Page 6

I take my place opposite her, allowing myself the luxury of truly examining what Anton Malakhov believes is worthy collateral. High cheekbones flushed with defiance. Full lips pressed into a thin line of resistance. The pulse at her throat flutters rapidly, betraying her calm exterior.
"We were beginning to worry," my father says smoothly, his weathered hands reaching for the vodka. "These days, fifteen minutes without a word can mean many things—none of them pleasant."
Anton laughs too loudly. "My Kira was simply... getting ready. Women, you understand."
The lie hangs between us like smoke. I watch a muscle in Kira's jaw flex as she stares at the caviar, refusing to participate in her father's charade.
"Is that so?" I lean forward slightly. "And did 'getting ready' involve the subway? Or perhaps a taxi chase through Manhattan?"
Her eyes snap to mine, widening fractionally before narrowing into blue flames. A smudge of dirt marks her temple, and I resist the inexplicable urge to brush it away.
"I wanted fresh air," she says, each word precisely chosen. "The weather was too beautiful to waste in a car."
"In those shoes?" I counter, my eyes dropping to her feet beneath the table. "Impressive."
The server approaches with more caviar and blini, breaking the silence of our battle. My father launches into pleasantries about the restaurant's history, drawing Anton into nostalgic reminiscences of Moscow. I allow their voices to fade intobackground noise, focusing instead on the way Kira's fingers curl around her water glass, knuckles white with restraint.
"Your security is lacking," I murmur in Russian, soft enough that only she can hear. "If you were mine already, you wouldn't have made it past the lobby."
She takes a deliberate sip of water before responding in flawless, cutting Russian. "If I were yours already, I'd have made it to Canada."
The unexpected retort draws an involuntary twitch of my lips. Dangerous. This spark of admiration is precisely what I cannot afford.
"You misunderstand the arrangement, Kira Antonovna," I say, reverting to English as the first course arrives. "This isn't a negotiation."
"Everything is a negotiation," she counters, finally meeting my gaze directly. There's intelligence behind that defiance—sharp, assessing. She's searching for weaknesses, for cracks in my armor.
She won't find any. I've buried them too deep.
"Your father seems to think otherwise." I gesture subtly toward Anton, who's laughing too loudly at something my father has said, desperation leaking through his jovial facade.
Something flickers across her face—hurt, quickly masked by contempt. "My father sells things for a living. I shouldn't be surprised I've become inventory."
The raw truth of her statement hits harder than it should. Something about her clarity, her unvarnished assessment of her situation, scrapes against something buried deep inside me.
I lean forward, dropping my voice to a whisper that carries promises of both threat and protection. "You're not inventory, Kira. You're an investment."
Her nostrils flare slightly, the only indication that my words have landed. She reaches for her vodka glass with practicedelegance, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers before she steadies them.
"And what's your expected return?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous. "My father's connections? The Malakhov fortune? Or just the satisfaction of owning something that doesn't want to be possessed?"
The server appears with steaming bowls of borscht, the rich crimson liquid matching the walls surrounding us. The interruption gives me a moment to consider Kira's question—and to examine the strange effect she has on me. Most people cower in my presence; their fear is a currency I've grown accustomed to collecting. Her rebellious spirit should infuriate me. Instead, it intrigues me.
"All of the above," I answer honestly when we're alone again. "Though I suspect you're worth more than your father has disclosed."
She stirs her soup without tasting it, the silver spoon making soft circles. "You speak as if the deal is done."
"The dealisdone, Kira." I taste the borscht, the earthy sweetness of beets mingling with the tang of sour cream. "Your father has debts that can't be paid with money alone."
Her eyes flash up to mine. "So I'm the interest payment."
"You're the collateral." I correct her, watching as she processes this. "And under my protection, you'll have freedoms you can't imagine."
A bitter laugh escapes her lips, drawing a sharp glance from her father. She composes herself quickly, offering him a placating smile that doesn't reach her eyes. When she turns back to me, that smile has transformed into something dangerous.
"Protection," she repeats, testing the word like it's poison. "Is that what you call it? Strange. It looks remarkably like a cage from where I'm sitting."
I lean forward, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. "The difference between protection and imprisonment depends entirely on what you're running from,kisa."