Page 36 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

“What’s that?”

I held her gaze, let the truth sit between us for a moment. “I don’t hate you.”

Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Then she picked up her fork again and broke eye contact. “Noted.”

We finished eating in silence, but it wasn’t the heavy kind. It was the kind where words weren’t necessary because we were both thinking too much anyway.

After dinner, I stood and started clearing plates. She moved to help, and our hands brushed over the same dish. The contact was electric, brief, but enough to make my pulse spike. She pulled back first.

“I’ll be busy tomorrow,” I said, focusing on the sink. “Meeting some club owners about security upgrades. Might be late.”

“Okay.”

“You good on your own?”

“I survived twenty-one years before you showed up, Drew. I think I can handle a day in Seattle.”

I turned to face her. She was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, guarded again. Always guarded.

“Father Vincent,” I said. “We’re visiting him when?”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m visiting him tomorrow. Alone.”

“Cassandra—”

“Don’t.” She pushed off the counter. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I don’t need advice or warnings or whatever protective bullshit you think you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

She disappeared into her room, and this time the door closing felt like a wall going up. Permanent. Impenetrable.

I stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, trying to remember why the hell I’d agreed to this trip in the first place.

***

The club was all low lighting and expensive liquor. I’d been here for two hours, sitting across from a club owner named Marcus who talked too much and listened too little.

But the contract was almost finalized. Just a few more signatures, a few more assurances that Bratva would provide the best security in the Pacific Northwest, and I could get the hell out of here.

Then I saw her.

My brain registered her presence before my eyes caught up—some sixth sense that always seemed to know when she was near. I turned my head, and there she was, sitting in a booth near the back. Not alone.

With a man.

He was older—maybe early forties—and wearing a suit that screamed federal employee. They sat close—too close—leaning toward each other like they were sharing secrets. He saidsomething, and she smiled. Not the fake smile she gave clients or the sharp smile she used as a weapon. A real smile.

My blood went cold, then hot.

Marcus was still talking, something about payment schedules and contractor agreements, but I couldn’t hear him anymore. All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears, the pounding of my heart against my ribs.

She laughed. Actually laughed. Her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat, and the man’s hand moved to her arm. Just a casual touch, fingers resting on her forearm, but it might as well have been a brand.

My fingers curled into fists under the table.

“Mr. Kamarov?” Marcus’s voice cut through the haze. “You still with me?”