Page 26 of Stolen Empire

The way her breath caught when I tightened my grip, the way her body went still under mine—I wanted to push further, to see how far I could take her before she broke.

But I held back.

Barely.

When I told her I'd use her for whatever purpose suited me, I wasn't talking about running errands. I meant something far more personal, far more visceral.

I meant keeping her in my bed, making her scream my name, bending her over every surface in this place until she understands exactly who she belongs to.

But I don't have time for that right now, no matter how badly I want it.

I push open the door to my office and cross to the desk, pulling out my phone.

I scroll through my contacts and find Rodion's number, then type out a message.

Dimitri 4:47 PM: Office. Now.

I set the phone down and pour myself a drink, vodka straight, and I down it in one swallow.

The burn clears my head, and I pour another before moving to the window.

The yard is quiet this afternoon with a big race tomorrow.

Horses are being rested and trainers are probably indulging themselves in whatever guilty pleasures they enjoy.

Rodion is going to die tonight.

I've known it since Katya came back with the information, but hearing her say it out loud solidified the decision.

He's been selling us out to the Radich crew, leaking our security details, our schedules, our weaknesses.

And now he's trying to make money off a stranger who walked into the card room asking questions.

He's greedy, stupid, and disloyal, and there's no coming back from that.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, and a moment later, there's a knock on the door.

I turn away from the window and call out for him to enter.

Rodion walks in, his face pale, his eyes darting around the room before settling on me.

He's nervous, and he should be.

"Close the door," I say.

He does, and I gesture for him to sit.

He lowers himself into the chair across from the desk, his hands gripping the armrests, and I can see the sweat beading on his forehead.

I pour him a drink and slide it across the desk.

He takes it, his fingers trembling slightly, and he throws it back in one gulp.

"Relax," I say, leaning against the desk.

"I just want to talk."

"About what?"