Page 16 of Innocent Prey of the Bratva

She walks to me—slow, careful steps—and then stops in front of the sofa, eyes locked on mine like she’s trying to figure out what kind of monster I am before she lets herself breathe.

And fuck if that doesn’t do something to me. She looks exhausted. Completely worn down. But still—still—there’s that fire behind her eyes. It hasn’t gone out.

Not yet. I don’t know if I want to fan it or put it out.

She’s braver than most.

And maybe dumber.

Good thing I like both.

I gesture to the seat across from me. “Sit.”

“I’d rather stand,” she says, chin lifting.

I arch a brow, letting a beat of silence stretch between us like wire. “Suit yourself.”

I set my coffee down and lean forward, forearms braced on my knees, voice low and casual. “Let’s start with the basics. Who are you?”

She blinks, frowns. “You already know who I am.”

“Do I?”

“I’m not a fool,” she barks. “You know me. I’ve seen you with Adrian. You were at Jennie’s wedding. You’re a Rusnak, aren’t you?”

I smother a smile and keep the steel in my voice. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She blinks.

“Nothing can save you from me, Violet. Especially now that there’s suspicion that you might be a traitor.”

“What?” She blanches, color draining from her face. I see real fear in her eyes and contemplate telling her the truth. I know she’s telling the truth. Every word of it. She’s innocent. I’m just dragging this…playing with her…seeing how far she can go.

“I’m not a traitor,” she snarls. “Why would you say that? I’m a literature student and freelance writer.”

“So what were you doing in that alley, Violet?”

Her eyes narrow. “Photographing a crime scene. For a piece I was writing. You know, those things called jobs?”

I don’t respond.

“Who sent you?” I ask instead.

She scoffs. “No one sent me.”

“Who were you working for?”

“God, you really are a psycho.”

My lips twitch. “Answer the question.”

“Idid,” she snaps. “No one. I write freelance murder reports, you lunatic. You think I have some secret agency job? I don’t even have health insurance.”

Maxim lets out a quiet snort from where he’s standing behind me.

I lean back, watching her. “You expect me to believe you were just conveniently taking pictures of a murder scene when I happened to be executing a man two feet away?”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s literally what happened.”