Page 13

I barely heard the men rumbling greetings as I stomped through the double oak doors, past the foyer, and headed straight to the wine shelves in the kitchen.

The house was quiet, which was not the most ideal situation because she now completely consumed my thoughts. And I didn’t bother to fight her away.

Her image from earlier was stuck in my mind: her dressed sharply in an ivory blouse tucked into a sleek black pencil skirt, her heels still on despite how late it was. She’d looked exhausted. The kind of tired that settled in the eyes, not just the body. A strand of hair had slipped from the neat bun at the nape of her neck, brushing against her cheek, but she didn’t bother fixing it.

I’d kept my eyes on the road, acted like I didn’t notice. But it disturbed the shit out of me.

Blindly grabbing myself a random bottle, I poured myself a couple of fingers of whiskey neat, the amber liquid swirling as I gripped the glass tighter than necessary.

Then, I held the counter, feeling the rage tick for letting her angrily trudge in the darkness. But what benefit did I get from stopping her?

She was my fucking therapist.

I’d gone over there to buttress that I’d prevented her from getting her ass fucked without her permission and then ended up finding out that she’d never been fucked at all.

Shit.

It was disturbing that her virgini ty excited me in the strangest way, and I’d nearly lost focus on the damn road.

I tossed back the whiskey, the burn grounding me.

Hazel was different, annoyingly so. A boyfriend who was never around, yet she still held onto him, kept herself for him , as if he were the last steady thing in her world.

The moment she ran out of my car, I should’ve let her fade from my mind. Instead, she lingered, the scent of her perfume pressing against my thoughts in a way I couldn’t shake. I’d burned, imagining what that perfume smelled like on her neck. And it wasn’t just her innocence that frustrated me; it was the way she carried it without pretense.

I poured another finger and threw my head back with my eyes closed. Still, in the darkness of my mind, piercing hazel eyes haunted me. Red-painted lips whispered therapeutic jargon into my ears. Chestnut-brown hair begged my fingers to feel them. And then, there was that fucking little black dress that had made a permanent mark in my memory.

Infatuation.

Misplaced lust.

There’d been no reason for it. But the coil in my chest when I thought of Hazel burned the same way I’d sizzled fleetingly for Genevieve, like a flickering flame that called my attention.

The woman wasn’t for me. And yet, somehow, I already knew I wouldn’t be able to leave her alone.

I took out my phone and texted the one person I wasn’t ready to see but needed as a distraction.

Barely half an hour later, I heard the double doors creak open and heavy footsteps cutting through the quiet. Damir appeared through the threshold, no jacket, no tie, his white shirt covered in sweat, and…I thought I saw a few spots of crimson on his collar.

I filled another glass and slid it on the counter toward him.

We drank in silence.

“Did Ruslan give you my message?”

“Yeah, about the docks. To double up security. I’ve taken care of it.”

I knew he would; he was Damir. Always on top of every fucking matter. Dry amusement filled me, but I didn’t show it. He thought I was still stewing, counting the seconds until I yelled his ear off. Two hours ago, that might have been the case. But now, something else needed sorting out.

I moved over to the marble kitchen island and settled on a swivel high stool.

“And the Swiss-Moscow transfer,” I said, watching him carefully. “Why was it delayed?”

Damir exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. He opened his mouth, and I held up my hand because now I had to ask.

“Before you answer that, why the hell do you look like shit?”

The corner of his mouth curved. “I found the guy who stole the missing crates.”

I arched a brow. “And you killed him?”

“Even better. I beat the shit out of him.”

To Damir, beating the man to a pulp was better than killing him. It was a style he’d learned from me in the days of our early beginnings, before I decided going straight for the kill was more effective. Me and him, we’d almost experienced the brutality of the world together, though at different times. On the outside, he looked calm, rational, but we were both familiar with the monsters lurking in our shadows. Bloodshed and violence were woven into our very existence, and that way, torturing traitorous bastards seemed more viable an option than snuffing out their miserable lives immediately.

Rolling my eyes, I returned to the previous conversation. “So, back to the transfer.”

“There was an issue on the Zurich end. A flagged transaction. Nothing we couldn’t handle. It just took longer than expected.”

“Good.” I stared at my drink. “I’ve got something else for you to handle. I need information on a certain someone, everything you can get on her: private life, social life, work, hobbies. What she has for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I want it all. Plus, a full report on her boyfriend.”

Damir’s facial expression didn’t even crack in the slightest, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed the mask. “So, it’s a woman, with a boyfriend, who is not your fiancée.”

“Oh, we’re cracking jokes now,” I said dryly.

“Not at all, Boss. I was just making sure I got all the details right.” Damir moved closer to the door. “You know I can get this done in a blink. I just need a name.”

Finding her address was easy. All it took was random Facebook searches to pinpoint her current residential location.

Digging up more information meant involving Damir. He had his way of trailing and picking the tiniest speck of information on people.

“Hazel Sinclair.”

“Got it.” He started out the door, then stopped. “Wait, Miron. That’s…that’s your therapist.”

He would have known because he handled the therapy treatment discussions with Amelia and took note of every single detail, including the name of the therapist handling my sessions. But I didn’t fucking care about what he thought. He didn’t have to deal with the Hazel-syndrome; I did.

Ignoring him, I buried my face in my hands. “I need reports, not fucking questions.”

“On it. And, before I forget, it’s Amelia’s birthday next week. It’s a formal event. Suit, tie. That kind of shit.”

“So?”

“So, it means you know you can’t miss it. Not where Amelia is concerned, anyway. I have your invite, and she sent one over to Alina.”

“Separate invites, huh?”

“Just in case you think you can ditch. Alina’s backup to ensure you’re there. Smart woman,” he said and turned around to leave.

Then, he stopped. Again.

“Miron?”

“Jesus. Yes, Damir. What the fuck is it?”

This time around, when Damir spoke, his voice was heavy and quiet. I didn’t see his face, but, like me, the energy that radiated off him when he was serious was different.

“I know you didn’t ask, but I’m going to say it anyway because I always fucking blurt at the most unexpected moments. About this current assignment, it’s not advisable. What you’re asking me to do will only feed that obsession, and you know it.”

My fingers curled tightly around the glass, and I remembered that I’d nearly blown his head off earlier today. “You’re right; I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion. Reports, and not questions or heart-to-hearts, Damir. That’s all I need.”

“Sure.”

I heard his retreating steps and was left alone to deal with the intrigue that had taken root.

Severely undeniable and persistent.

And no matter how hard I tried to unravel it, my attraction to her remained.