Page 72 of Brutal Reign

“Brandy. If you have it.”

He stands and moves to the cart, and I can’t help watching him. Despite his size, there’s something annoyingly gracefulabout how he moves. But as he pours, I spot dark-red stains on his shirt, smeared across the sleeve. My heart jumps. Blood. God, what did he do?

He comes back with a crystal snifter, our fingers brushing as he passes it to me.

I recoil. “There’s... There’s blood on your shirt.”

Pavel glances down at the splotches of red on his otherwise pristine shirt. “It’s not blood; it’s paint.”

I stare at him. Not the answer I was expecting. But then I think of his studio, those canvases, that storm of emotion trapped in paint. There’s more to Pavel than he lets the world see.

“So you’re more of a visual artist than a writer after all?”

His shoulders tense. “I wouldn’t call what I do art. Some people drink; some people fight. I throw paint at a canvas when I can’t sleep.”

“I would’ve taken you for more of a drinking-and-fighting kind of guy, to be honest.”

His lips tug up into a half-smile. “Trust me, I’ve done my share of both. Still do when the mood strikes.”

He doesn’t return to where he sat earlier. Instead, he slides in close beside me, his huge thigh grazing mine. The scent of his cologne is sharp and masculine, and his body radiates warmth like a slow-burning flame. I consider edging away to break the charge between us, but for some reason, I don’t.

“We stumbled into your studio on the tour,” I blurt out. “Those paintings were...intense.”

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. I find myself watching the strong line of his throat with way too much fascination.

“I don’t usually share those with others. It’s something I do for myself.”

“I’m sorry. Kin burst in before he realized it was off limits.” I bite my lip. I know I’m pushing his patience with these questions, but I’m hungry to understand the broken pieces that make up Pavel Fedorov. “What made you start painting?”

He sets down his drink and rests his elbows on his powerful thighs. He doesn’t look at me as he says, “After I lost... everything, boxing wasn’t enough. I was still spiraling, still destroying everything in my path. Yarik saw it and decided to play therapist. He locked me in a room with canvases and paint, told me not to come out until I figured my shit out.” He shrugs with a sad smile. “Not sure if that ever happened, but painting focuses the chaos in my head.”

When he finally looks at me, I see a dangerous man who creates beauty from his pain, and something about that draws me in.

But I can’t afford to get distracted by his complexity when I need answers about what comes next for me and Kin.

“How does this work?” I ask. “Are you planning to hold us hostage until Simon gives you what you want?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Should I?”

“No! It wouldn’t matter anyway. I’m worthless to him.”

“We both know that’s not true. He needs you. And I don’t think he’ll ever stop hunting you.”

A shiver runs up my spine. Pavel’s reading Simon exactly right. He’s the kind of man who’d burn the world down before admitting defeat.

“You humiliated him,” I point out, “and he hates to be humiliated.”

Losing me to the Syndicate will drive Simon to extremes, and Kin and I will be the ones to pay.

“I said I’d protect you, and I will. But the best way to do that is to help me find him now, before this war escalates.”

I lean back, suddenly exhausted by this whole conversation. “Honestly, we led separate lives. He never told me anything. He’d take me out and parade me around like a show pony. The second business came up, I was dismissed like the help, which was fine with me. I didn’t want to know the sick shit he was planning.”

“I understand, angel moy, but maybe you heard something or remember the names of the men he met with. Any information could be helpful.”

I stare into my brandy, considering what he’s asking of me. If Simon’s dead, that’s one less person hunting me and Kin when we make our escape. Maybe helping Pavel isn’t such a bad idea after all.

I take a slow sip. “We used to socialize with families like the Tangs, who control shipping in and around Hong Kong; the Lees, with their gambling empire; and the Zhaos, who are useful for their mainland political connections. I don’t know more than that.”