Page 68 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

“Work.” I walked past her, heading straight for the bathroom. “Don’t wait up.”

I didn’t give her a chance to respond. Just shut the door behind me, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the shower.

The water ran red at first, swirling down the drain like all the violence I couldn’t wash away. I stood there under the scalding spray, my hands braced against the tile, my head bowed.

Vance Donovan.

The name looped in my head, relentless and accusing.

Did she really give him information about the warehouse??

My fists clenched against the tile.

If it was—if she’d been working with him, feeding him intel, betraying Bratva—I didn’t know what I’d do.

Kill her, the way I was supposed to.

Or protect her, and damn myself in the process.

I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, then got out, dried off, and pulled on clean clothes.

When I walked back into the living room, Cassandra was still awake, sitting on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Drew,” she said softly. “Please talk to me.”

I stopped a few feet away, my jaw tight. “Not now, Cass.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my damp hair, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. “Just…not now.”

She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and I felt like the worst kind of bastard.

But I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not until I knew the truth.

Not until I figured out what the hell I was going to do about it.

***

The next morning, Rafael summoned me to his office.

I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw bodies. Heard screams. Felt the weight of my gun in my hand.

And I saw Cassandra, lying to my face.

I dragged myself out of bed, left her sleeping, and headed to the office early.

When I walked into Rafael’s office, he was already at his desk, a glass of scotch in hand despite the fact that it was barely nine in the morning.

“Sit,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I sat.

He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes sharp and calculating. Then he set his glass down and leaned back in his chair.

“You look like hell.”

“Long night,” I said flatly.