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“Konstantin?” My eyes go wide. I stand, still trembling, my knees feel like jelly. “What the hell—are you insane?!”
“I caught it,” he says, holding the still-dripping mug. “Mostly.”
I blink at him. He’s standing in the middle of my living room like he didn’t just break every unspoken rule of cabin exile. And how the fuck did he find me?
“How—why are you here?”
He shrugs. “I have my connections.”
“Clearly.” My voice sharpens. “What do you want?”
His expression tightens. “We need to talk.”
I cross my arms and scan the space behind him. “Where’s your boss? Damien Romanov? Or should I say Ruslan Dragunov?”
Konstantin winces. “You know.”
“Of course I fucking know. That’s part of why I’m hiding out here, remember? Your Bratva boss had a one-night stand with me and then sent you to be my shadow and ensure I don’t go near his brother-in-law.”
“That’s not—Tara, please. Can I get a towel?”
“No,” I snap. “You can get out.”
He lets out a slow breath, chest rising and falling under the damp shirt. “I know you're angry. You have every right. But youcan be mad at me later. Right now, you and your baby are in danger.”
I laugh—sharp and bitter. “Isn’t that why I’m here in paradise? To avoid being dragged back into your boss’s twisted chess game?”
Konstantin steps closer. “This isn’t about Ruslan anymore. When you and Gavriil started digging into Lidiya Zorin, you caught the attention of the RMSAD. They’ve dispatched someone. Someone... dangerous.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not Lidiya Zorin. There’s no proof.”
“There is,” he says quietly, pulling a packet from his jacket and handing it to me.
The pages rustle in my hands. It’s mostly redacted, but what I can see it’s some kind of genetic program. Then my eyes land on a page titled: Test Subject #11. I see the photo. My photo. Except it’s not. I’ve never seen this photo before. The child in it has the same face. Same eyes. Same scar above the brow. My heart slams against my ribs.
There’s a blue mark under her arm.
“That’s not me,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
I lift my shirt sleeve. “No diamond mark.”
He reaches out and brushes his fingers against a red spot on my skin. “What’s this?”
“I had a mole removed. I remember. Even at three, I remember it hurting like fucking hell.”
“It could have been a tattoo,” he says, voice low.
A third voice cuts in. “It was.”
I spin around.
“Sam?” My eyes lock on him. “What do you mean? Who tattoos a toddler and then removes it?”
“It had to be done, sweetheart.”
My stomach twists.