Page 83 of Blood & Snow

If I were to cut her loose, really set her free, Leonid would have her erased in a matter of hours.

It's only business, after all.

But she's stubborn, and probably wise enough to understand the incredibly difficult position I've put her in.

She stiffens and lifts her chin.

"And let them fuck it up? You'll be caught…" Her sigh is acknowledgement enough.

Nadya really is mine and she knows it.

And maybe she doesn’t hate me for it.

"Igor has supplies in the trunk. Gloves, bleach, plastic bags, industrial cleaners. You know the routine by now."

"And the bodies?"

We slip right into the natural partnership we've established over the past five weeks and I feel more confident in my future within this organization than ever.

"Stepan's crew will handle removal. You focus oncleanup—blood, shell casings, anything that connects tonight to us."

We pull up to the warehouse loading bay.

The building looks quiet from the outside, but I know Stepan and his men are already inside preparing the scene.

Igor pops the trunk, and I turn to look at Nadya.

Still beautiful in her expensive dress, still wearing my diamonds, but now something else too.

A hardness around her eyes that wasn't there when we left the party.

The transition from Leonid's elegant gathering to a bloody warehouse floor, and she's adapting without breaking.

"Get your supplies,Ptichka. We have work to do.”

14

NADYA

Ididn’t want to come to Xander's apartment after all of that and being out all night, but I'm exhausted and my dress is stained in blood.

Coming here was the only way to get cleaned up before returning to more of my sister's questions and I need a bit of a nap before I am emotionally prepared to handle that.

The scene we left behind was brutal even by his standards—eleven bodies total, with enough blood to paint the concrete floor from wall to wall.

Yet Xander shows no signs of the tension that usually follows his work.

He's not bossing me around or handing out orders.

It feels weird, like I’m not in the same place.

I hover by the window as he disappears into the kitchen and returns with two glasses and a bottle of vodka.

"Sit," he says, but the word lacks its usual edge.

He seems as tired as I am.

I perch on the edge of the couch, watching him pour generous amounts into both glasses.