicate skin of her throat. My hand twitches at the sight, and I wonder if her pulse will thunder against my fingers.

“Yes?” Her voice is barely a whisper, and I wait for her to look up into my cold gaze.

“Tell me, Eden.” I force myself to maintain an even tone. “Did you see anyone come into my office while you were lying on the couch?”

---