Page 104 of Scarlet Promise

I shouldn’t be surprised. That seems to be his status quo with me.

“Why the fuck did your lawyer present papers to me with a motion to sell the fucking club from Alina?”

His snarl could rip flesh from bone.

I wince. Alina’s always had ovaries of titanium, and she usually flexes her power in soft ways. This isn’t soft. This is a balls-to-the-fucking-wall kind of move. And I admire it.

I just fucking wish she warned me she wasn’t just going to talk to my lawyer about options, but that she was going to go through with it.

“This has nothing to do with me,” I say to Demyan, going into the drawing room and pouring a drink of bourbon.

I sit on the sofa, holding the drink in one hand and the phone in the other.

“Right,” he says in Russian.

“I’m not lying,” I say. “She asked for my lawyer’s details, and I gave them to her. End of story. She’s a grown-ass woman. She can do what she wants.”

“Not buying it,” Demyan spits. “And you might think it works in your favor to try to come between me and my sister, but it won’t.”

For a moment, I can’t even breathe. “I…what?”

“You might want to watch your fucking back, Ilya. That’s all I’ll say. Watch your fucking back.” He hangs up.

I stare dumbfounded at the phone, then I take a healthy swallow of the bourbon. Shit. I need to warn Alina.

I call her.

“Miss me already?” she asks, her sweet, warm voice coiling around me.

I harden myself. “Demyan called.”

She’s quiet.

“He’s on the warpath.” I clear my throat. “I was a little surprised to hear about you dropping papers to sell your portion of the club on him, especially after you told me you didn’t want to push him too hard. And you were just here. You could have told me.”

“That’s a lot of questions rolled into one,” she says.

Albert barks near her, and despite this oncoming shitstorm, I smile.

“So I’ll start with the last one.”

The easiest. “And?”

“And I didn’t say anything because I wanted to see you without that shit, Ilya. Just a moment before I had to head back to Demyan’s like I’m five with a curfew.”

“There aren’t many five-year-olds out and about on their own, curfew or not.”

She doesn’t have to say a word for me to know she’s thinking dark thoughts over that response. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say in Russian to show I’m serious about this.

Things are tenuous at best, and I’d rather have less tangled threads than more as I negotiate my way through with minimal pain to her or Demyan.

“But you said you didn’t want to rock the Demyan boat.”

“I don’t.”

“But you did the whole intent-to-sell thing?” I ask.